The village lay in a slow, unhurried rhythm, its cobblestone lanes warmed by the late morning sun. Reed walked at an even pace, the leather of his boots whispering against the stones, his eyes sweeping over shopfronts, open doorways, and the idle gatherings of townsfolk. A few nodded in greeting; others barely spared him a glance, accustomed to the sight of the uniform.
It wasn't the most thrilling duty, but after ten days surrounded by paper and ink, the open air felt almost indulgent. The breeze carried the mingled scents of fresh bread from the baker's, damp earth from the fields, and the faint smoke of hearth fires. Somewhere, a dog barked once, then again, before settling into silence. Reed's patrol took him deeper along the main road, past the market square and toward the quieter outskirts, where the hum of the village softened to a low, steady murmur.
Passing the bakery, Reed caught the door propped open and the warm scent spilling out to the street.
"Officer Reed!" a voice called from inside.
He turned to see Mrs. Gerda—apron dusted with flour, cheeks pink from the heat of the ovens—waving him in.
"Morning, Mrs. Gerda," Reed said, stepping closer. "Smells good in there."
"As it should. You're just in time." She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small loaf, steam still curling from its crust. "Here— take it. Fresh out of the oven."
Reed blinked. "I can't just take—"
"You can and you will," she interrupted, pressing it into his hands with surprising force. "You walk around keeping an eye on the rest of us all day; least I can do is make sure you don't starve while you're at it."
A smile tugged at his mouth. "If you insist. But only if you let me pay next time."
"Next time we'll talk about it," she said with a wink. Then, lowering her voice slightly, "Speaking of keeping an eye out… you hear about that stranger who came in last night?"
Reed shook his head. "No. What about them?"
"Poor soul was half-dead when they brought him in. Covered in blood, barely conscious. They've got him over at the infirmary now. Nobody seems to know where he came from— or what happened."
Reed's brow furrowed. "Who found him?"
"Old Garris from the south road. Said the man just collapsed near the bridge. Anyway, you're the one with the badge, so I'll let you figure out if it's trouble or not." She straightened up, returning to her work. "Now go on, before that bread gets cold."
Reed gave her a nod of thanks, the loaf warm in his hands and the new piece of information turning over in his mind as he continued down the street.
Without wasting another moment, Reed turned on his heel and headed for the infirmary. The easy rhythm of his patrol was gone, replaced by a sharper focus as he cut through the main street. Strangers were rare in this town—rarer still when they arrived under such shocking circumstances.
The building came into view at the far end of the lane, its whitewashed walls catching the sunlight. A few townsfolk lingered near the entrance, speaking in low voices that quieted when they noticed him approaching.
Reed pushed the door open and stepped inside, the muted light inside the infirmary made the place feel cooler, the air heavy with the sharp scent of tinctures and dried herbs. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with jars and bundles of plants hung to dry.
Near one of the treatment tables, Reed spotted a familiar figure. Lieutenant Helena stood with her back to him, speaking in low tones to the physician. Dr. Kell looked grave, his fingers absently smoothing down the front of his apron as he listened.
It wasn't unexpected to find her here; if trouble had so much as brushed the edge of the village, Helena was usually the first to circle it. And in a place this small, every scrap of news traveled faster than wildfire.
With an unhurried pace, Reed crossed the room toward her, the soft creak of the floorboards marking each step. She glanced over her shoulder, her expression sharpening when she saw him.
"Reed," Helena said, cutting her conversation short. Her voice carried that clipped edge Reed had learned not to ignore.
"Good—you're here. We've got a situation, and I'll need you to hear it firsthand."
Dr. Kell shifted his weight, the faint rustle of his apron breaking the quiet. His eyes didn't quite meet Reed's. "The patient's stable… for now. But there's something you ought to see."
Reed glanced toward the curtained-off corner of the infirmary, where a sliver of shadow hinted at the outline of someone lying on the bed. The fabric swayed faintly, stirred by the draft from the open window, yet it felt as though the whole room held its breath.
Helena gave a brief nod toward the partition. "Come."
The two of them crossed the narrow aisle between worktables cluttered with bandages and glass vials. Reed could hear the faint, uneven rhythm of breathing from behind the curtain—too shallow for comfort, and punctuated by a sound that was almost a groan.
Helena reached for the curtain, pausing just long enough to meet his eyes. "Brace yourself."
Reed's eyes followed Helena's nod toward the far bed. The figure lying there was half-covered by a rough wool blanket, skin pale against the linen. At first glance, it was just another injured traveler—until Reed's gaze caught on the bandages.
The man's right arm was wrapped thick from elbow to fingertips, the cloth stained through in uneven blotches. But it was the way the doctor adjusted the covers that made Reed's stomach tighten. For a brief moment, the wrappings slipped, revealing the shape beneath— twisted, unnatural, fingers bent at angles they were never meant to bend.
Reed didn't need to see more to understand. Those wounds weren't the clean, deliberate work of a blade. They were ragged, torn, as though something with too many teeth had tried to tear the hand away entirely.
Helena's voice was low, almost grim. "If I had to guess… I'd say a monster did that. And not a small one."
The quiet hum of the infirmary seemed to dull around them, replaced by a heaviness that pressed in like a warning.