The road climbed gradually after the crossroads, trading packed dirt for older stone laid when merchants still believed permanence was something you could build. Time had not agreed with them. Cracks split the surface in long, uneven lines, and weeds pushed through wherever rainwater lingered.
Alaric walked at a steady pace, neither cautious nor careless. His boots struck the stone with a muted rhythm that faded quickly behind him. The sounds of the camp—voices, metal, animals—dropped away within minutes, swallowed by trees that pressed closer together the farther he went.
The air changed first.
It grew cooler, damp with the smell of moss and old bark. Not unpleasant, but wrong for a road this close to trade towns. Alaric slowed slightly, eyes scanning the undergrowth on either side. The forest was too still. No birds argued overhead. No insects buzzed near the underbrush.
Whatever had settled here had driven everything else away.
A broken spear lay just off the road, its shaft snapped cleanly in half. The metal head was intact, though dulled by dried blood. Alaric nudged it with his boot, then crouched to examine the marks in the stone nearby.
Claw marks. Deep ones.
He rose without comment and continued.
The road bent sharply to the left a short distance ahead, curving around a ridge of exposed rock. The stone markers that once flanked the bend had been shoved aside, one split down the middle as if struck repeatedly in the same place.
Alaric stepped off the road before the turn and waited.
He did not hide. There was no need.
A low scraping sound carried from beyond the bend, followed by the crunch of stone under weight. Something breathed heavily, each exhale forced and uneven. Not wounded—impatient.
Alaric loosened his shoulders and slid the staff from his back, holding it in his right hand. His left remained empty.
The creature came into view in a rush of movement and displaced air.
It was larger than the reports had suggested. Broad across the chest, its body covered in overlapping plates the color of wet earth. Its forelimbs ended in thick, hooked claws that bit into stone as it moved. Small eyes set deep into its skull fixed on Alaric the moment it saw him.
The creature did not hesitate.
It charged.
Alaric stepped forward instead of back.
At the last moment, he turned, letting the creature's bulk rush past him, and brought the staff down in a sharp, controlled strike against the joint behind its left foreleg. The blow landed with a dull crack. The limb buckled, and the creature crashed sideways into the rock wall, stone fragments spraying outward.
It howled—short, loud, angry.
Alaric moved again before it could recover. He struck twice more, each blow precise, targeting structural weaknesses rather than flesh. Plates fractured. Something beneath gave way.
The creature thrashed, claws tearing gouges into the road, but it never regained its footing. Alaric stepped back as its movements slowed, then ended it with a final downward strike that caved in the base of its skull.
Silence returned.
Alaric wiped the staff clean against the grass and continued around the bend.
Two more shapes stirred farther up the road.
They were not as large as the first, but they moved together, circling rather than charging outright. One darted forward, testing distance. The other flanked wide, claws scraping stone as it repositioned.
Alaric stopped walking.
When the first lunged, he raised his free hand and closed his fingers.
The air compressed.
The creature slammed into the ground mid-leap, pinned as if by a massive unseen weight. Its companion shrieked and rushed in from the side, only to have its charge broken when Alaric brought the staff across its head in a sweeping arc.
The pinned creature struggled for several seconds before Alaric released the pressure and ended it cleanly.
He stood still afterward, listening.
Nothing else moved.
Alaric looked down the road, then back toward the bend he'd come from. "Three," he said quietly.
He resumed walking.
---
The ravine lay ahead, where the road narrowed between steep rock walls and shadows pooled even in daylight. Alaric slowed as he approached, eyes drawn to the ground.
Tracks. Many of them.
Not all the same size.
He followed the ravine carefully, staff held low, steps measured. The air here was heavier, thick with the smell of damp stone and something sharper beneath it. Blood. Old and new.
A shape detached itself from the shadows on the left wall and dropped down in front of him.
This one was larger than the first, its plates thicker, darker. Scars crisscrossed its chest and limbs, evidence of previous fights. It did not charge immediately. It lowered its head and scraped one claw against the stone, testing.
Alaric met its gaze without moving.
The creature struck with sudden speed, jaws snapping shut inches from Alaric's shoulder as he twisted aside. He drove the staff into its ribs, felt resistance, then a crack as internal support failed. The creature staggered but stayed upright, swinging a claw that tore through the air where Alaric's head had been a moment earlier.
Alaric stepped in close.
He struck again, this time higher, then followed with a short, sharp blow to the base of the neck. The creature collapsed forward, its weight shaking the ravine floor.
Alaric stepped back as the body went still.
He exhaled once, slow and controlled, then turned.
The last one came at him from behind.
Alaric did not turn. He shifted his stance and brought the staff back in a reverse grip, driving it straight into the creature's open mouth as it lunged. The impact drove the head backward with enough force to snap bone.
The body crashed to the ground behind him.
Alaric stood alone in the ravine.
He surveyed the area methodically, checking shadows and ledges. Nothing else stirred. Satisfied, he stepped forward and examined the stone walls.
Scratch marks scored the rock where claws had struck repeatedly. Near the back of the ravine, a shallow hollow had been dug into the earth. Bones littered the area—animal and human alike.
A nest.
Alaric destroyed it without ceremony. A brief application of force collapsed the hollow, burying what remained beneath rock and soil. He did not linger.
By the time he turned back toward the crossroads, the sun had begun its descent.
---
The camp was louder when Alaric returned.
Wagons had been repositioned, teams hitched in preparation rather than waiting. The smell of cooking food hung heavier in the air, and tension had given way to restless energy.
Someone spotted him near the tree line.
"He's back!"
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Heads turned. Roland Kestrel stepped forward, hand resting on the pommel of his sword out of habit rather than threat.
"You walk fast," Roland said.
"Road wasn't long," Alaric replied.
Roland studied him, eyes flicking to the staff, the faint stains near the hem of Alaric's cloak. "And?"
"Clear," Alaric said. "Five total. Nest destroyed."
A murmur ran through the group.
"You're certain?" a merchant asked, pushing forward. "They won't come back tonight?"
"They won't come back," Alaric said.
"How can you be sure?" another pressed.
Alaric looked at him. "Because they're dead."
Silence followed.
Roland let out a short breath and nodded. "All right," he said. "You heard him. Get the wagons moving."
Men scrambled to comply. Harnesses were tightened, wheels checked. Relief spread through the camp, cautious but real.
One of the younger mercenaries glanced toward the road. "Just like that," he muttered. "Five of them."
Roland shot him a look. "You got a better idea, you should've shared it earlier."
The mercenary fell silent.
Roland turned back to Alaric. "You sure you don't want an escort the rest of the way?"
Alaric shook his head. "Not necessary."
Roland hesitated, then said, "You undercharged."
Alaric shrugged. "We agreed on passage."
Roland studied him for a moment longer. "People are going to ask who cleared it."
Alaric was already turning away. "Tell them whatever keeps them moving."
He paused after a step. "Just don't send anyone to rebuild the nest."
Roland blinked. "We wouldn't."
"Good."
Alaric left without another word.
Behind him, the wagons began to roll forward, wheels creaking as the caravan finally reclaimed the road.
A merchant leaned toward Roland. "Who was he?"
Roland didn't answer immediately. He watched Alaric's back as the man disappeared down the road ahead, moving with the same steady pace he'd arrived with.
"Someone old," Roland said finally. "And not interested in explaining himself."
The merchant frowned. "Is that good or bad?"
Roland shook his head. "Depends who's asking."
The caravan moved on.
And behind them, the hills returned to silence.