Vernon made his way through Roots wild's morning streets with the kind of steady pace that looked calm to anyone watching.
To him, it felt like walking through a sleeping beast's ribcage.
The city was alive-vendors already shouting, wagons rumbling over stone, the smell of bread and smoked meat lingering in the air. People moved like water, flowing around corners, weaving through narrow streets as if they had been born knowing every shortcut and dead end.
Vernon should've been fascinated.
Instead, his eyes kept drifting upward.
And forward.
And sideways.
Because something was wrong.
It started with the guards.
The city always had guards, especially near major streets and district entrances. That much was normal. Rootwilds was a trading artery, a place where coin moved faster than honesty. A city like this needed watchmen.
But today-
Today there were too many.
Vernon slowed slightly, gaze flicking across the street.
Two guards stood by the corner of a bakery.
Three more near a wagon checkpoint.
Another pair near the bridge.
He blinked once, then twice, as if he'd miscounted.
But the numbers didn't shrink.
If anything, they multiplied the longer he looked.
He kept walking.
His hands remained loose at his sides, posture casual, but his attention sharpened like a blade.
Then he saw it.
The insignia.
It wasn't the crest of the city borders.
Not the Rootwilds emblem that he'd seen plastered on banners and carved into stone near the gates.
Instead, most of them bore something else - a clean symbol etched into their breastplates and shoulder guards.
A law enforcement mark.
Not local.
Not casual.
Official.
Vernon's stomach twisted.
He didn't know why it unsettled him so much, but the feeling came instantly-like a chill sliding beneath his skin.
The guards weren't standing around lazily either.
They were working.
Patrols moved in groups, scanning crowds with sharp eyes. They stopped travellers, checked wagons, spoke in quick, clipped exchanges. One man had his bag turned inside out on the ground while a guard rifled through it without even pretending to be polite.
The man looked furious.
But he didn't protest.
Not loudly.
Not enough to cause trouble.
Vernon swallowed.
Something must be happening... trouble, or something upcoming.
His first thought was that perhaps there had been a crime. A murder. A theft. A riot brewing somewhere.
But the way they moved didn't feel like reaction.
It felt like preparation.
Or worse.
A search.
Vernon's steps continued forward, but slower now.
He didn't linger.
Not because he wasn't curious.
Because something in his chest told him very clearly-
Keep walking.
He passed another patrol.
One guard's gaze slid across him, then away.
Then another guard looked again.
Too long.
Too deliberate.
Vernon's shoulders tensed slightly.
His instincts screamed at him to turn his head down, to hide his face, to become forgettable.
But he forced himself not to.
If you look guilty, you become guilty.
So he walked like he belonged.
Like he was only another citizen going about his day.
Still...
His belly tightened.
It wasn't hunger.
It was anxiety, sharp and sour, like his stomach was trying to crawl out of him.
He breathed in through his nose.
Breathed out slowly.
He could do this.
He could get to the smithy.
He was almost there.
The familiar scent of smoke and iron reached him before the building came into view. The steady rhythm of hammering echoed down the street like a heartbeat.
The sound should've been comforting.
Instead, it made him feel like he was walking toward the only warm place left in a cold world.
Just as he neared the smithy doors, he saw movement to his right.
Two guards.
They weren't walking directly toward him, but their path curved near enough that Vernon could feel the air shift with their approach.
He kept his pace steady.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't glance too hard.
But his hearing caught everything.
One guard muttered, low enough that most people wouldn't notice.
"Not him."
The other replied, voice barely above a breath.
"Keep looking. Orders are orders."
Vernon's body froze for the smallest fraction of a second.
A heartbeat.
A blink.
Then he moved again, forcing his legs to continue.
He pretended he hadn't heard.
The guards walked past.
But Vernon's heart was beating faster now.
Not from fear.
From the fact that fear was becoming logical.
He reached the smithy door and slipped inside.
The warmth hit him immediately.
Heat and smoke and the familiar tang of metal filled the air, wrapping around him like a cloak. Sparks jumped from a forge in the back, and the light inside the smithy was orange, alive, flickering like the building itself breathed fire.
Derek was already there.
Of course he was.
He stood near the anvil with his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, watching the forge like it was a living creature he didn't trust. The moment Vernon stepped in, Derek's eyes snapped toward him.
Sharp.
Assessing.
Vernon didn't waste time.
"The guards doubled," he said quickly.
Derek's expression didn't change.
Vernon continued anyway. "And they're not wearing Rootwilds' crest. Most of them have law enforcement insignias. They're scanning people... checking wagons."
Derek's eyes narrowed.
His jaw tightened just slightly.
It wasn't panic.
But it was something close to irritation mixed with caution, like someone had just confirmed a suspicion he didn't want proven.
Derek took one step closer.
Then, quietly, he said, "Keep your voice down."
That sentence alone made Vernon's stomach sink.
Because Derek didn't speak like that unless something mattered.
Vernon swallowed and lowered his tone. "I think they're searching for someone."
Derek didn't respond immediately.
His gaze drifted to the doorway.
Then to the windows.
Then back to Vernon.
"You didn't talk to anyone," Derek said.
It wasn't a question.
"No," Vernon answered. "I didn't even stop walking."
Derek nodded once, slow.
Then he turned away, reaching for a set of tongs, as if focusing on metal was easier than focusing on the city outside.
"We'll keep working," Derek said.
Vernon hesitated. "Dad... what's happening?"
Derek's shoulders rose and fell in a controlled breath.
"I don't know," he said.
The pause that followed was heavy.
Then he added, quieter.
"But I have guesses."
Vernon didn't like the way he said that.
Not at all.
A loud voice suddenly echoed from outside.
"So THIS is it?!"
Vernon stiffened.
Derek's head snapped toward the entrance.
And before Vernon could even process it-
Bruce burst through the door like he owned the building.
His grin was wide, his eyes bright, and his energy filled the smithy so aggressively it almost pushed the smoke aside.
But what froze Vernon in place wasn't Bruce.
It was the second set of footsteps behind him.
Lighter.
Quieter.
And paired with a curious voice.
"Woah..."
A familiar cat-like tone.
Vernon's eyes widened.
Liralic stepped in behind Bruce, tail flicking lazily behind him, ears twitching as he took in the glowing forge, the tools, the scent of steel.
He looked impressed.
He looked fascinated.
He looked completely relaxed.
Bruce clapped his hands together.
"Vernon! Dad! Look who I found!"
Vernon stared at him like Bruce had just walked in carrying a lit bomb and was smiling about it.
Derek stared at Bruce like he was considering whether forging a new son would be easier than raising this one.
The atmosphere inside the smithy died instantly.
Bruce's grin faltered.
Slowly.
"...What?" Bruce asked, his voice smaller.
Vernon didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Because Derek did.
Derek's voice was quiet.
Sharp.
"You brought someone here."
Bruce blinked. "He's our friend."
Derek's gaze sharpened even further. "Friend or not, you don't bring anyone here."
Liralic, to his credit, didn't look offended.
He looked confused.
Then cautious.
He took a step forward anyway, offering a hand like he was greeting a neighbour.
"I'm Liralic," he said politely. "Bruce talks about you a lot."
Bruce made a choking noise.
Like he'd just swallowed his own tongue.
Derek didn't shake his hand.
He didn't even look at it.
Instead he said, voice low enough that it felt like the words had weight-
"You don't mention you saw me."
Liralic's ears flicked back.
Derek continued, eyes cold.
"Not to anyone. Not to your family. Not to your friends. Not even as a joke."
The smithy went quiet except for the faint crackling of the forge.
Liralic's smile faded.
He finally understood.
This wasn't a normal situation.
"...Okay," Liralic said softly, retracting his hand. "I understand."
Bruce shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "I didn't think it was-"
Derek's eyes cut toward him.
Bruce immediately shut up.
Vernon exhaled slowly, trying to unclench his stomach.
This was bad.
But not catastrophic.
Not yet.
Derek stepped away from the entrance and gestured sharply toward the work area.
"Since you're already here," he said, "don't stand there like statues. Get to work."
Bruce brightened instantly, as if Derek hadn't just killed him with disappointment.
"Yes sir!"
Vernon gave Bruce a look.
Bruce pretended not to see it.
The rest of the day moved with a strange kind of tension.
On the surface, it was almost normal.
Almost.
Bruce worked like he always did-loud, energetic, making exaggerated grunts whenever he lifted something as if he was carrying a mountain instead of a hammer.
Vernon focused quietly, slipping into that familiar rhythm he'd begun to understand more and more.
Liralic stayed near the back at first, watching with wide eyes.
He leaned forward when sparks flew.
He flinched when metal hit water and steam exploded upward.
And at one point, he muttered under his breath-
"...That's actually really cool."
Vernon smiled.
Though Vernon couldn't stop noticing Derek.
Derek kept looking toward the door.
Too often.
Not in a paranoid way.
In a trained way.
Liralic eventually crept closer to Vernon's work station.
"You're... really focused," he whispered.
Vernon didn't look up. "You have to be."
Liralic watched the way Vernon's hammer struck, how his hands adjusted, how his breathing stayed controlled.
"...I'd mess that up," Liralic admitted.
"You probably would," Bruce said proudly from across the forge.
Then Bruce swung his hammer too hard.
The metal slipped.
A loud CLANG echoed through the smithy as it skidded off the anvil and bounced onto the floor.
Bruce froze.
Derek didn't even turn around.
He just said, deadpan, "Congratulations. You've invented the floor sword."
Liralic's ears perked.
Vernon covered his mouth quickly.
Bruce stared at Derek. "Dad."
Derek finally glanced back.
"You can't fight anyone with a weapon you can't even hold still," Derek said flatly.
Bruce picked up the metal slowly, cheeks reddening.
"...It was tactical," he muttered.
Vernon's shoulders shook slightly.
Liralic's tail flicked as he laughed.
Even Derek's expression softened by the smallest fraction-barely visible, but there.
Just enough to remind Vernon that his father was still human.
Still there.
Even if the world was closing in.
As evening crept closer, the light outside dimmed into a pale gold.
The forge glowed brighter by contrast.
The work slowed.
Bruce wiped sweat from his forehead dramatically.
Vernon flexed his fingers, feeling the ache in his hands.
Liralic stretched his arms, as if watching had exhausted him more than working would have.
Then Derek spoke.
"I'll head out first."
Vernon looked up. "Where?"
Derek was already untying his apron. "Supplies."
Bruce perked up. "Like food?"
Derek didn't answer.
Bruce followed quickly. "How much?"
Still nothing.
Vernon narrowed his eyes. "Dad. Why do we need a lot of supplies?"
Derek's gaze flicked toward him.
His eyes were sharp.
Then he turned away.
Bruce stepped closer. "Are we leaving soon?"
Derek ignored him.
Liralic, who had been quiet for most of the day, finally spoke.
"...Leaving?" he asked carefully.
Derek stopped.
The air shifted.
His patience snapped like a thin wire.
"Enough."
Silence slammed into the room.
Even the forge seemed quieter.
Bruce froze.
Vernon didn't move.
Liralic's ears flattened slightly.
Derek exhaled, long and controlled, as if he hated himself for letting his voice rise.
Then he spoke again, quieter.
"In two days," he said, "we leave for Riverfolds."
Bruce blinked.
Vernon's chest tightened.
Liralic's tail stopped moving.
Derek continued, eyes hard.
"To reach it, we travel through Crescent Wound."
The name alone felt like it scraped across the room.
Vernon had never been there.
But the way Derek said it made it sound like a place that still remembered blood.
Bruce swallowed. "Crescent Wound...?"
Derek nodded once.
"A region scarred from war last year."
Bruce's smile vanished.
Even he couldn't joke about that.
Derek's voice became clinical, practical.
"Five days. Four nights."
"We'll travel by merchant transport. Standard route."
"Five guards. Standard escort."
He paused.
And Vernon caught it.
That tiny hesitation.
That slight shift in his tone.
Standard didn't mean safe.
Not anymore.
Vernon's throat felt dry. "So... we only have one more day here."
Derek nodded. "One final day."
Bruce looked down at his hands, still stained with soot.
Liralic's expression had gone distant, like his mind was trying to catch up with the weight of the news.
Then Derek picked up his cloak and turned toward the exit.
"I'll meet you at the tavern," he said. "Don't stay out late."
Bruce nodded quickly. "Yes sir."
Vernon didn't speak.
He just watched Derek leave.
Watched the door close behind him.
And when the smithy fell quiet again, Vernon walked toward the entrance and pushed the door open slightly.
Outside, the street was darker now.
The lanterns were being lit.
The city was settling into its evening rhythm.
But the guards were still there.
Patrols.
Pairs.
Groups.
The law enforcement insignias catching lantern light like warning signs.
They weren't wandering aimlessly.
They were scanning.
Still searching.
Vernon stared for a long moment.
Then, slowly, something settled in his chest.
A realization that felt colder than fear.
They aren't here because of trouble somewhere.
They're here because they're hunting.
And the way the guards' eyes moved-
the way they checked faces-
the way the city felt like it was tightening-
Vernon couldn't shake the thought that the hunt was getting closer.
He stepped back into the smithy and shut the door.
Bruce and Liralic were watching him.
Vernon didn't smile.
He didn't joke.
He only said quietly-
"We need to be ready."
Bruce nodded.
And for once, he didn't argue.