The fire had burned low, a dim orange glow pushing shadows outward into the night. Ashen sat cross-legged, sharpening the edge of his blade with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Every draw of the whetstone was a small, metallic sigh. Across from him, Maric poked at the embers like he was trying to coax them into confessing a secret.
"You're making that thing sharp enough to split the air," Maric muttered without looking up. "You planning to use it on someone or just scare the forest into letting us pass?"
Ashen didn't smile. "Depends who's in the forest."
The wind stirred, carrying a faint smell — woodsmoke, but not their own. Ashen caught it, his hand pausing mid-stroke.
"You smell that?" he asked.
Maric sniffed, frowned. "Yeah. Doesn't belong to us."
Lysa stirred from her blanket, her hair messy from sleep, eyes half-lidded but sharp enough to catch the tension in the air. "Bandits?" she asked.
"No," Ashen said slowly, "too steady. Whoever's burning that fire… they're not hiding."
"Which means they're either friendly," Maric said, tossing a twig into the embers, "or too damn confident to care."
Ashen rose, sheathing the blade. "Either way, we need to know who we're sharing the woods with."
Lysa pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from her coat. "We?"
"Yes, we," Ashen said, his tone even but with an edge that made her narrow her eyes.
She tied her boots without answering, but the stiffness in her movements said enough. She didn't like being ordered. She never did.
They moved through the trees, their boots muffled by damp soil. The smell grew stronger, curling around them like a hand drawing them closer. Ashen felt something twist in his gut — not fear exactly, but the familiar tightness that came before trouble.
When they reached the source, they saw a small camp, just one man by the fire. He was old, his cloak patched in so many places it was more stitching than cloth. A pot hung over the flames, steam rising into the night.
The old man looked up as they stepped into the light, his face lined but his eyes startlingly alert. "Three strangers," he said, his voice calm, as though he'd been expecting them. "You're far from the road."
"So are you," Ashen replied.
The man smiled faintly. "I'm exactly where I meant to be. Question is, are you?"
Something about the way he spoke — casual, almost playful — made Ashen wary. He'd met enough people who hid knives behind their words.
Maric stepped forward, his usual grin in place. "If you're offering stew, I'm exactly where I meant to be too."
The old man chuckled. "You'll eat, but you'll give me something first. A story."
Lysa crossed her arms. "What if we don't have one?"
"Then you'll go hungry," the man said simply, tending to his pot.
Ashen studied him, the firelight flickering over his face. "What's your story, then?"
The old man stirred the stew. "Mine's been told too many times. I'd rather hear one that's still being written." His gaze lingered on Ashen, like he could see the unspoken parts of him.
It made Ashen uncomfortable — the way some people could look at you and find the parts you hadn't shown anyone. "We're just passing through," Ashen said finally. "No story worth telling."
"Everyone has a story worth telling," the man replied. "Especially those who claim they don't."
Maric sat down anyway, unbothered by the tension. "Well, if it gets me stew, I can tell you about the time I tried to barter with a goat and lost."
That broke the stiffness for a moment. Even Lysa smirked, though she quickly masked it.
The old man listened, stirring his pot, but Ashen felt the weight of his gaze return every so often, like he wasn't really listening to Maric at all. Like he was listening for something else entirely.
When the bowls were finally handed out, the stew was rich and hot, cutting through the chill. Ashen ate, but his mind stayed on the old man's words. A story still being written.
He didn't like how close that felt to the truth — a truth he wasn't ready to share, not here, not with these people. Not yet.
The old man said nothing more, but when they left, Ashen could feel those sharp, knowing eyes on his back until the forest swallowed them again.
And somewhere deep inside, he knew this wouldn't be the last time their paths crossed.