Rain had been falling since morning, not hard enough to drive anyone indoors, just steady enough to soak everything it touched. By the time he reached the village, the light was already failing, the sky low and grey.
The inn stood close to the road. He stepped inside and let the door shut behind him.
The room quieted.
Not fully. Just enough for people to look. A few heads turned. Someone near the hearth stopped speaking halfway through a sentence. Eyes went first to his height, then to the swords on his back.
"That a witcher?" someone said, low.
"Looks like one," another answered.
No one said anything else. The pause passed. Voices picked up again, uneven at first, then settling back into themselves.
The room was warm, thick with smoke and damp wool. Cloaks hung from pegs along the wall. A dog lay under a bench, head on its paws, eyes closed.
He took a seat near the counter and set his gloves down.
"Beer."
The innkeep poured and slid the cup across without comment. He drank. It was thin, but cold.
"…better than last year," a man continued. "Not by much, but better."
"Depends where you're standing," another replied.
"Fields held."
"Some did."
"Mine didn't." The man took another sip.
A woman snorted. "You complain every year."
"And every year I'm right," he said gloomily.
Someone laughed, short and tired, then coughed and reached for their cup.
"Sheep stayed lean through the summer," another voice said. "Lost two."
"Wolves," someone offered.
"Could be."
"Always is."
"Always," the woman agreed, though she didn't sound convinced.
At the nearest table, the talk drifted again.
"They took more this year," a man said, tapping two fingers against the table.
"They always take more."
"No." He shook his head. "This was more."
"You still paid."
A pause. "You don't not pay."
"Doesn't mean you like it."
Silence followed that, brief and familiar. Someone cleared their throat. A chair leg scraped against the floor.
"Road's been quiet," someone else said, staring toward the door.
"It's autumn."
"Still."
"No traders last week."
"They'll come when the weather clears."
"Maybe."
No one sounded sure. A few people drank instead of answering.
He finished his drink, left the cup on the counter, and set coin beside it.
"Room," he said.
The innkeep nodded and jerked his chin toward the stairs.
Outside, the rain went on.
—
He woke before the room did.
The inn was quieter in the morning, the smoke thinned, the air colder. Rain still tapped at the shutters, lighter now, more patient. He sat up on the edge of the bed and waited for his head to clear, then pulled on his boots and buckled his gear with the same care he always used.
Downstairs, only a few people were awake. Someone slept with their head on a table near the hearth. The innkeep moved slowly, setting out bread and a pot of water that steamed faintly in the cold.
He ate without speaking.
When he finished, he paid for the meal and stepped back outside. The rain had eased to a mist, the road slick and dark. He checked the horse, tightened the girth, and bought what little the village had to offer—bread wrapped in cloth, a bit of dried meat, oats measured out carefully as if they were more precious than coin.
No one asked where he was going.
He left as the village was just beginning to wake, voices carrying faintly behind him, doors opening, the day starting whether it was wanted or not.
The road bent east and dipped toward the river.
He noticed it in the road first.
Tracks ended where they shouldn't have, wheel ruts breaking off into churned mud where someone had turned around. The ground was cut up by hooves and boots, then left to settle again. No one had passed through recently.
The river came into view a moment later.
The bridge was out.
Floodwater had torn one end loose and dragged it down into the river. Planks lay twisted and broken, some jammed against the bank, others gone entirely. The stone footing beneath them was washed half bare. The river ran high and brown, swollen from days of rain, fast enough to matter.
He slowed, then swung down from the saddle.
Crossing at the bridge would mean swimming. With the horse, it wasn't worth trying. The banks nearby were soft where others had tested them and turned back.
Going back meant time. Waiting meant more rain.
He went to the horse and rested a hand against its neck, feeling the steady heat beneath the hide. It flicked an ear but didn't pull away.
"All right," he murmured.
He led it away from the bridge and followed the river until the road was out of sight.
Downstream, the river widened. Stones and gravel broke the surface there, spreading the flow and slowing it. The current still pushed hard, but it no longer cut straight through.
He tested the water with his boot. Cold, sharp, but firm underfoot.
That would do.
He stepped in first and led the horse after him. The water climbed to his thighs, soaked his boots and trousers, pressed hard against his legs. The horse picked its way forward, hooves sliding once before finding purchase again.
Halfway across, it hesitated. He tightened his grip and spoke low until it moved
They climbed out on the far bank dripping and silent.
He forced the water from his gloves and sleeves and didn't bother with the rest. The horse shook itself hard beside him, sending a spray of water into the air before settling again.
He turned back once, then didn't.
He mounted and rode on.
—
He rode until the light thinned.
The wind came down off the hills and stayed with him, cutting through wet cloth and leather. The road hardened as it climbed, mud giving way to stone and grit that rang faintly under the horse's hooves.
By late afternoon, the air had taken on weight. Each breath went deeper, colder, but he kept his pace.
He made camp before dark. Wood was scarce and burned down fast when he found it. The fire gave little back. That was fine.
When he lay down, the ground held the day's cold. It pressed up through the leather and stayed there. He shifted once, then stillness returned.
The horse stood close, head low, breathing slow and steady.
He pulled his cloak tighter, not to chase the cold away, just to keep it where it was.
Sleep came all the same.