The road leveled out in the late afternoon.
The light was already going. Not setting cleanly—just thinning, stretched pale where it slipped under carts and caught at the lower edges of walls ahead. The air had cooled since midday. Smoke hung close to the ground now and didn't bother rising anymore.
The city came on gradually.
Stone crept into the road where dirt should have held longer. Drainage ditches deepened and straightened. The smell shifted—less field, more people. Wet cloth. Grease. Old smoke pressed flat by the cooling air.
A wall took shape ahead. Low. Old. Built to keep animals out and people honest.
The gate stood open.
Traffic moved through without urgency, but not without purpose. Carts rattled past heavy and slow, drivers leaning forward, intent on finishing before dark. Pack animals came and went. People walked where they needed to and didn't look up unless something made them.
He went through the gate.
Questions were asked. Answered. Repeated.
A hand lifted and dropped. Nothing held.
—
Inside, the streets ran narrower.
Buildings leaned in where the ground forced them to, stone at the base, timber above, darkened and warped by years of smoke and rain. Upper floors jutted out over the road in places, stealing what light remained and keeping it. Rooflines sagged where beams had been reused too often to remember their first purpose.
Water ran through shallow gutters cut along the edges of the stone. It moved fast enough not to linger, carrying dirt and scraps downhill and out of sight.
He walked the horse.
Traffic still moved, but it was thinning. People finished what they were doing and cleared the street in ones and twos. Those still moving did so with purpose, heads down, intent on being done before full dark.
He passed open shopfronts where the day was being finished.
Goods were pulled off the street and carried inside. Counters were cleared in quick, practiced motions. A man counted coin once and put it away. Another dragged a board across the opening and left it there while he worked. Nothing lingered where it could be taken.
Guards stood at corners and doorways.
People moved around them without stopping, keeping their distance.
Evening settled in properly.
—
The inn stood a little off the main road, where the street bent and sound didn't carry as far.
Stone below. Timber above. A sign hung from an iron bracket, dark with age and smoke. Light leaked through the shutters in thin, uneven lines.
A narrow yard opened beside it, ringed with stone and already holding a few horses.
He turned the horse in and tied the reins short. The animal shifted once, then lowered its head and stood.
Inside, the air was warmer.
Smoke hung under the beams. Not thick. Just used. The smell of stew sat heavier than the beer, herbs cooked down past recognition. A few tables were occupied. No crowd. No music. Just low talk and the sound of bowls being set down.
The innkeep looked up. Took in the swords. The medallion. The road dust still clinging where it hadn't been brushed away.
"Room," the witcher said.
The man nodded. Didn't ask how long. Didn't ask where from. He named a price that assumed no argument.
Coin changed hands.
"And food," the witcher added.
The innkeep jerked his head toward the hearth. "When it's ready."
That was fine.
He took a place along the wall, where he could see the room and not be in it. Sat. Let the weight settle out of his shoulders.
At the next table, two men were talking low.
"…third one this month," one said.
"Found or missing?"
A pause.
"Found," the first said. "What there was of him."
The witcher didn't look at them.
"They say it's animals."
"Animals don't do that," someone said quickly.
Someone lowered their voice.
"…monsters."
No one answered that.
A bowl was set down in front of him. Steam lifted and thinned. Bread followed. No words with it.
He ate while it was hot. When the bowl was empty, he wiped it clean with the bread and left nothing behind.
The talk fell back into low murmur.
He stood, left coin on the table, and went upstairs.
—
Morning came.
The room below woke before the light did.
Footsteps. Voices too close together. Something heavy dragged across the floor. A shout cut off halfway through another.
Someone knocked on his door.
Hard. Once. Then again.
"Witcher," a voice called from the other side. "You there?"
The latch scraped.
The door opened a hand's width.
Light caught in his eyes—narrowed, reflective, not quite human.
The man outside paused. Then went on.
"You'll need to come with us," he said.
The door closed.
Leather shifted. Steel whispered as it settled.
The door opened again.
The witcher stepped out.
Downstairs, the inn had changed shape.
Guards were spread through the room, some near the walls, one standing loose at the center, swords at their hips, worn openly. Not drawn. No one sat. Talk stayed low and unfinished.
The innkeep kept his eyes on the counter.
They moved the witcher through without touching him.
Outside, the street was already awake, work starting up around them. Smoke hung low where fires had been fed early. Shutters stood half-open along the way.
A few heads turned as they passed. Whispers followed, then broke apart.
They left the main road after a short distance.
The street they took was quieter but kept. Stonework was older here, better set. Windows sat higher, spaced for offices rather than living. Doors were solid, built to last.
They stopped at a squat stone building.
Inside, the ground floor passed quickly. Stone walls. Footsteps echoing once, then not.
Stairs rose at the back, narrow and worn.
A guard waited on the second floor and opened the door for them.
They went in.
The room above was wider than it had first appeared. Not large, but arranged for work. Stone walls washed pale. A desk stood beneath the window, its surface bare except for a ledger and a seal pressed into a block of wax. Shelves along one wall held rolled documents tied and stacked.
The man waited behind the desk.
He wore official attire. Plain. Maintained.
Two guards stood along the wall. Another remained near the door.
"I was told a witcher entered the city," the man said.
The witcher said nothing.
The man's eyes flicked briefly toward the guards, then returned.
"I trust there were no issues," he said.
The witcher didn't answer.
"That wasn't my intent," the man went on. "Given the circumstances."
The man sighed.
"I've had reports of people going missing," he said. "At first, we handled it quietly."
He paused for a moment.
"But when bodies started turning up," he continued, "that was no longer enough."
He looked at the witcher then.
"I won't speculate," he said. "That's more your line of work."
He paused.
"But I need to know if this is something you can take on," he said. "Before we go further."
The witcher didn't answer at once.
"You'd be well compensated for your work," the man added.
"That depends," the witcher said.
"On what."
"On what you found."
The man nodded once.
"What we've recovered is being kept elsewhere," he said.
He glanced to the guards.
"They'll show you the way."