Einz descended the slope with steady steps, his gaze fixed on the town below the forest's edge. The old stone walls, patched with fresh timber and strange alloys, seemed to have outgrown themselves too many times to count. Inside, roofs pressed tightly in uneven rows, clay and wood stacked with a precision born of necessity, not tradition. Narrow smoke trails curled upward, dissolving into the gray-blue sky. Compared to the Outer Verse's chaos, it looked… orderly. Almost fragile in its attempt to contain the press of life within.
He tugged at his ragged clothes, the fabric rough against his skin. They had clung to him through years in the Outer Verse, tattered, stained, stretched beyond recognition. Here, against the calm backdrop of the world he'd left behind, they made him stand out all the more. Still, he kept moving.
The gates yawned open without question. A few guards leaned against the posts, spears in hand, their eyes sliding over him with a flicker of awareness before drifting elsewhere. That familiar veil settled around him again—the subtle distortion of space that made attention slip past. A curse, a gift—he no longer cared which.
The streets bustled. Beastkin traders, their spotted fur and striped tails flashing, haggled loudly over dried meat. Dwarves unloaded heavy crates from a cart, arms straining with veins like ropes. Human children darted between them, shrieking with laughter.
For a heartbeat, Einz stopped, silent. In the Outer Verse, every sound had been a predator's cry or the whisper of things he could not name. This noise—ordinary, alive—felt almost unreal.
Yet beneath it, a strangeness gnawed at him. Humans, dwarves, beastkin, even elves, passing shoulder to shoulder without blade or snarl. Races that had once bathed continents in blood now haggled over bread as if their hatred were a faded dream. It should have been comforting. Instead, the peace scraped at him like grit under the skin. Nothing felt more unnatural.
The tavern was easy to find. A wooden sign swung above its door, painted with a mug of frothing ale. The scents of roast meat and smoke spilled into the street.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and chatter. The tavernkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with silver streaks in her hair, gave Einz a long look as he approached. Not hostile, not kind—just weighing his worth.
"You need work?" she asked, wiping her hands on a rag.
Einz inclined his head. "Food. A place to sleep."
She leaned back, arms folding, her eyes tracing his ragged state. A crease formed between her brows. "No freeloaders. You work, you earn. Haul what I say, scrub what I say. End of the day, you get a meal and a spot on the floor. That's it."
"Fine," Einz said.
She studied him a moment longer, then exhaled through her nose. From behind the counter, she pulled a folded bundle—rough-spun trousers and a shirt, worn but clean. "Put these on before my customers lose their appetite. Call it charity."
Einz took the bundle without a word.
The first days passed without fuss. He scrubbed mugs until his hands blistered, hauled casks heavier than some men, swept until the floorboards gleamed.
Customers noticed him in passing. They looked once, maybe twice, then their gazes slid away, as if something more interesting tugged at them. His presence blurred, smudged at the edges. Even when someone barked for ale, they forgot his face the moment the mug hit the table.
By the third day, he'd settled into the rhythm of labor, his silence drawing no attention. Then she appeared.
The tavern's door creaked open, cutting through the din. Einz didn't look up at first, busy stacking trays. But a hush rippled through the nearest tables, and his eyes flicked toward the entrance.
She stepped inside like she belonged, yet the room seemed to bend toward her. A woman—young in appearance, but with a poise that spoke of years beyond her face.
Her hair, vivid red, caught the lantern light like embers stirred to life. Her eyes, sharp and unreadable, swept the room with quiet disinterest. She moved to the counter, her cloak shifting just enough to reveal a stitched emblem he didn't recognize.
She sat. Ordered a drink. Nothing more.
Einz carried on. But as he passed near, she shifted slightly, catching his attention. Her voice, low and clear, cut through the air.
"You don't belong here."
Einz froze for half a breath, then forced himself to keep moving. He set the tray down, wiped his hands on a rag, and glanced her way.
"I've heard that before," he said evenly.
She smiled—just the faintest curl of amusement.
"Hmm."
Silence stretched. Then, almost idly, she flicked her fingers. A mote of light, small as a spark, leapt toward him. But instead of striking true, it veered aside, as if forgetting its target, and vanished into the air.
Her eyes narrowed, though her smile held. "Curious."
Einz shifted the tray under his arm. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
She gave a quiet "hm," leaned back, and let the silence settle.
He walked away without another word.
But as he worked through the evening, her presence lingered. Calm. Unbothered. Watching.
Watching him, unlike the others, whose eyes slipped past as if he weren't there at all.