Ash didn't sleep that night.
He marked the ground with chalk and ash. He counted steps between chokepoints. He cleared the brush, dragged logs, and stacked debris into barriers. The villagers helped where they could. Most just watched.
By morning, the village looked different.
He had turned the east and north sides into a funnel. A trap shaped like an open hand. Wide enough to lure, narrow enough to contain.
Simple kill zone.
The villagers called it clever. Ash called it basic.
Calen showed up before dawn, carrying two sacks of rusted nails and what looked like a half-broken crossbow.
"I can watch from the roof," the boy said.
Ash pointed to the outer slope near the well.
"Here instead. You'll have visibility on the north tree line. If they breach, drop to the second marker and call out. Don't shoot unless I tell you to."
Calen nodded, trying not to look nervous.
Elda worked quietly by the shrine, mixing salves and boiling water. She didn't ask questions. Just watched Ash pass, hands bloodied from hauling timber, face unreadable.
"Had help before?" she asked once.
Ash didn't look up.
"Some. Never enough."
By midday, the wind changed.
Ash tasted metal in the air. He dropped his tools and went still.
Seconds passed.
Then came the sound. Not footsteps. Not hooves. A steady scrape of wood and leather. Armor.
He stood and scanned the tree line. Movement. Shadows. Someone is approaching with control. Not a raid. Not bandits.
A formation.
"Calen," he said without raising his voice. "Go."
The boy disappeared behind the stacked crates.
Ash stepped forward and signaled the few villagers holding spears. Four of them. Two could hold a weapon properly.
"Hold your ground. Let them come closer."
Shapes emerged from the woods.
Eight men. Uniformed, though mismatched. Leather armor reinforced with bone. Tattoos over their faces and arms. Glyphs. Some are still wet with ink.
At the front, a tall man with a shaved head and a red-stained blade. His eyes locked on Ash.
"Step aside," the man called out. "This is a sanctified ground now. You don't belong."
Ash didn't answer. He stepped to the left once, lowering his stance.
The leader clicked his tongue.
"So be it."
Two charged forward. Fast, but direct.
Ash sidestepped the first. Dropped low and swept the legs. Slammed the man down and took his blade before he could shout.
The second swung high. Ash stepped in. Elbow to the throat. Blade into ribs.
Both men fell.
The rest hesitated.
Ash didn't.
He threw the stolen blade at the nearest archer and advanced.
The formation broke.
Behind him, the villagers held. One man jabbed with a pitchfork, eyes closed the whole time. Another dropped his weapon but shouted loud enough to distract an attacker.
Ash moved through them like water finding cracks.
One raider fled. Another tried to cast something. Glyph lines flared on his arm, then fizzled. Ash crushed his windpipe before he finished the chant.
It was over in minutes.
Ash stood in the silence, chest rising and falling. The ground was soaked in blood that wasn't his.
Elda stepped forward with a rag and a bucket of water.
"That was more than enough," she said quietly.
Ash didn't respond. He walked to the edge of the tree line, scanning for signs of scouts or signals.
Nothing. Not yet.
But this was a probe. A test.
And someone had sent them, knowing exactly who was here.