Ash reached the edge of the village just before sunset.
No guards. No alarms. Just smoke curling from tired chimneys and the sound of goats bleating somewhere beyond the last shack. The buildings were uneven. Thatched roofs, patchy repairs, mud-brick foundations. Maybe fifty people lived here. Maybe fewer.
No visible defenses. No tower. No wall. Just the woods, and wishful thinking.
Ash didn't announce himself. He didn't slow his pace either.
He passed an older man hauling a broken cart. The man froze at the sight of him. Eyes tracked the spear strapped to Ash's back. Then the blood on his clothes. Then the military posture that didn't belong in a place like this.
Ash kept walking.
He counted nine structures. Two were storage. One looked like a shrine. The rest were homes. There was a central well, shallow and old. If it went dry, they would die within the week.
A small group of men stood near the well. Farmers, most likely. One had an axe. Another held a pitchfork. No one moved as Ash approached.
Then someone shouted.
"That robe. He's wearing their robes!"
Ash turned, slowly. A young man, barely more than a boy, pointed at the bloodstained cloak tied to Ash's belt. The one from the summoners in the forest.
The boy took a step back. Others moved forward.
Two men advanced. One held a rusted sword, the other a wooden club.
Ash didn't speak.
The sword came first, clumsy and wide. Ash stepped in, deflected the swing with his forearm, and drove his palm into the man's throat. The man dropped, gasping.
The other raised the club. Ash didn't wait. He hooked a foot behind the man's ankle and pulled, dropping him hard. The club fell. Ash kicked it away.
The villagers backed off.
Someone called out.
"Stop! Let him speak!"
An older woman pushed through the crowd. She wore a faded green shawl and had a limp in her right leg. Her eyes scanned Ash, not with fear, but with calculation.
"That blood isn't his," she said. "Is it?"
Ash didn't answer.
"You kill the ones wearing that robe?"
He gave a slow nod.
The tension broke. The crowd eased back.
The woman sighed.
"Then you're not the first mistake we've made this week."
She introduced herself as Elda Marren, healer and caretaker. Ash didn't give his name. It didn't seem to matter.
He asked about the trail. The caravan. The symbol on the packs.
Elda's eyes darkened.
"That was ours. Supply run. They never came back."
Ash told her what he found. The raiders. The ritual. The glyphs.
He kept it simple. Direct. No speculation. Just facts.
She listened without interrupting, then said:
"They'll be back. Sooner than we can prepare."
Ash scanned the village again. His assessment hadn't changed.
Too soft. Too exposed.
He looked at her.
"Where can I get lumber?"
Elda raised an eyebrow.
"You plan on helping?"
Ash didn't answer.
He turned toward the treeline.
"I'll need tools. Rope. And eyes on the northern approach."
The boy who pointed earlier, Calen Rook, ran to follow.
"I know the paths. I can help."
Ash didn't stop walking.
"Then start clearing the brush. We're building kill zones."
And just like that, the village had its first soldier in years.