Eldhollow was a village that smelled like rot and fear.
Its crooked houses leaned into each other as if hiding from the woods beyond. Briar's boots touched the cobbled road, and shutters snapped shut. Children disappeared behind curtains. Dogs whimpered, tails tucked. No one welcomed them.
"They sense what you are," Corva murmured.
"What I am?" Briar asked. "Or what I was?"
The crone didn't answer.
As they passed the square, a man stepped forward—a small, hunched figure wrapped in a threadbare coat. He held a torch in shaking hands and a pouch of salt dangling from his wrist.
"We paid your blood price," he said. "Leave us in peace."
Briar didn't understand, but her body responded. Her heartbeat thudded with something ancient. Her vision sharpened. She stepped forward. The torch in the man's hand dimmed, then snuffed entirely.
"I don't want trouble," she said, her voice barely her own.
Corva moved between them. "She's not here for vengeance. But you are wise to be afraid."
They left Eldhollow in silence. Behind them, doors remained bolted.
"I burned something here," Briar whispered.
"Yes," Corva said. "And you died for it."