The road had been closed for three days.
Not officially—no banners, no guards, no decree stamped with wax and threat—but everyone traveling between Westbridge and the inner trade towns knew better than to test it. Wagons stopped miles short of the bend where the old stone markers leaned inward. Couriers turned back without complaint. Even the smugglers avoided the place.
Something had moved into the hills.
That was all anyone said.
A cluster of wagons waited at the last crossroads, pulled off onto packed dirt where the grass had long since been trampled into submission. Canvas tents had gone up in a loose semicircle, their colors dulled by dust and smoke. A cooking fire burned low in the center, watched by men who had nothing better to do than stare into embers and argue over what they would have done if they'd already been paid.
"Three days," a merchant said, voice tight with irritation. "Three days, and still no word."
"You want word?" another snapped back. "Ride up there yourself and see what answers you get."
The first man scowled but said nothing. He knew as well as the rest that the mercenaries they'd hired—good ones, too—had already gone up the road and come back with fewer numbers and worse tempers. Something big, they'd said. Something that didn't move like an animal.
A third merchant, older, leaned against his wagon wheel and rubbed at his beard. "We can't stay here forever. Grain spoils. Clients don't wait."
"And corpses don't trade," someone muttered.
A figure approached along the southern path.
He walked alone.
No horse. No pack animal. Just a man in a dark cloak, the hem dusted gray from travel, boots worn but intact. He carried a staff slung across his back—not decorative, not carved with runes or jewels. Plain wood reinforced with iron bands, scarred from use.
He didn't look lost.
Several of the mercenaries noticed him first. Men in mismatched armor, blades worn smooth by sharpening and neglect. They straightened slightly, hands drifting closer to hilts. Not because the man looked dangerous—he didn't—but because he didn't look concerned.
Travelers who wandered into a blocked road usually had questions. Or fear. Or at least the sense to slow down.
This one didn't break stride.
"Road's closed," one of the guards called out.
The man stopped a few paces short of the fire. He was taller than most, broad-shouldered without being heavy. His hair was gray—not the pale white of age, but steel-colored, unevenly cut as if he'd trimmed it himself and not bothered to fix the rest. Light stubble shadowed his jaw.
His eyes moved once across the camp. Wagons. Merchants. Mercenaries. The way people stood when they were waiting for someone else to solve a problem.
"What's blocking it?" he asked.
His voice was calm. Low. Not unfriendly, but not deferential either.
One of the merchants scoffed. "That's what we're paying to find out."
A mercenary stepped forward. He was older than the others, his armor better maintained. A captain, by the look of him. "Creatures in the hills," he said. "Came down three nights back. Took out a patrol. We pushed them off, but they didn't scatter like beasts should."
"How many?" the man asked.
The captain hesitated. "Hard to say. Four, maybe five. Big. Armored, in a way. Claws. And something else. Magic, maybe."
"Maybe," one of the younger mercenaries muttered. "Or something worse."
The man nodded once, as if filing the information away. "They still there?"
"As far as we know," the captain said. "We weren't paid to die testing it."
A few chuckles rippled through the group, brittle and forced.
The man reached into his cloak and drew out a small leather pouch. He tossed it lightly toward the captain, who caught it by reflex. The weight surprised him; he looked down, then back up.
"That should cover passage," the man said. "And the delay."
The captain frowned. "You planning to walk through?"
"Yes."
Silence followed. Then laughter—real this time, incredulous.
"You don't understand," one of the merchants said. "This isn't a toll issue."
"I understand," the man replied. "If the road's clear by nightfall, you can move."
"And if it's not?"
"Then you're no worse off than you are now."
The captain studied him for a long moment. "Name?"
The man paused. Not long. Just long enough to make the question feel heavier than it should have.
"Alaric," he said.
No title. No family name.
The captain nodded slowly. "Roland Kestrel," he said. "I won't stop you. But I won't send men with you, either."
Alaric inclined his head slightly. "That's fine."
He turned toward the road.
"Wait," Roland said. "If you don't come back—"
Alaric looked over his shoulder. "Then leave."
That ended the conversation.
---
The road narrowed as it climbed, stone markers giving way to old trees whose branches arched overhead. The air smelled different beyond the crossroads—cooler, damp with moss and soil. Whatever had moved into the hills had disturbed more than stone. Birds were quiet. Insects scarce.
Alaric walked at an even pace, hand resting loosely near the staff on his back. He didn't hurry. Whatever was ahead wasn't stalking him.
The first sign came a mile up: claw marks gouged into the stone verge, deep enough that fingers could fit inside. Old blood darkened the grooves, dry but not yet faded.
He knelt, pressed two fingers to the stone, then stood again.
"Not hunting," he said to the empty road. "Territorial."
Something shifted ahead.
Alaric stepped off the road and waited.
The creature emerged from between the trees with a scraping sound, its bulk forcing branches aside rather than slipping through them. It stood taller than a horse at the shoulder, plated with overlapping chitin that caught the dim light. Its head was blunt, jaw heavy with ridged teeth. A low sound rumbled from its chest—not a roar, more like breath forced through stone.
Alaric didn't draw a weapon.
He reached back, slid the staff free, and held it loosely in one hand.
The creature charged.
It was fast for its size, ground shaking as it closed the distance. Alaric waited until the last moment, then stepped aside with a small turn of his foot. The creature's momentum carried it past him, claws gouging dirt where he'd been.
Alaric brought the staff down—not hard, but precisely—against the joint behind the creature's foreleg.
There was a sound like splitting wood.
The limb collapsed. The creature crashed to the ground, shrieking now, thrashing in pain.
Alaric moved again. Two quick strikes, angled differently. Plates cracked. The sound cut off as something vital gave way.
He stepped back as the body stilled.
No fire. No lightning. No spectacle.
He wiped the staff clean against the grass and continued up the road.
---
The nest lay another half mile ahead, tucked into a ravine where the road cut through rock. Three more creatures waited there, stirred by the sound but not coordinated. They died as the first had—quickly, cleanly, with no wasted movement.
The last one tried to flee.
Alaric let it run ten paces, then lifted his free hand.
The air tightened.
The creature slammed into the ground as if struck by an invisible weight, limbs splayed uselessly. Alaric approached, studied it briefly, then ended it with a single downward blow.
He stood for a moment afterward, scanning the ravine.
"Five," he said.
Satisfied, he turned back down the road.
---
By the time Alaric returned to the crossroads, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the waiting wagons.
Someone spotted him first. A shout went up, followed by hurried movement as people gathered.
Roland Kestrel stepped forward, eyes flicking past Alaric to the empty road behind him. "Well?"
"Clear," Alaric said. "They won't be back."
A murmur ran through the crowd—relief, disbelief, cautious hope.
Roland studied Alaric's cloak, the faint stains at the hem. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Just like that?"
Alaric shrugged. "They weren't complicated."
One of the younger mercenaries swallowed. "You didn't bring proof."
Alaric met his gaze. "You're welcome to go look."
No one volunteered.
Roland exhaled slowly, then let out a short laugh. "All right," he said. "All right. You've earned more than you paid for."
Alaric shook his head. "We're even."
He turned to leave.
"Wait," Roland said again, more cautiously this time. "People will ask who cleared the road."
Alaric paused, then glanced back. "Tell them whatever's easiest."
Roland watched him go, a frown creasing his brow.
Behind him, a merchant whispered, "Did you see how he moved?"
Another shook his head. "Didn't feel right."
Roland said nothing. He looked down at the pouch still in his hand, then at the road Alaric had taken.
Some problems, he realized, weren't meant to be understood. Only avoided—or respected.
The wagons began to move.
And somewhere along the road, a new rumor took its first breath.