The valley town was no city, but after days of ash, ruin, and forest gloom, its crooked streets and smoke-topped roofs seemed like a promise of peace. The cottages clung to the hillside like weary old men hunched against the wind, their stone walls furred with moss, their chimneys coughing slow plumes of gray. A narrow river split the town's heart, its water cold and fast, bridged by timbers dark with age and slick with moss. The bridge groaned as the wagons crossed, wood complaining as though it remembered every passing weight.
Children halted their games the moment they saw strangers crest the road. Pebbles dropped from their hands. Rag dolls dangled forgotten in the dust. Men with axes over their shoulders paused mid-step, wiping sweat from brows already furrowed in suspicion. Women leaned from windows, their hands still on ladles, on cloth, on tools, but their eyes sharp and unblinking. Everywhere, the townsfolk stared.
The weight of those stares pressed against Leo like invisible chains. He felt them fasten to his limbs, heavy and suffocating.
The shard whispered faintly, smug. They smell it. They know.
At the caravan's head, Sofia rode tall, her scar stark in daylight. She raised her hand, and the column slowed to a halt in the central square. There, at the cobbled center, stood a weathered statue of a hooded figure. Its face had long since been smoothed away by rain and time, but its posture, straight-backed, cloaked, faceless, watched the town with silent vigilance.
At the statue's feet lay offerings: coins tarnished green, bundles of grain bound in twine, and dozens of small iron nails hammered into cracks of stone, their heads glinting faintly in the gray light.
Owen leaned close to Leo, voice low, careful. "The Guardian of Bridges. Old valley god, they say. Keeps shadows from crossing water."
Leo's gaze lingered on the nails. Sharp points, driven deep, catching light like cold teeth. "Does it work?"
Owen's mouth quirked faintly, though his eyes remained wary. "Depends who you ask."
Sofia dismounted, barking orders. Wagons split, the smithy for repairs, the granary for food, the well for water. Guards spread through the square, though their movements lacked the casual ease of soldiers at rest. Every step was measured, every hand near a weapon.
Leo felt it too. The air here carried no ash, yet it was no lighter. Whispers chased them down narrow lanes. Faces vanished into shutters. Silence followed Sofia's shadow like a tide.
At the tavern door, a broad-shouldered man with a patchy beard leaned on the frame, chewing a stem of grass. He spat into the dust as the captain approached. "What road spat you out?" His voice was a low growl. "You stink of grave dust."
One of the guards bristled, hand flying to his sword. Sofia stilled him with a glance sharp enough to cut.
"We lost men in the Fields," she said evenly. "We'll honor them and move on. You've no need for our ghosts."
The man's lips twisted, half sneer, half smirk. He stepped aside, but his eyes lingered. When they fell to Leo's wrapped hand, his gaze narrowed, recognition or suspicion, passing like a shadow across his face.
Inside, the tavern air was heavy with woodsmoke and the sour tang of ale. Farmers hunched over cups, speaking in voices too low to carry. Merchants traded hushed news over parchment maps. But when Leo crossed the threshold, the hum of voices fractured. The silence was subtle, but sharp enough to cut. Heads bent closer to mugs. Eyes flicked, lingered, then darted away.
Owen slipped to his side, trying to fill the void with words. "Best keep to ourselves. Places like this, word travels faster than fire."
Leo nodded, though his chest was tight. It felt as though every gaze stripped at him, searching for the ember beneath his skin, peeling back flesh to see what burned beneath.
Across the room, two men sat in the corner, cloaks dark despite the warmth. One leaned forward, whispering. The other turned his head, and a tattoo coiled into view along his neck, a serpent with twin heads, its ink faded but unmistakable. His eyes met Leo's. For a breath, the room fell away. The man's lips curled upward, but it was no smile, it was recognition, hunger dressed as humor.
The shard thrashed violently, thrumming hot in Leo's palm. They seek me. They know what you carry.
Leo forced himself to turn away, though his shoulders stiffened. He could feel the man's gaze clinging like smoke.
Sofia's voice cut the tension, sharp and commanding. "We rest one night only. Keep your tongues still. Keep your blades close." Her eyes swept her company, hard as iron. Then she found Leo in the crowd. For a heartbeat, her gaze locked on his, and something wordless passed between them, suspicion sharpened into warning.
That night, the caravan bedded down in the tavern's stables, among hay and the soft shifting of oxen. The beams creaked with the wind. Beyond the walls, the river whispered ceaselessly against its stones.
Leo lay awake, staring into the rafters, the shard's pulse restless in his palm. He tried to steady his breath, but unease gnawed at him.
Somewhere outside, in the square, a cloaked figure approached the statue of the Guardian of Bridges. It bent low, but left no coin, no grain, no nail.
Instead, it placed a single drop of blood at the base.
The stone drank it like water.