Glen paused at his doorstep, nostrils flaring. The scent confirmed it—Raven Crow had been here.
He retrieved the key from beneath a stone and unlocked the door.
His belongings lay stacked neatly just inside. Raven Crow hadn't entered; he'd simply left them and vanished.
Efficient, if nothing else.
Glen hauled the parcels inside.
His thoughts turned to the morning's haul—pork that needed preserving. No refrigerators here. Smoking would do.
This world might have ice magic, though. Worth investigating later.
He began sorting kitchen supplies.
Layla couldn't shake the day's terror. Losing her mother would have shattered her. That kind stranger had rewritten fate.
Her mother, Delia, squeezed her hand weakly from the clinic bed.
"You must thank him properly, child. Men like him… they're rare in these times."
"I will, Mother. Tomorrow I'll find Byrek Town. Perhaps my friends could accompany me?"
"So long as they mind their manners."
"They're respectful, I promise."
Layla's mind drifted to Glen—the lean youth barely older than herself. His unnerving calm. The way his plain clothes hung on a frame that felt… other.
What made him different?
Her mother's voice pulled her back.
"We may need to move again."
"'Moving again?'" Layla's heart sank. Years of friendships. Roots finally taking hold. Twice before they'd fled. At fifteen, restarting felt like drowning.
Delia traced a bruise on her daughter's wrist.
"Your father found us. He nearly killed me today. If not for the patrols…"
Layla swallowed her protest. Her mother's wounds were proof enough.
"I understand."
Glen woke at eleven, sunlight stinging his eyes. He shoved open the second-floor window and spotted Old Man Herring cradling a Rottweiler puppy.
"Where'd you find the dog, neighbor? Fine-looking beast!"
The shout startled Herring. He glared up, recognized Glen, and turned away with a grunt.
Glen chuckled, withdrew, and splashed water on his face. A sharp whistle split the air.
A hulking shadow detached itself from the morning mist and loped to Glen's doorstep. The beast tilted its head, eyes glowing faintly.
"Guard the woods beyond town. A girl might come. Protect her—unseen."
The creature snapped to attention—almost saluted—before vanishing toward the forest.
Today's task: modifying the sealed hearth for smoking meat. Glen swung a hammer at the brickwork.
Clang.
The sound beneath the hearthstone rang hollow.
He dropped the hammer, knelt, and tapped the floor.
Thud… thud-thud.
A hidden cavity. The previous owner hadn't mentioned a cellar.
Glen searched for an entrance, sparing his floorboards. Behind a clutter-filled storage closet, he found it—a trapdoor buried beneath a heavy wardrobe.
Rusted chains coiled over the wood like serpents. A warning.
Glen gripped the metal. Wolf-muscle surged. Chains snapped like dry twigs.
The door creaked open, revealing rickety stairs descending into blackness. A stale breath of decay wafted up. Glen lit a kerosene lantern and descended.
Light pierced the gloom. Rats scattered. Mildewed bookshelves lined the walls, their contents gnawed to pulp. A rotting table held shattered glass vials, their contents long evaporated.
"Well, well…" Glen murmured, lantern raised. A secret under my feet.
He pulled a less-damaged book from a shelf. The spine crackled.
"Horgath's… Secondary… Thaumaturgic… Sigils?"
He squinted at the arcane script.
"'Crap! Gibberish!'"
He tossed it back. The table yielded only brittle papers and corroded tools. Disappointing.
Then he saw it—a second door. Oak, studded with iron, etched with strange symbols. A clock-like dial crowned its frame: a single hand poised over five archaic runes. It pointed straight up.
Glen twisted the handle.
Click.
The door groaned inward. Unnoticed, the rune beneath the hand flickered—brightening imperceptibly as the threshold opened.