The village came into view just as the sun dipped below the horizon. It looked small and tired, a place held together more by habit than strength. A handful of cottages huddled around a dirt road, their stone walls weathered and roofs patched with whatever could keep out the rain. There were no banners or gates, just a fence that might have kept out wolves once, and maybe still tried.
I stopped at the edge of a field and watched for a while. People moved between buildings, carrying buckets or gathering tools. No one laughed. No one called out. They didn't act like they were expecting trouble, but like they always expected it.
After a few minutes, I stepped off the road and walked in.
No one stopped me. A few looked up, saw the hood, and looked away again.
That was fine.
I'd learned not to make eye contact when I didn't have to. People could feel something was off, even if they didn't understand what. Sometimes it was easier to let them think I was just another sellsword passing through, quiet, armed and probably dangerous, but not their problem unless they made it one.
There was a tavern near the center of the village. It leaned a little to one side and smelled like damp wood and smoke. Inside, the air was warmer, and a few men sat near the fire drinking from chipped mugs. The sound of the door drew a few glances, but no one said anything.
I walked up to the counter and set down a silver stag.
"I need a room," I said. "And a basin of water."
The innkeep looked me over. Older man, broad shoulders, heavy hands. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded.
"Upstairs. First door on the right," he said.
That was it. No welcome, no small talk.
I took the key and went upstairs.
The room was small, with a narrow bed, a single stool, and a table that leaned to one side. A bowl of water sat beside a cracked mirror nailed to the wall.
I took off my cloak, set it aside, and stepped toward the basin.
The water was cool. I splashed some on my face and rubbed my hands, trying to work the road dust from my skin. When I looked up, I was reminded again that there was nothing in the mirror.
No reflection. Just the wall behind me.
I wasn't sure I'd ever get used to it. It wasn't the absence itself, it was what it meant. I didn't need a mirror to know who I was, but sometimes I wanted to see my own eyes, to check if anything human was still in them.
I leaned forward, staring into the empty glass.
"Still here," I whispered, though I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince.
I stayed in the room until the moon was high. The hunger hadn't grown worse, but it was there just beneath the surface. It was always there now, like a second heartbeat I couldn't quiet.
Eventually, I made my way back downstairs.
The tavern had mostly emptied. A few of the men from earlier were still there, speaking in low voices over mugs of something strong. They gave me a glance as I passed but didn't bother to greet me. I didn't look like someone eager for company.
I took a seat near the fire, not too close. Its warmth wasn't painful through my cloak, but I felt it, the sharp edge of it at my skin. A reminder that even this comfort wasn't mine anymore.
The innkeep came over without a word and placed a cup in front of me. I nodded my thanks, though I didn't drink it.
He didn't move right away.
"You passing through?" he asked after a moment.
"Yes."
He scratched his beard, eyeing me again. "North or south?"
I paused. "North."
"Bad time to head that way. Roads are crawling with broken men. Bandits. Some worse."
"I can handle myself."
He nodded slowly, like that told him something useful. Then he leaned a bit closer, voice quieter.
"You're not like the others that pass through here."
My fingers tensed slightly against the table. "No?"
He shook his head. "They talk too much. Laugh too loud. You walk like you're listening for something."
"I am."
He didn't ask what. Instead, he gave a small grunt and straightened up.
"Room's paid through tomorrow if you want it," he said. "But if you plan on staying longer, I'd keep to yourself. Folks here spook easy."
"I'll be gone by first light."
The man gave a short nod and left me alone.
I sat by the fire until it died down, watching the embers shift and crumble. No one else spoke to me. I didn't expect them to. But I listened to everything.
One of the men near the bar mentioned a missing girl. Another talked about a goat found half-drained in the woods behind his farm.
The room grew quiet when they spoke of it. Not afraid, just tired. Like people who had seen too much go wrong to be surprised anymore.
I left the tavern and walked the edge of the village, just as the moon crested over the treetops. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn't feel earned. Like the village was holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong.
I moved through the shadows, past shuttered windows and sleeping animals. I wasn't sure what I was looking for. Maybe nothing. Maybe just a reason to keep moving.
Then I heard it, soft sobbing near the well.
She sat hunched beside it, wrapped in a thin shawl, cradling something small in her lap. She didn't hear me approach. Her eyes were fixed on the bundle. Her shoulders shook, but she made no sound beyond the slow, dry rhythm of grief.
I stepped closer.
"Are you all right?" I asked, my voice low.
She turned quickly, startled, then softened. Not because she recognized me, but because I wasn't shouting, or grabbing, or asking for something she couldn't give.
She didn't answer at first. Then, without looking up, she said, "No."
I sat down a few paces away, just outside the moonlight.
She opened the cloth in her lap to show me the child. A boy, maybe three, pale and still. His lips were blue. She adjusted the bundle gently, like he was sleeping and might wake if she wasn't careful.
"Fever took him," she said. "Nothing we gave helped. My sister died last winter. Wolves. He was all I had left."
I didn't speak. She didn't need comfort. She needed company. So I stayed.
"I'm Lyra," she said after a while.
"Alexander."
She looked at me, eyes rimmed red but steady. "You're not from here."
"No."
"Doesn't matter," she said. "Doesn't seem like anyone stays long anyway."
She rose, lifting the bundle in her arms. "There's a place near the woods. I'll bury him there."
I stood. "Do you want help?"
"No," she said. "But thank you."
I didn't follow her. I should have. Maybe if I had, things would've been different.
Instead, I returned to the tavern and sat by the hearth. The fire was nearly out. The innkeep was gone. Just one other man remained slumped over his drink, breathing heavy.
I didn't sleep. I waited.
Then I heard the scream. It came from the trees. Faint, sharp, and short. Cut off fast. I was moving before I realized it.
Lyra lay on her back, dress torn, the earth beside her torn up from struggle. Her arm was broken. The bundle empty now, was cast to the side. Two men stood over her, one holding a knife, the other fumbling with his belt.
They didn't see me at first. The one with the knife turned when I stepped between them and her.
"Who the fuck-"
I broke his wrist before he could finish. The knife clattered to the ground. His scream turned to a gurgle when I crushed his throat a second later.
The other ran, but I didn't care. I crouched beside Lyra. Her breathing was shallow and panicked.
"Stay still," I said.
She looked up at me, eyes wide. "You- how did you-?"
I heard footsteps returning. Not the man who fled.
Villagers. Woken by the noise.
The villagers arrived in twos and threes, drawn by the scream and the sound of footsteps in the dark. Some carried torches. One had a hoe raised like a weapon. They slowed when they saw the body.
The man I'd killed lay sprawled on the ground, his head twisted too far to one side, throat crushed flat. His arms were bent beneath him, one wrist snapped clean through. Blood pooled under his chin but not much elsewhere. No blade. No signs of a struggle.
Just violence. Fast and brutal.
They froze when they saw it. One man muttered something under his breath, but no one moved closer.
A few steps away, Lyra sat slumped against a tree, cradling her arm. Her face was pale, streaked with blood and dirt, but her eyes were steady.
An older woman dropped to her knees and pulled Lyra close. Another man started wrapping her broken arm with strips torn from his tunic, but no one came near me.
They didn't say anything at first. But I saw it, the unease. The way they looked at the body, then at me, and then back again.
"He was one of ours," someone finally said. I didn't see who.
"Not anymore," Lyra said sharply. "He was trying to-"
She stopped herself. Not out of shame. Out of exhaustion.
"She's telling the truth," I said. "There was another. He ran."
They still didn't move.
I could see it working in their minds. This stranger, this quiet man in a dark cloak, had broken another man like he was made of twigs. No blood on me. No visible weapon.
No one said the word monster.
They didn't need to.
The innkeep arrived a moment later. He didn't speak either, not right away. Just looked at me, then at the corpse, then at Lyra.
"You do that?" he asked me.
I nodded once.
He squatted next to the dead man, examining the crushed throat and shattered wrist. Then he looked up at me again, expression unreadable.
"You strong, then."
"Yes."
He grunted and stood. "Maybe next time, use your hands a little gentler."
A few nervous laughs scattered through the group. Thin ones. No one found it funny. They let me walk away. Not because they trusted me, but because they didn't know what else to do.
I left the village that night, but not far. I found a ridge above the tree line, just close enough to see the glow of torchlight still moving in the dark. I sat there for hours, listening to the night settle again.
I should've gone farther, but something held me close. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was the look in their eyes. Or maybe it was the body I'd left behind, proof that I couldn't save someone without making the world fear me for it.