"Every road leads somewhere. The question is who's waiting when you arrive." — Common saying, Hinterlands to Aldmere
---
On the third morning the trees began to thin. He'd woken with frost on his coat and the taste of smoke still in his mouth — old smoke, from his clothes, from the cottage. He'd packed by habit. Flask. Journal. Letter. The crystal in his boot. He'd walked. The ground underfoot changed. Less root. More leaf litter. Then a worn strip of dirt that might have been a path. He followed it. The light grew. The canopy opened in patches. He heard birds — the first he'd heard in two days — and then the distant creak of something that wasn't the forest. A cart? A branch? He didn't know. He kept walking. When he broke through the last line of oak and saw the road, he stopped. He'd expected a track. This was a road. A real one.
The Wayfare Road. Packed earth, wide enough for two wagons abreast, rutted from years of traffic. It ran east and west as far as he could see. Empty. No one on it. The sky above it was pale — grey enough to promise rain. He'd learned to read weather from Aldric — not from books, from the way the air sat, the way the light fell. The air smelled different here — less pine, more open. As if the forest had been holding its breath and had finally let it out. He stood at the edge of the trees for a long moment. He didn't step out immediately. He watched. The road was empty. No dust. No movement. That could change. East was to his right. West was to his left. Aldmere was east. He'd known that since he was eight — Aldric's hand on his shoulder, pointing. *When you need it.* He'd needed it. He stepped out. The bag sat against his back — journal, spare shirt, flask, the letter in the inner pocket. The crystal was in his boot, wrapped in leather. The river stone was in his coat. The knife at his belt. Everything that was left of fourteen years. He adjusted the strap and didn't look back.
Behind him: forest, silence, the weight of two days alone. No one had spoken his name since Aldric. No one would. The cottage was ash. The grave was under the oak. The cellar was buried under burned wood and collapsed stone. He had left all of it. He had the bag and the journal and the crystal and the letter and the river stone. That was what was left of fourteen years.
Ahead: a road that led to Aldmere. To Vex. To whatever came next. The road was empty. The sky was grey. He could walk for an hour and see no one. Or he could meet a patrol in the next mile. He had no way to know. He started walking. The first hundred steps on the road felt like leaving the forest twice — first the trees, now the edge of them. The bag weighed the same. His feet hurt the same. But the ground was different. Made. Maintained. The world had a shape here. It had rules. He'd have to learn them. He walked.
The world beyond the Hinterlands. He'd never seen it. Aldric had kept him close — the cottage, the snares, the river six miles east. The rest was stories. Roads. Cities. Crown patrols. The Athenaeum. He'd read about them in the journal. He'd never walked toward them. Now the road was under his feet. Real. Used. Someone had built this. Someone had maintained it. The world had been here all along.
He stepped out of the trees and turned east. The ground felt different under his boots — flatter, made by people. Packed earth. Wheel-ruts. Hoof-marks. The road had been used. Recently? He couldn't tell. His footsteps sounded different here. Not the soft give of leaf litter. Not the crack of twigs. Just the dull thud of a road that had carried thousands before him. He walked. The road unrolled. An hour. Two. The forest fell back on either side. The sky opened. Once he passed a post at the roadside — weathered wood, no sign left on it, just a marker that someone had once cared where this stretch went. He could see the curve of the land now — hills in the distance, open country, nothing between him and the hills. No cottage. No cellar. No grave. Just road and sky and the fact that he was alone. The Hinterlands had been a pocket. This was the world. He adjusted his bag and kept walking. The road had a rhythm. Walk. Rest when he had to — never long. Drink from the flask. Watch the sky. Watch the road. The journal had said not to camp on the road itself. Too visible. Too easy to find. When dusk came he'd need to find a place to sleep. For now he walked. The road would tell him when to stop.
Less than an hour after he'd joined the road he saw the patrol.
They were far off — a dust cloud first, then the shape of horses and riders. Five of them. Single file. No wagons. The sun caught something at the lead rider's collar. Metal. A pin. Crown colours. He'd read about those too. Standard patrol. Routine. The journal had mentioned patrols. Had said they asked for papers in the cities. Had said the roads were different — watched but not stopped, unless you gave them a reason. He hadn't given them a reason. He'd just been a shape on the road. Then he hadn't been there at all. They weren't looking for him. Not yet. Maybe not ever, if he was careful. The journal had said: don't run unless you're sure they're hunting you. Running made you memorable. It had said other things too — about Crown patrols, about papers, about what they might ask. He wasn't sure they were hunting him. He wasn't sure they weren't. So he didn't run.
He left the road. Dropped into the ditch — dry at this time of year, weeds and old wheel-ruts — and lay still. The smell of dry grass and dust filled his nose. A stone dug into his shoulder blade. He didn't shift. Hooves. Harness. The sound of men talking, too far to make out words. One of them laughed. The sound carried. He counted his breaths. Slow. The patrol passed. The dust settled. The road was empty again. His heart was loud in his ears. He'd never been that close to Crown authority. Five riders. Five men who could ask for papers, for a name, for a reason. He had answers for none of them. Not real ones. The journal had said to have a story. He had a letter. He had a direction. He didn't have a story. Not yet.
First Crown patrol. He'd seen them. They hadn't seen him. He lay in the ditch until the sound of hooves was gone. Then he waited. Fifty. Sixty. The road stayed empty. His heart slowed. The journal had been right. Running would have made him memorable. Hiding had made him nothing — a shape in the weeds, a boy who wasn't there. He climbed out. His knees were muddy. His hands were cold. He brushed himself off. The road was still empty. No one had doubled back. No one had seen him. He walked east. The patrol had come from the west. Heading where? He didn't know. He didn't care. He was going the other way. Every step was a step away from the ditch. Away from the cottage. Toward the city.
He could have stayed in the forest. Could have turned back into the trees and lived on snares and stream water until someone found him or he didn't wake up. He hadn't. The road was the choice. Aldmere was the choice. The world was bigger than the cottage. It had patrols and roads and cities. It had people who would ask for his name. Aldric had written *don't tell anyone your real name*. He had a name to give if he had to — the letter had names in it, places. He didn't know if it would be enough. He had a direction. He had the third stone from the left in any Wayfare inn, when he found one.
He walked. The sky stayed grey. The road ran on. His feet hurt. His shoulders ached. He'd been walking for three days. The road was easier than the forest — flat, no roots — but his body was tired. Blisters had formed and broken. He didn't stop. Somewhere ahead, Aldmere. Somewhere ahead, the Broken Compass. A man named Vex who had been waiting fourteen years. He didn't feel like smiling. He didn't try. He just walked.
The next thing that moved on the road might be another patrol. Or a caravan. Or something else. He'd find out when he saw it. The sun moved. His shadow lengthened. He'd learned to walk with hunger and sore feet and the weight of the bag. The journal had said: don't light a fire if you can avoid it. Don't stay in one place. He'd avoid it. He'd keep moving until he had to stop, then move again at first light. The road had given him one gift already — the patrol had passed. It might give him another. A caravan. An inn. A place to ask for the Wayfare and the third stone.
Dusk would come. He'd walk until he couldn't see the ruts, then step off the road. Find a place in the trees or the ditch. No fire. He'd sleep with his bag under his head and the knife in his hand. He'd wake at first light. He'd walk again. Aldric had taught him to plan one step at a time. The next step was putting one foot in front of the other. He had the letter in his pocket and the crystal in his boot and the journal in his bag. He had a direction. That was all he needed. He put his head down and walked.