The rain had not stopped by morning.
It was not the clean kind that washed the streets, but a heavy, grey curtain that seemed to weigh the air down. It carried with it the faint, bitter scent of burnt wood, as though every drop had passed through smoke before falling.
Elara adjusted the hood of her cloak, keeping her gaze forward. The streets of Briar's Hollow were almost empty — only a few shopkeepers sweeping water from their thresholds and a pair of children chasing a wooden hoop through the puddles. She felt the weight of the crystal shard in her pouch with every step.
Kastor walked beside her, his long strides unhurried, his eyes constantly moving. He had traded his dusty travel cloak for a darker one, its hood drawn low. Even so, Elara could feel the tension in him, the way his shoulders shifted as though he expected trouble at any moment.
"Where are the guards?" she asked quietly. She had grown up here; there was always a pair posted at the market gate.
"They're watching the east road," Kastor said. "Something came through last night."
She glanced at him sharply. "You mean the mist?"
He didn't answer, and that told her enough.
They passed the market square without stopping. Half the stalls were empty, and those that remained open kept their goods close and their voices lower than usual. The storm had muted the town's colors — even the bright fabrics of the merchant tents looked washed out, as though the rain had stolen their dye.
When they reached the outer gate, two sentries stepped forward, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The older of the two, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his jaw, gave Kastor a long, unreadable look.
"Heading east?" the guard asked.
Kastor nodded. "Business in Valmyr."
The guard snorted. "There's no business in Valmyr but death. Roads past the Black Pines are closed."
"Closed to most," Kastor replied, his voice mild. "We'll manage."
The guard's gaze shifted to Elara. "And you?"
She met his eyes, letting her voice stay steady. "With him."
Something in her tone made the guard hesitate, but he stepped aside, muttering something under his breath. The heavy gates groaned as they swung open, and the road beyond stretched into a wall of rain.
They walked in silence for nearly an hour, the only sounds the slap of wet leather and the steady hiss of water against the earth. The road soon narrowed, swallowed by the looming shapes of the Black Pines. Their trunks were tall and straight, their bark the color of char, and their branches wove together overhead so thickly that the rain fell in slow, heavy drops.
"This is where the patrols stop," Kastor said, glancing around. "Beyond here, you'll find only hunters, smugglers, and things the crown pretends don't exist."
She frowned. "Like the mist?"bn
"Worse."
They moved deeper into the forest, and the light dimmed until it felt like evening. The path twisted, broken in places by roots as thick as a man's leg. Somewhere far off, a bird called — a long, low note that did not sound like any bird Elara knew.
They stopped only when the path split in two. To the left, the road curved downward, vanishing into a darker tangle of pines. To the right, it climbed a rocky ridge.
"Which way?" she asked.
Kastor crouched, brushing his fingers against the wet earth. He found it almost immediately — a set of tracks, light but distinct, heading left.
"We're not alone," he said. "And they're ahead of us."
Her hand went to her blade. "Who?"
He straightened, his expression unreadable. "If we're lucky? Mercenaries. If not…" He glanced into the trees, his eyes narrowing. "Keep your hand on that shard. Don't let it leave you."
They took the left path.
The rain lessened under the heavy canopy, but the air grew colder. The forest here was silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears until every breath sounded too loud. Every so often, Elara caught movement in the corner of her vision — a shadow slipping behind a tree, a flicker of pale light between the trunks — but when she turned, there was nothing.
By late afternoon, the path widened again, spilling them into a clearing where a stream cut across the road. The water was dark, running fast from the hills, and the banks were littered with blackened stones.
Kastor knelt beside the stream, touching one of the stones. "Still warm."
Before Elara could ask what he meant, a sound came from the trees behind them — a sharp crack of a branch underfoot. She turned, blade already in hand.
Three figures emerged from the shadows. Their cloaks were dark and hooded, but the glint of steel at their belts told her enough. The one in the center lifted his head just enough for her to see the pale scar running from his temple to his jaw.
"Hand it over," the scarred man said. His voice was calm, almost polite. "The shard. Give it, and you can keep your lives."
Elara tightened her grip on the hilt. Kastor didn't move.
"You don't want it," Kastor said evenly. "You don't know what it's tied to."
The scarred man smiled faintly. "I know enough."
The rain began again, harder this time, drumming on steel and leather. Somewhere beneath the sound, Elara thought she heard it — the faint, dry rustle of burning paper.