Chapter Nine Nightfall Road
He slept like he'd given up fighting. When he woke the sky was pale violet and a thin moon hung low. For a second his chest tightened..because that moon matched the one over the ruined city. Not panic, just the quick prick of recognition. He kept still and watched.
The cart rumbled beneath him. Wood creaked, iron rasped. He sat up and looked it over: wide axle, planked bed with iron bands, sideboards fastened with simple catches, a tarred canvas rolled and tied. Burlap sacks of barley leaned at the sides; bundles of wheat lay lashed in a corner; flour dusted the ropes and crates. It was a trader's cart, plain and meant for markets. The facts steadied him. Facts were something he could trust.
They had left the green hill. The road grew flat and dusty. Tiny grit rubbed at his throat until he sneezed. The drive..an old man with knotted hand..threw him a leather waterskin without turning. The water was cold and immediate. Relief moved through him in clear, simple beats: throat wet, mouth eased, pulse slowing. He drank until the skin was nearly empty. It was only water, and it was enough.
"We'll stop soon," the old man said. "Avalon by morning, if luck holds." He eased the cart to the roadside and made camp with quick practiced movements: peg the wheel, fold a blanket, coil a rope. The younger man climbed down, his joints stiff. He was quietly glad he had not been dumped from the cart while asleep. The cruel thought he'd had earlier..throw the driver and take the cart..felt shameful now. He pushed it away.
An hour later they sat by a low fire. Sand stuck to the seat of his trousers; the grainy touch was oddly grounding. He shifted until it eased and watched the old man look up at the stars. The driver's face softened when he stared at the sky, as if the heavens were something he read every night. The sight made the younger man want, in a small human way, to be part of that quiet habit.
He walked over and said, "Thanks." The word could mean for the ride, the bread, the water, or for not being left on the road.
The old man gave a short sound and said, "Luck put thee on the road. That is what matters." His words came with an old cadence but were plain enough. The moment closed.
They kept silence until the driver asked, "Where come you from? Landsbrough, Everest, or the Far East?"
The question was practical. Say a town and the driver might press for routes. Say nothing and he might seem dangerous. He needed a safe, open answer.
"Beyond the Far East," he said. The phrase was wide enough to hide in. "No more than a fugitive looking for better ground."
The driver hummed. "Greener pastures," he said. "Avalon brims with trade and coin. But she wears a hard shadow. If peace is what you want, go west to Landsbrough. There are steadier jobs there."
West sounded sensible. He had no map and little coin. The cart was already going to Avalon. The choice was simple.
"I'll go to Avalon," he said. The sentence settled in him like a stone,no cheer, no shame, only fact.
He asked, "What do you mean by the shadow? What happened?"
The old man folded his hands and spoke low, careful. "Have you heard of the Divine Order they call the Proclamation?" When the younger man shook his head, the man went on. "It wasn't a message handed down by men alone. It came like a law from somewhere people could not name. The Proclamation said fragments of the Unholy were found inside certain people. The Church called them vessels. The Sacred Orders called them bearers."
He paused and kept his voice steady. "The fragments themselves did nothing to topple markets or burn fields. Many vessels were simple folk. The danger began when the Proclamation was taken as a call to action. The churches and the Orders read it as a mandate. They sent out the Hunt."
His tone grew quiet and clear, almost like reading from scripture. "Knights rode with warrants. Clerics declared judgments. They hunted the bearers to secure or destroy the vessels. Where the Hunt passed, people took sides. Shelters closed, caravans turned back, towns shut their gates. Merchants stopped traveling the roads. That is why markets falter—not because of the fragments, but because of the pursuers and the fear they bring."
The explanation made sense and felt dangerous. He thought of the ruined city and the hollow faces he'd seen. He thought of the seed he had held—how it had vanished into a bright light—and felt the odd steadiness of not carrying it now. The absence was a small mercy.
"Why Avalon?" he asked.
"The first murmurs,The erratic insurgence,it all began in there" the driver said. "Merchants, courts, strangers—the Proclamation found the city's heart. Orders and courts met. Power learned new mouths. Then the Hunt began in earnest—burnings in the square, arrests called for in public, knights enforcing proclamations with sword and decree. People fought back somewhere; others bent under fear. That noise—the burnings, the knights, the proclamations—shut down trade and make life harder."
He pictured torches and men in armor, judges calling names, caravans turning away. The terror wasn't the fragments acting. It was men acting on belief and fear.
"If it hasn't reached your place," the old man added, "thank your luck. Pray it stays that way."
"What is the Hunt like?" he asked. He needed a clearer picture to know what to watch for.
"Not sport," the driver said. "A purge carried out in the name of balance. Orders and law mix; knights ride with warrants. Those taken are questioned, sometimes executed. Communities split—some hide, some inform. Markets close because the road is not safe. Life grows small where the Hunt moves."
The name Avalon sat heavy between them. The road ahead had a new meaning: not only a city of markets, but a place where this new order and the Hunt had begun. He touched his side out of habit—the place where the seed had been—and felt only memory. That absence made him feel both lighter and more exposed. He had no fragment to hide, but he still had to watch for the Hunters: knights, clerics, and the violence that followed them.
They fell into a quiet that was less empty now. The fire burned low. The stars watched without comment. He felt fear as a tool: name it, measure it, move. Avalon was both promise and warning. He had chosen it because the cart moved toward it and because he had nothing better.
They sat by the embers in silence, two travelers and the road between them.