The carriage rolled to a slow halt as the last stretch of road narrowed into uneven cobblestone. Beyond the rise, the faint silhouette of Dareth Hollow emerged — a cluster of slanted rooftops pressed beneath the dimming sky. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and old timber, and the sound of the carriage wheels faded into the wind like something unwilling to linger.
Ryneth stepped down first. The ground felt soft beneath his boots, the soil still damp from a morning drizzle. Ahead, the outline of a bell tower loomed above the rooftops — narrow, leaning slightly to one side, its clock face frozen at an hour that had long passed.
He watched it for a moment, the faint ringing of its hollow frame carrying through the quiet. Something about it — the stillness, the fractured rhythm of the distant crows circling above — unsettled him in a way that words couldn't quite reach.
"Something feels wrong," he said quietly.
Callen stepped beside him, hands in his coat pockets, eyes squinting toward the horizon. "Then we're at the right place," he said, tone dry but amused.
The driver muttered a brief farewell before turning the horses back toward the main road. The carriage's insignia — the twin-ringed flame — caught the dying light one last time before vanishing into the dusk. Ryneth watched until the sound of hooves disappeared completely, leaving only the whisper of the wind through the reeds.
The road stretched ahead, narrow and dark, bordered by the distant marshlands that shimmered faintly under the lowering sun. They began walking, boots crunching lightly against the gravel.
Callen broke the silence first, glancing sideways. "You know," he said, voice casual, "I've been meaning to ask — you remember the tavern?"
Ryneth gave him a quiet look.
"The morning Arven told you to join us," Callen continued, smirking faintly. "You handled that rather… sharply."
"Did I?"
"You did," Callen said, half chuckling. "When you pointed out that if they punished you for stealing those texts, they'd have to punish themselves for keeping it quiet. That was—" he paused, searching for the word, "—very you."
Ryneth's expression didn't change much, but there was a faint trace of something — amusement, maybe, or acknowledgment. "You call it sharpness," he said. "I call it survival."
"Maybe both," Callen replied. "You've got a clever head, Calder. Dangerous thing, that. This place eats clever men fast."
"Then I'll make sure it chokes."
Callen laughed under his breath. "And that's why Arven likes you."
They continued down the slope, the path curling into a narrow descent toward the village. The first houses appeared — old timber, shutters drawn, lanterns glowing weakly through cracks in the wood. A dog barked once somewhere distant, then fell silent.
Ryneth's gaze drifted to the ground where the cobblestones gave way to packed dirt. His foresight flickered faintly — not an image, not even a sound, but a pulse beneath perception, as if the air itself trembled in anticipation. He blinked, steadying the feeling, though it left behind a strange, cold aftertaste in his thoughts.
Callen glanced at him. "You alright?"
"Just thinking."
"That's usually the first mistake."
Ryneth allowed a faint breath that almost resembled a smile. "And yet here we are."
The road bent again, leading them toward the heart of Dareth Hollow. The bell tower loomed closer now, its unmoving clock face dark against the orange wash of evening light. Somewhere in the distance, a crow called once — sharp, deliberate — and then all sound seemed to fall away.
Callen stopped beside him, adjusting his coat collar against the chill. "Well," he said softly, "welcome to Dareth Hollow. Let's see what's been eating its people."
The village waited ahead, silent and sunken in its own shadow.
The air thickened as Ryneth and Callen walked down the narrow path that wound into the valley. The carriage that had brought them this far had stopped well before the village — far enough to avoid notice. The rest of the journey they took on foot, their boots stirring dust from the dry earth.
Dareth Hollow sat low between the hills, half veiled in a thin fog that clung to its crooked rooftops. The faint toll of a distant bell echoed from the center — a broken sound that carried more fatigue than rhythm.
A few villagers watched them from behind half-shut windows or leaning fences, their eyes following the strangers in silence. It wasn't the carriage that drew attention now — it was them. The cut of their attire was too refined for travelers, and the gloved man with the black metal baton in hand looked far too composed for a mere tradesman.
Ryneth felt the weight of their gazes, but he didn't return them. His hand rested loosely on the baton's smooth shaft, its faintly reflective surface catching the last of the sun. It wasn't a weapon in the ordinary sense, but it carried an authority people instinctively recognized — and distrusted.
Callen tucked his insignia deeper inside his coat pocket, giving a dry laugh under his breath.
"Subtlety never lasts long, does it?"
"They don't see the Directorate," Ryneth said quietly. "They see what they fear it means."
Callen tilted his head, amusement flickering. "You sound like Arven already."
They rounded the bend as the broken clock tower came into view — its face cracked, its hands frozen just before the hour. The stillness around it felt heavy, like air that hadn't moved in days. Ryneth slowed, his foresight stirring faintly — not with clarity, only the sense that something unseen had already shifted here.
"Something feels wrong," he said at last.
Callen's reply came without hesitation. "Then we're at the right place."
The road narrowed into a stretch of uneven cobblestone leading toward a low timber structure near the square. Its wooden sign, faded and leaning, marked it as Warden's Hall. Two men stood outside, each holding a rusted pike and wearing patched leather jerkins. Their eyes tracked the newcomers with the wary stiffness of peasants pretending to be guards.
Ryneth noted the tremor in one man's grip — not from fear, but from exhaustion.
"Local hires," he murmured. "Not trained."
"Trained enough to stand there and pretend," Callen replied. "The sentinels don't bother anymore. They just collect their fees."
Ryneth's gaze shifted toward the distant ridgeline, where a small tower rose faintly through the fog. "And the sentinels' watch?"
"Out there," Callen said, following his glance. "Come every few weeks — sometimes to 'protect,' sometimes to remind people what happens if they can't pay. You know the type. Big words, bigger appetites."
Ryneth gave a quiet hum of agreement. Everyone knew of the sentinels — a regional force in name, a rotted hierarchy in truth. They came in the name of the Crown's security but carried greed like a badge, collecting coin and submission with equal ease.
When they entered the hall, the air smelled of damp wood and ink. A man behind a desk looked up — older, thin, and visibly relieved to see them. His coat was plain, his manner nervous.
"Investigators?" he asked quickly. "I'm Warden Halren. We've been expecting someone."
Callen offered a small, disarming smile. "Then that makes one of us."
Halren managed a weak chuckle but glanced toward the shuttered window, as if the mist beyond it might be listening.
Ryneth's eyes swept the room once — the ledger on the desk, the faint scrape marks on the floor near the back door, and the way Halren's tone shifted when he mentioned "we."
Outside, the sun was sinking behind the marsh ridge, throwing the streets into muted gold and shadow. The air was thick with that waiting kind of quiet that always came before something unwelcome.
The sky had dimmed to a dull violet, and the bell tower cast long, broken shadows across the muddy ground.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and smoke. A single lantern flickered on Bram's desk beside a stack of old reports, their edges curled from damp.
"They've been vanishing one by one," Bram muttered, lowering his voice. "No signs of struggle in most cases. Just gone by dawn."
Callen exchanged a look with Ryneth. "And the body?"
Bram hesitated, eyes darting toward the window. "It's not buried yet," he said. "Didn't seem right."
Ryneth's foresight stirred — a faint chill tracing his spine, a flicker of something unseen just beyond the edges of the lantern's glow.
Outside, the bell gave a single, hollow toll once, though no wind moved the rope.