Alex didn't realize he was shivering until Lyra noticed.
She stopped near the edge of the path where the village thinned, where stone loosened into earth, and the trees pressed closer, their shadows longer and less polite. Smoke drifted low here, caught between branches and rooftops, carrying the scent of damp wood and something bitter beneath it.
"Wait," she said.
Alex turned. "I'm fine."
She gave him a look that suggested she didn't believe him and didn't care whether he agreed. From beneath her cloak, she produced a small clay cup, its surface chipped and stained from use. Steam curled faintly from its mouth.
He frowned. "What is that?"
"Drink."
That was the whole explanation.
He hesitated, then took it. The cup was warm—properly warm, not just recently heated. It seeped into his palms immediately, chased the cold from his fingers in a way he hadn't realized he'd missed until it was happening.
He raised it to his lips and paused. "What's in it?"
"Not poison," Lyra said. After a beat, she added, "Not fast poison."
He huffed a quiet breath and drank.
The liquid was thick and earthy, slightly sweet with a bitter edge that lingered on his tongue. It tasted like roots and bark and something roasted too long over a low fire. It burned gently all the way down, spreading heat through his chest, his stomach, his limbs.
Alex exhaled slowly.
"Oh," he said. "That's—"
"Warm," Lyra supplied.
"Yes."
She watched him drink with a stillness that felt practiced, her arms folded loosely, shoulders relaxed but ready. Up close, he noticed the faint scars along her hands—old cuts, healed badly. Survival marks, not accidents.
When he finished, he held the cup out to her.
She shook her head. "Keep it."
"I don't—"
"You'll need it again," she said. "Later."
That word carried weight.
Alex closed his fingers around the cup. "You're not coming with me."
It wasn't a question.
Lyra looked past him, toward the place where the village narrowed, and paths converged. Where someone stood, unseen but anticipated.
"No," she said. "Not there."
"Will I see you again?"
She considered this longer than he expected.
"Maybe," she said finally. "If the stone keeps breaking."
That didn't help at all.
Alex nodded anyway. "Right."
They stood there, the space between them filled with steam thinning into air, with the sounds of the village settling into its quieter rhythms. Somewhere, a tool struck stone. Somewhere else, a voice laughed, sharp and brief.
Lyra stepped back first.
"Don't tell them everything," she said.
"Which part?"
She met his eyes. "The parts you don't understand yet."
Then she turned and slipped away between two leaning houses, her shape dissolving into shadow and smoke until Alex wasn't entirely sure she'd been there at all.
He stood for a moment longer, cup warming his hands, the heat steady and real.
Then he walked on.
The guard waited where the village narrowed.
Not at a gate. There was no wall, no clear boundary to mark where the forest ended, and the village began—but at a place where paths converged, and stone gave way to packed earth worn smooth by countless steps. It felt intentional, the way a person might stand in a doorway without blocking it.
Alex noticed him only when the sound of metal shifted.
A soft scrape. Leather against mail.
The guard straightened from where he'd been leaning casually against a post, arms folded, weight settled into one hip. He wore a dull steel helmet that covered most of his head, its surface nicked and scratched by use rather than neglect. A nasal guard cast his face into shadow, obscuring his eyes unless the light caught them just right.
Chainmail draped over his shoulders and chest, disappearing beneath a dark surcoat marked with a simple stitched symbol Alex didn't recognize—three lines intersecting at uneven angles. Functional. Unadorned.
Not ceremonial.
"Hold," the guard said.
The word wasn't sharp, but it carried.
Alex stopped without thinking.
Up close, the guard looked younger than Alex had expected. Broad-shouldered, yes, but not bulky. His movements were economical, practiced—someone used to standing for long hours without letting fatigue show.
"I was told to speak to the elders," Alex said, before the silence could stretch too far.
The guard studied him.
Not rudely. Not suspiciously.
Thoroughly.
His gaze moved from Alex's face to his clothes—out of place, worn differently than the villagers'—then to his hands, his stance, the way his weight shifted ever so slightly, as if he expected the ground to move.
"You came through the forest," the guard said.
"Yes."
"And crossed the bridge."
Alex nodded again.
The guard's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "Then you didn't wander in by accident."
"That's what I've been told."
A pause.
"You're not armed," the guard observed.
Alex glanced down at himself, then let out a short breath. "No."
"Good," the guard said. "Means you're either honest or very foolish."
"Which one do you prefer?"
The guard considered this, then shrugged. "Depends on the day."
He stepped aside, opening the path without further ceremony. As Alex passed, he caught the faint scent of oil and metal—leather treated carefully rather than hastily. The guard fell into step beside him, boots crunching softly against gravel.
"I'm Renn," the guard said. "I'll take you as far as the square. After that, you're on your own."
Alex nodded. "Alex."
Renn glanced at him. "Just Alex?"
"For now."
That earned him a low chuckle. "Fair enough."
They walked in silence for a short while.
The statues grew more numerous the deeper they went.
Up close, Alex could see the care that had gone into them. They weren't uniform in style or size. Some were crude, their features worn nearly smooth by time. Others were detailed enough to capture individual expressions—grim resolve, quiet sorrow, even relief.
One depicted a creature with too many eyes and a mouth frozen open in a silent roar. Another showed a knight braced behind a shield, knees bent, sword half-raised as if caught mid-step.
"Are they…?" Alex began.
"Dead?" Renn finished.
"Yes."
"Most of them," Renn said easily. "Some were never alive to begin with."
That didn't clarify anything.
Alex slowed near one statue in particular—a massive shape crouched low, its surface cracked and weathered. It lay curled near the edge of the square, partially obscured by a low stone wall and a cluster of barrels stacked nearby.
At a glance, it looked like nothing more than a collapsed ruin. A fallen monument overtaken by moss and lichen.
Something about it tugged at Alex's attention.
"What's that one?" he asked.
Renn followed his gaze.
"That?" He shrugged. "Old."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
They kept walking.
Alex glanced back once more as they passed, trying to make sense of the shape. The curve of it. The way the stone seemed to fold in on itself. It reminded him vaguely of an animal at rest—but the thought slid away before it could settle.
Dream logic, he told himself.
The square opened up ahead of them, familiar now in its quiet activity. Villagers moved through it with purpose, carrying baskets, tools, children. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. The sound of water from the well mingled with low conversation.
Renn stopped.
"This is as far as I go," he said. "The elders meet near the longhouse when they're meeting. If they're not, someone will point you in the right direction."
"And if they don't want to see me?"
Renn smiled beneath the shadow of his helmet. "They'll see you anyway."
Alex hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"
Renn tilted his head slightly. "You already are."
Alex gestured vaguely around them. "Doesn't it bother you? All of this?"
Renn followed the gesture, his gaze sweeping over the village, the statues, the people moving between them.
"No," he said simply.
"That wasn't what I meant."
"I know," Renn replied. "And the answer's still no."
Alex studied him, then nodded. "Right."
As he turned to go, Renn spoke again.
"You should know," he said. "Dreams don't usually leave footprints."
Alex froze.
Renn pointed down.
Alex looked.
The ground beneath his feet was scuffed with his passage—clear impressions in the packed earth, edges still sharp.
When he looked up again, Renn had already turned away, attention shifting back to the flow of the village.
Alex stood there for a long moment.
Then he took a step forward.
The earth yielded beneath him—solid, resistant, real.
Somewhere nearby, stone rested and waited, silent and curled, as it had for far longer than Alex could imagine.
And still—still—the dream held.