The treeline finally broke, giving way to open fields and winding dirt paths.
In the distance, nestled between rolling hills and patches of misty forest, the town of Krasvale emerged—stone walls flanked by crooked watchtowers, smoke curling lazily from chimneys, and a scattering of farmsteads clinging to the outskirts like timid satellites.
Freya paused at the edge of the trees, scanning the view with narrowed eyes.
"Well. That's either a stranger-friendly town or the kind of place that burns witches on weekends," she muttered.
Callum stood beside her, shifting uncomfortably. "It's not that bad. Just... keep your head down, don't talk to anyone you don't have to, and—for the love of the gods—don't do anything drastic."
Freya gave him a flat look. "Define 'drastic.'"
His mouth opened, then closed. He glanced at Grant, then back to her.
"...You know what? Forget it. Just try not to kill anyone while we're in town."
Freya smirked, then turned to her towering skeletal guardian.
Grant stood like a sentry carved from bone, arms folded behind his back. The wind whispered through the gaps in his ribs.
"Alright, big guy," she said. "Time to go stealth mode. I really can't bring you along this time."
Grant tilted his skull, then pointed a bony finger at himself, as if to say, Me? Hide?
"Yes, you," she said. "Try not to traumatize any farmers. Just... hang back, stay in the trees. If I come screaming, then you're allowed to break something."
Grant gave a slow, theatrical nod, then stepped backward into the shadows—his form melting into the gloom like a ghost returning to its grave.
Callum gulped. "He really listens to you, huh?"
"How did you two—"
Freya cut him off. "He's just a misunderstood gentleman. He's actually very nice once you get to know him."
Callum's lips twitched. "Whatever."
They stepped out of the treeline and started down the dirt road toward the town gates.
Freya tucked Mr. Wolfie's hide tighter around herself and unsummoned the Reaper's Scythe. But she remained mindful of her blood-red eyes—she hadn't figured out how to hide those yet.
Callum glanced sideways, his eyes widening. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't just see a murderous crimson scythe vanish into thin air."
"Anyway," he continued, recovering, "if anyone asks, you're my cousin from up north. Lost your parents, came down to find work. Real tragic. Say as little as possible. Let me do the talking."
"How kind of you," Freya said, smirking. "My dearest cousin."
The town loomed closer with every step.
Crows circled lazily above the gate towers, and from within came the faint sounds of hammering, barking dogs, and shouting vendors.
Freya squared her shoulders, a flicker of anticipation fluttering in her chest.
"Well," she said. "Let's go home, cousin."
And with that, they crossed the threshold.
The gates of Krasvale creaked as they passed beneath them, the rusting hinges groaning like an old man stretching his back.
A pair of guards loitered nearby, leaning on their spears and eyeing newcomers with bored suspicion.
One of them nodded to Callum, then gave Freya a second look—lingering just a little too long on her pale skin and silver hair.
Freya's hood was pulled low, shadowing her crimson eyes. But trouble still found her.
"Hey, Callum. Who's the girl?" one of the guards stepped up, brow furrowed.
Callum forced a smile. "My cousin. Mara. From the north. Her parents died last winter—poor thing. Figured I'd take her in, help her find work. Get settled. You know how it is."
The guard eyed Freya again, slower this time. "Bit pale for a northerner."
"Bad winter," Callum said quickly. "Got snowed in for weeks. Not much sun. Plus, uh, she's always been sensitive to light. Weird family thing."
Freya gave a small, sad smile from under her hood and tried to look appropriately mournful.
"She doesn't talk?" the guard asked.
"Shy," Callum said, patting her shoulder. "Doesn't warm up to people easily. But she's good with her hands—knits, sews, mends boots. That kind of thing. Real useful."
The guard looked like he wanted to argue, then shrugged. "Whatever. Just don't cause trouble. We've had enough weirdos come through lately."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Callum said, nodding gratefully. He steered Freya past the guards before she—well, being Freya again.
Once they were out of earshot, Freya muttered, "Mara? Seriously?"
"I panicked, alright?" he whispered back. "Can we just let it go?"
She smirked but said nothing.
They passed into the market square next—a modest sprawl of stalls selling bread, vegetables, cloth, and tools.
Smoke curled from the blacksmith's forge, and the scent of baked apples wafted through the air.
People bustled past, most too busy to care, but a few cast curious glances.
An older woman tending a vegetable stall waved. "Hey, Callum! Who've you got there?"
He raised a hand. "Cousin from the north. Just picked her up."
The woman gave Freya's silver hair a quick glance, then smiled. "Well, I've still got yesterday's stew for half-price. Want some? Since you've got an extra mouth to feed now."
"Appreciate it, Maerle. Might take you up on that." Callum took Freya's hand and walked on.
The longer they lingered, the more attention they'd draw.
They passed a wagon with a man crouched beside it, fixing a wheel. He glanced up and grunted, "Thought you were done rescuing strays, Callum."
"She's family," Callum said with mock offense. "Or close enough. Be nice."
The man snorted and returned to hammering.
As they left the market behind and entered a quieter neighborhood of moss-covered stone houses, Callum finally relaxed.
"Almost there," he said.
Freya glanced at him. "Family, huh? You're oddly good at lying."
"Years of practice," he said grimly. "You don't last in Krasvale by clinging to righteousness and honor."
"Knights of the Old Code would starve to death in this town."
"Charming." Freya said with a grin."I like it already."
They turned down a narrow alley and stopped at a squat, weather-worn house with a crooked chimney and ivy crawling up the walls. The door creaked open.
"Home sweet home," Callum said with relief. "It's not much, but it's warm, and the roof mostly doesn't leak."
Freya stepped inside and looked around.
Rough wooden floors. A fireplace. Two chairs. A table with a chipped mug still on it. Lived-in. A little sad. But safe.
She turned to him, expression unreadable. "To tell you the truth, I never thought you'd come through."
"I was so sure you were going to set me up. And I was ready to beat the crap out of you."
Callum, halfway to lighting the hearth, froze and looked at her like she'd grown a second head.
He stomped upstairs, muttering, and slammed the door behind him.
"Just don't go out and murder anyone while I'm asleep!"
Freya blinked after him, then scoffed. "You're welcome."
The door creaked shut, and silence fell—broken only by the occasional pop from the hearth and the faint ticking of a wall clock older than some tombs.
Freya exhaled.
Finally—no more walking, no more ambushes, no more orc grunting in her ear.
She wandered through the house, feet brushing the wooden floorboards.
It was a cramped, rustic place. Uneven stone walls. Low ceilings. Furniture built more for function than comfort.
The hearth crackled gently in the main room, spreading warmth and the scent of burning pine.
The kitchen was cluttered but usable: a soot-black stove, hanging herbs, jars of spices, and a table that looked like it might collapse if someone sneezed near it.
She peeked behind a few doors—pantry, broom closet, a storage room full of moldy vegetables—and then, to her relief, a bathroom.
Freya stepped into the bathroom and blinked in surprise.
A real bathtub.
Not just a chipped basin or a washtub by the fire—but an actual cast-iron bathtub, set snugly against the wall beneath a narrow, dust-streaked window.
Pipes—actual pipes—ran along the wall and connected to a rusty valve that looked like it had survived two apocalypses and a rat infestation.
"Well, color me impressed," she murmured.
She turned the valve cautiously, half-expecting it to explode or belch out sludge—but instead, after a groan and a rattle, water began to flow. Cold, but clear.
"Welcome to civilization!" she announced triumphantly, then frowned. "Still cold. Of course."
After a moment of fiddling and discovering a second valve—clearly rigged to a basic heating system somewhere in the house—she managed to coax a reluctant stream of lukewarm water into the tub.
The sound of water filling the basin echoed softly in the tiled space.
Freya exhaled, leaned against the sink, and let her tension melt away just a little.
It had been days since she'd properly bathed—discounting a quick splash in a freezing jungle river with orc blood on her ankles and moss in places it didn't belong.
She wandered to the window and unlatched it with a click. The warped wood frame creaked as it swung open.
Cool afternoon air spilled in, brushing against her face. She took a breath, slow and deep.
Krasvale unfolded below her in earnest.
From here—perched above the sloped rooftops of the quieter district—she saw the town as a patchwork of stone and timber.
Chimneys puffed smoke into the sky like sleepy dragons.
Laundry lines fluttered between crooked houses.
A pair of kids chased a squealing pig down a muddy side street, while an old man leaned on his cane, yelling something unintelligible after them.
Vendors' cries still drifted from the market square.
Somewhere, a bell rang—deep and deliberate, maybe from a church or a town hall.
She spotted the outer wall again, the gates she'd passed through only an hour ago.
Beyond them, the wilderness stretched out like an open threat: trees, mist, and monsters in the dark.
Inside, life trudged on.
It wasn't grand. It wasn't clean. But it was real. Lived-in.
And for the first time since waking up in that godforsaken cave, she felt something unfamiliar flickering in her chest.
Maybe I could belong here.
Not now. Not yet. But someday.
Her reflection in the window caught her eye—crimson eyes glowing faintly against pale skin, framed by silver hair. A face too beautiful to be true.
"You are definitely not human," she whispered to her—mirrored—self
She pulled the curtain closed, turned back to the tub, and began to undress.
The water was still only mildly warm—but it would do.
She sank into the bath with a soft hiss and a sigh, letting the heat soak into her bones, the grime of the road melt away.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks—allowed herself a moment of peace...