Frostmere Hollow, Northern Velgrath
By dawn, the fog had thinned, but the chill sank deeper.
The road south from Trillstone Way turned jagged, splitting like a cracked bone across frost-hardened fields. They took the lesser branch—unmarked on maps but spoken of in low tavern voices as Frostmere Hollow, where paths twist unnaturally and the trees lean in too close.
Harwin rode point, jaw tight, scanning every knot of shadow. Behind him trailed Aeron, the boy, and Elric the sellaxe. The one-eyed widow had stayed behind at the hearth, muttering of curses and dead stars. No one argued.
The boy broke the silence first. "Why'd the road split like that?"
Harwin didn't turn. "Because the land remembers things men would rather forget."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one worth giving," Aeron said. He looked to the horizon, where trees thinned and the frost took on a peculiar glint—almost blue.
They passed old markers—stone shards sunk sideways in the ground, carved with what might've once been runes, or names, or warnings. Now just ghosts in lichen.
"Elric," Aeron called softly. "You know this way?"
The big man shrugged. "Passed through once. Didn't like it. Felt... listened to."
"We're being followed?"
"No. Watched."
They rode on.
An hour later, they reached the crossroad.
It wasn't marked by signpost or shrine, but by something worse—a crooked tree, gnarled and leafless, hung with old offerings. Dolls made of reed and cloth. Braided hair. A child's cracked wooden horse. All of them half-frozen and swaying in the windless morning.
The tree was split down the middle, blackened as if by lightning, but not burned through. Roots rose from the ground like reaching fingers.
The horse snorted.
Even Harwin hesitated.
"This is no mere marker," Aeron said, dismounting.
"It's called the Beggar's Cross," Elric muttered. "Used to be a hanged-man tree."
"Used to be?"
"They say if you hang a traitor here, the tree won't take him. Spits him back. Only takes the innocent."
Harwin scoffed. "Trees don't know guilt."
"Some do."
Aeron stepped closer. At the base of the tree was a crude wooden box, half-buried in frost. He knelt, brushed snow from the lid. No lock. Just a leather strip keeping it shut.
He undid it.
Inside: a ring of blackened iron, a faded red ribbon, and a folded parchment.
He unrolled the parchment. Three words, written in a jagged hand:
"Still watching. Choose."
A gust of wind passed through the hollow then, and one of the reed dolls snapped free from its string and landed at Aeron's feet.
Harwin had drawn his sword without realizing it.
"This place wants something," he said.
"No," Aeron replied. "It remembers something. Maybe us."
They left the offering untouched and moved on.
By midday, they reached the edge of a broken wall—mossy and long-abandoned. A watchtower once stood here, judging by the circular stone base and rusted bolts still fixed in the foundation. Now it was just rubble.
But the boy spotted it first.
"Look. Tracks."
Aeron crouched.
Bootprints. Not old. Two, maybe three days. Headed south, same direction as them. Heavy, but erratic. Like someone wounded. Or hunted.
"Scouts?" Harwin guessed.
"Or messengers."
They followed the prints until they disappeared into scrub. And then—
A whistle. Low. Short. Repeated twice.
Harwin froze.
"That's a signal," he growled. "Used by border wardens."
Aeron stood slowly. "Or by thieves who learned it from corpses."
From the underbrush, a figure emerged—hands raised, limping.
Not a threat.
Not yet.
A young woman, blood on her leg, wrapped in an old Temple cloak with the symbol burned off.
She collapsed before reaching them.
They carried her to a lean-to near the river bend, where the land sloped down into a gully of stones. Harwin started a fire. Elric watched the ridge.
The woman coughed blood and pointed to her side. Aeron peeled back the cloak.
A knife wound. Clean, but deep. Not dressed.
He met her eyes.
"You were fleeing."
She nodded. "From Lonsvale. They took it."
"Who?"
She rasped the answer, barely audible:
"Velstrom. And one of your blood."
Aeron went cold.
Harwin leaned in. "What does that mean?"
She gripped Aeron's sleeve. "He had your face... and a crown burned into his skin."
Then she passed out.