Morning light filtered through thin branches as Milt approached the cluster of huts. Smoke rose low and gray, smelling of damp wood and cheap fuel. These buildings were rough, uneven, built by hands that knew walls but not permission. No palisade. No banners.
He slowed, ears tracking movement. Soft coughing. A pot clinking. Footsteps that dragged instead of marched.
Out here, people lived without guards.
That didn't mean safety.
Milt crouched behind a fallen log and studied the place. Five huts, maybe six. Gaps between them cluttered with scrap and mud. Paths led toward the town, but none went inward.
Edges, he realized. This was where things went when the town didn't want them inside.
Milt waited until someone stepped into the open. A man, broad-shouldered but stooped, emerged from a hut carrying a bundle of firewood. He paused, scanning the treeline with tired suspicion before setting the load down.
No alarm. No shout.
Milt moved closer, careful to stay where broken fences and leaning walls cut his outline. The smells here were layered and heavy: smoke soaked into cloth, sickness clinging to breath, old blood dried into dirt. His nose burned, but he forced himself to ignore it.
A second figure appeared, then a third. A woman stirred a pot over a low fire. A boy limped between huts, dragging one foot, eyes fixed on the ground. None of them looked strong. All of them looked alert in the way prey stayed alert.
A man sat on a crate sharpening a knife with slow, uneven strokes. The sound rasped against Milt's nerves. When the man finally noticed movement, his head snapped up.
"Oi," he said, voice rough. "Who's there?"
Milt stepped into view.
Fear hit fast. The man lurched back, knife clattering to the dirt. Someone cursed. Another voice hissed a warning. No one ran. They froze, measuring.
Milt raised his hands, palms open, claws pulled back as far as they would go. He lowered his shoulders and bent slightly at the knees, forcing his posture into something less threatening.
"I don't want trouble," he said. The words scraped out of his throat, unused and dry.
The man swallowed. "You a beastman?"
"Demi-human," Milt replied. Saying it felt like claiming ground.
Murmurs spread. A door creaked open. A woman laughed once, sharp and humorless.
An older woman stepped forward, leaning on a stick worn smooth by years of use. Her eyes were sharp, assessing him without flinching. "You're hurt," she said flatly. "And you're hungry."
Milt hesitated, then nodded.
She snorted. "Figures. Town throws its refuse outward. Forest sends it back."
A few bitter chuckles followed.
"You can stay," she continued, "one night. Cause trouble, we drive you off. Cause danger, we hand you to the guards ourselves."
It wasn't kindness. It was a transaction.
"Agreed," Milt said, inclining his head.
They kept their distance after that. He was given a spot near the edge and a bowl of thin stew that smelled of grain and old bones. He ate slowly, forcing himself not to rush, feeling warmth and strength creep back into his limbs.
As the day wore on, he listened. Complaints about taxes. About guards demanding bribes. About hunters searching the woods. About people who vanished along the road and were never mentioned again.
Milt kept his eyes down, but his ears missed nothing.
By the time dusk fell, everyone here knew he existed.
Staying had a cost.
Milt felt eyes on him constantly, even when no one spoke. Children were pulled away. Conversations stopped when he drew too close. Fear clung tighter than hunger ever had.
His body didn't recover the way he hoped. The stew dulled the ache, but exhaustion still dragged at his muscles. The pressure beneath his skin barely responded when he tested it, flickering weakly before fading again.
Too drained. Too soon.
When night came, he was shown a space near a broken fence and left alone. No blanket. No fire. Just dirt and cold air.
He curled in on himself, tail tight, listening to the huts settle. Somewhere nearby, someone argued in whispers. Another person coughed, wet and deep.
This place survived by being overlooked.
If guards came, these people would scatter. If hunters came, they would point outward.
At Milt.
He understood the balance clearly now. Being tolerated was not protection. It was a delay.
And delays always expired.
Before dawn, Milt rose quietly and moved away from the huts. No one stopped him. No one followed.
He reached a low ridge and looked back once. Smoke already rose again. Life resumed without him.
Beyond the ridge, the land dipped into scrub and broken ground, neither forest nor road. Tracks crisscrossed there, old and new, leading nowhere clean.
A place between places.
Milt turned toward it, senses sharpening despite his fatigue. If he stayed near people, he would be used or sold. If he stayed in the wild, he would be hunted.
But here, on the margins, rules were thinner.
And rules could be learned.
A shout echoed behind him, sharp and alarmed.
Milt turned as armored figures crested the ridge above the huts.