They left the shrine under a pale afternoon sky.
The old men did not come down the steps to see them off.
That, somehow, suited the place better than farewell would have.
Garran remained near the fire when Sh'thíd tightened the mare's saddle strap one final time, broad shoulders turned half toward the ridge as if watching weather mattered more than departures.
Sereth stood near the broken pillar with his walking stick planted lightly in the stone, saying only:
"Use the armor before you trust it."
Halren had offered less.
"Listen longer than you speak."
Which sounded simple until one considered how often men failed it.
Kaelen gave them each a nod that needed no words and mounted without ceremony.
The shrine fell behind them quickly.
By the time the ridge dropped enough for trees to rise again around the road, the broken arch had disappeared entirely into stone and distance, leaving only sky above the pines and the long eastern track ahead.
The day held steady cold.
Not winter yet, but near enough that damp earth no longer softened under hoof the way it had lower near Greystone. The forest here felt leaner too — taller trunks, less undergrowth, stretches of bare roots exposed where old rains had cut through the road.
Sh'thíd rode quieter than he had the day before.
Not because he had less to ask.
Because the road itself felt newly different now.
The brigandine shifted across his chest with every turn of the saddle, still unfamiliar but already beginning to settle where his shoulders moved naturally. The shield Kaelen had given him rode strapped behind his back, edge visible above one shoulder. The hand axe hung opposite his sword, weight small but constant.
And beneath all of it, the oath remained.
Fainter than morning.
Still there.
Not heat now.
More like the memory of heat held low beneath breath.
Kaelen noticed him adjusting the shield strap again.
"You'll stop noticing the weight by tomorrow."
"I notice all of it."
"You should."
Kaelen's horse stepped cleanly over a root and continued uphill.
"Men who stop noticing what they carry usually start trusting it too much."
That sounded like road advice more than philosophy, which usually meant Kaelen believed it more deeply.
They rode another stretch before Sh'thíd asked:
"How often did you come to that shrine?"
Kaelen took longer than expected to answer.
"Less than I should have. More than most."
"That tells me almost nothing."
"It tells you enough to understand old men dislike unnecessary detail."
A crow crossed above them then, low enough that its shadow slid briefly over the road.
Sh'thíd looked ahead.
The eastern road bent through heavier trees now, the light thinner beneath branches.
"You trust them."
"I do."
"All three?"
Kaelen nodded once.
"With my life."
That answer carried enough certainty that no second question followed.
For a while only hoofbeats filled the forest.
Then Kaelen said, almost idly:
"Black Hollow sits another half day beyond the river crossing if the road stays clear."
"If?"
"The road rarely stays clear."
That proved true sooner than expected.
They heard shouting before they saw anyone.
Not loud enough at first to place clearly — voices somewhere ahead through the trees, rough and overlapping, one deeper than the others, another sharp with anger rather than fear.
Kaelen's horse slowed immediately.
Not alarmed.
Listening.
Sh'thíd did the same.
The road bent left around a stand of pine and opened into a narrow stretch where an old wagon had stopped crooked across the track, one wheel sunk deep into mud near the ditch.
Three men stood beside it.
Farm hands perhaps, or traders rough enough that the difference no longer mattered.
One held a length of rope.
Another had a short cudgel.
The third had both hands locked around something small and struggling near the wagon wheel.
At first Sh'thíd thought a child.
Then it twisted sharply enough that green skin flashed beneath torn brown cloth.
Goblin.
Small — no taller than a young boy, thin almost to sharpness, ears long and angled back, one side of the face marked by a pale scar running from temple to jaw. Dark eyes bright with the kind of panic that had already measured every failed escape before the next one began.
The man holding him shook him hard.
"You steal twice and think I won't break your hands?"
"I only stole once," the goblin snapped back immediately.
The voice was rough, fast, defensive even while half-choked by the grip at his collar.
The cudgel-holder barked a laugh.
"Liar too."
The goblin kicked wildly, catching the wagon wheel instead of anyone useful.
The rope-holder noticed Kaelen and Sh'thíd first.
"Road's blocked," he called. "Wait your turn."
Kaelen did not answer immediately.
He looked once at the goblin, once at the scattered contents near the wagon — spilled apples, one torn grain sack, a dropped knife small enough to belong to no human hand there.
Then he looked sideways at Sh'thíd.
Not speaking.
Just watching.
The choice arriving cleanly and early.
The goblin saw the riders now too.
And whatever calculation flashed behind those sharp eyes changed instantly from panic to desperate opportunity.
"He tried to kill me first!" the goblin shouted.
"That is not helping your case," the man holding him growled.
Sh'thíd had already nudged his mare forward before deciding he had.
The oath beneath his ribs answered faintly.
Not force.
Only presence.
Enough that he felt it when he spoke.
"Let him breathe first."
The three men looked up properly now.
At the brigandine.
The sword.
The shield.
And perhaps something in posture that road men read faster than words.
The cudgel-holder frowned.
"He stole from us."
The goblin immediately added:
"Poorly."
That nearly ruined the moment.
The man holding him tightened his grip again.
"He cut the grain sack and took half our dried fruit."
"One fruit," the goblin protested.
"Several."
"One and a half."
Kaelen finally rode up beside Sh'thíd, still saying nothing.
Still leaving the road open.
Which meant this was still Sh'thíd's moment to decide how a sworn man answered ordinary trouble.
The man with the rope shifted uneasily now, eyeing Kaelen's sword.
"We're not killing him," he said, suddenly defensive before accusation came.
"Just teaching him."
The goblin spat dirt sideways.
"You were discussing fingers."
"Because fingers steal."
Sh'thíd looked down at the goblin properly now.
Thin wrists.
Bruised already.
Hungry enough that even fear had not stopped argument.
Then at the men.
Tired.
Angry.
Not cruel enough for blood perhaps, but close enough if left unchecked.
And Kaelen still did not intervene.
Only watched.
Which told Sh'thíd exactly what lesson this road had chosen first.
He rested one hand lightly on the shield at his back.
And said:
"Then take back what he stole and let him go."
The forest quieted around the words.
Even the horses seemed to wait.
And for the first time since leaving the shrine, Sh'thíd understood clearly:
the road had wasted no time testing whether his oath belonged only to stone and old witnesses —
or whether it had truly come with him.
The man holding the goblin did not let go immediately.
His eyes moved from Sh'thíd to Kaelen and back again, measuring whether either rider intended more trouble than the words suggested.
The cudgel-holder spat into the road.
"He steals, he pays."
The goblin twisted again in the man's grip.
"I'm very poor at paying," he said.
That earned him a sharp shake hard enough to snap his teeth together.
Kaelen's expression did not change, but Sh'thíd noticed the smallest shift in how he sat his horse — still loose, still calm, but ready enough that the three men likely noticed it too.
The rope-holder looked least certain now.
"It's dried fruit," he muttered. "Not worth blood."
"Not blood," the cudgel-holder said. "Hands."
The goblin glared immediately.
"I need those."
That almost sounded offended.
Sh'thíd slid from the saddle before anyone else moved.
Boots met damp earth softly.
The brigandine settled across his shoulders differently on foot — heavier than riding, but stable.
The shield remained strapped behind him. He left it there.
No need yet.
He stepped close enough that the man gripping the goblin had to decide whether to back up or stand firm.
The man chose stubbornness first.
"He stole."
Sh'thíd looked at the spilled fruit near the wagon wheel, then the torn grain sack, then the goblin's narrow wrists already reddening under the grip.
"How much?"
The rope-holder shrugged.
"Three apples. A handful of dried pears. Knife too, maybe."
"I didn't steal the knife," the goblin snapped.
A beat.
Then:
"I considered it."
Even the rope-holder almost smiled despite himself.
The cudgel-holder did not.
"He cut our sack."
"Badly," the goblin said.
"You keep saying things that worsen this," Sh'thíd told him.
The goblin blinked once, then frowned as if genuinely offended by the criticism.
"I'm nervous."
That line nearly landed absurdly enough to break the tension, but the cudgel-holder stepped forward instead.
"He's goblin. Goblins steal."
Kaelen finally spoke then, voice calm enough that the words carried farther than shouting would have.
"And men never do?"
That stopped the moment just enough.
The cudgel-holder looked toward Kaelen and decided, perhaps for the first time, that neither rider looked interested in leaving quickly.
The man holding the goblin exhaled sharply through his nose.
"He's been shadowing the road since morning."
The goblin answered immediately:
"I was assessing opportunity."
"You were hungry."
"That too."
Sh'thíd reached into his own pack before thinking too hard about it and pulled free one of the dried apples from his mother's bundle.
He held it out.
The goblin stared.
The man gripping him stared too.
Then Sh'thíd said:
"You take back what's yours. He eats this. Then everyone leaves with the same number of fingers they woke with."
The rope-holder looked relieved before he tried hiding it.
The cudgel-holder looked annoyed but increasingly aware he had become the only man still invested in punishment.
The one holding the goblin finally loosened his grip.
The goblin dropped instantly, hit the ground, snatched the apple, and moved three paces back before anyone could reconsider mercy.
Fast.
Very fast.
He crouched beside the wagon wheel like a half-starved fox, apple already half gone in three savage bites.
Up close, Sh'thíd saw him clearly now.
Thin even for goblin kind.
Brown travel cloth patched with at least five different scraps.
One boot human-made and too large.
The other clearly goblin leather, split near the toe.
The pale scar across one side of the face made his grin look sharper when he finally spoke around the apple.
"Excellent decision. Yours, not theirs."
The cudgel-holder swore under his breath.
Kaelen nudged his horse slightly forward.
"Take your wagon and move."
This time it was not suggestion.
Something in the tone made all three men hear the final edge beneath it.
The rope-holder climbed up first, muttering.
The others followed after gathering the spilled fruit and retied sack, the cudgel-holder throwing one final glare toward the goblin as though hoping the road would fix what he could not.
Within moments the wagon creaked forward again, wheels groaning through mud until the road cleared.
Silence returned quickly after they left.
The goblin remained crouched, chewing.
Watching both riders with the kind of caution that never fully relaxed even while eating.
Then he stood, swallowed, and gave a shallow bow so crooked it looked half mockery, half habit.
"Skivven Ash-Tooth," he said.
He tapped his own chest with narrow fingers.
"As currently alive thanks to your interruption."
Sh'thíd studied him.
"Do you always steal from wagons badly?"
Skivven's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I steal very well. Hunger makes timing emotional."
That answer came too quickly to be invented.
Kaelen dismounted at last.
Not threatening.
Not trusting either.
"You're far from goblin warrens."
Skivven gave a small shrug.
"Warrens are crowded. Roads lie less."
Then, after one glance at Sh'thíd's gear:
"You're far from whatever makes men wear fresh armor and still look uncertain."
That earned the faintest look from Kaelen — not surprise, just approval that the goblin noticed what mattered.
Sh'thíd folded his arms.
"You were shadowing the road."
Skivven nodded freely now.
"Two riders. Good horses. No banner. One knight pretending not to look like one."
He pointed at Kaelen.
"Interesting."
Then pointed at Sh'thíd.
"One new thing pretending not to know what kind yet."
That line landed uncomfortably close to true.
Kaelen almost smiled.
Almost.
"Black Hollow?" he asked.
Skivven's chewing stopped.
Only for half a second.
But enough.
That was answer enough before words came.
"I dislike Black Hollow."
"Why?" Sh'thíd asked.
Skivven tossed the apple core aside.
"Because places where people whisper after dark usually become places where goblins get blamed first."
That line shifted the road again.
Kaelen looked toward Sh'thíd.
And this time, unlike before, he chose to speak the larger lesson plainly.
"This," he said, "is why I brought you here instead of back to Westmarch."
The forest held quiet around them.
Kaelen rested one hand on the saddle horn.
"You took an oath to stand where things become unclear. But an oath means little if all your answers come from walls."
He looked toward the road east.
"Orders teach discipline. Roads teach meaning."
Skivven blinked between them, now clearly invested despite not understanding all of it.
Kaelen continued:
"If you return too early, they will tell you what kind of man to become."
His gaze settled fully on Sh'thíd.
"I'd rather the world argue first."
That line stayed.
Because it was exactly what the road already felt like.
Uneven.
Unclear.
Alive.
Skivven tilted his head.
"So… you're making him an adventurer?"
The word landed oddly simple after everything else.
Kaelen answered without hesitation.
"I'm giving him the chance to become one."
Skivven grinned then — sharp, scar bending with it.
"Excellent. Adventurers usually survive longer if they listen to goblins before entering bad towns."
That drew Sh'thíd's first true look of interest.
"You know Black Hollow well?"
Skivven's grin faded slightly.
"Enough to dislike the river after dark."
The wind moved through the trees again.
The road east waited.
And standing there with the first companion the road had offered already talking like trouble knew his name, Sh'thíd began to understand:
the oath had given him strength.
But the road was already giving him something harder—
people he had not expected to matter.
For a while after the wagon disappeared, no one moved.
The road lay open again, damp wheel ruts slowly filling where mud slipped back into itself. The forest around them had returned to ordinary sound — branches shifting high overhead, a woodpecker somewhere deeper among the trunks, one unseen bird complaining at nothing visible.
Skivven stood near the ditch, hands tucked into the patched folds of his coat, watching both horses with open suspicion.
Not fear.
Calculation.
As though deciding whether either animal looked clever enough to kick without warning.
Kaelen mounted first.
"We ride."
That was all.
No invitation given.
No refusal either.
Sh'thíd swung back into the saddle and adjusted the shield behind him where it kept nudging awkwardly against one shoulder.
Skivven looked down the eastern road, then west, then back toward them.
"You ride very confidently for men heading toward a town that has started burying questions."
Kaelen settled the reins loosely.
"You're still here."
"I remain undecided."
"You already chose."
That line earned the faintest narrowing of Skivven's sharp eyes.
He looked at Sh'thíd instead.
"Does he always answer like old wood?"
"Mostly."
"Difficult."
"Also mostly."
That, for the first time, drew a quick grin.
Skivven adjusted the oversized human boot on one foot and started walking beside the road as the horses moved.
Not close enough to trust.
Not far enough to vanish.
The forest deepened again around them, light breaking unevenly through pine and ash.
Sh'thíd watched him for a while before asking:
"You travel alone?"
Skivven answered immediately, but without looking up.
"Better than traveling with goblins who think fire solves planning."
"That sounds specific."
"It was specific."
The answer came dry enough that even Kaelen glanced down briefly.
Skivven hopped over an exposed root without losing pace.
"My warren lived south of the river hills three winters ago. Too many mouths. Too few thoughts."
He said it lightly, but not carelessly.
"One of the older hunters decided a grain shed near Harrow Fen looked poorly defended."
Sh'thíd listened.
Skivven scratched once at the scar along his jaw.
"The shed belonged to men who defended things by setting them on fire."
That explained part of the scar without needing full detail.
"No survivors?" Sh'thíd asked.
Skivven shrugged.
"Some."
A beat.
"Enough to argue afterward."
That sounded like all the answer offered for now.
Kaelen said nothing, which meant he approved of letting silence hold where truth had already arrived.
They rode another stretch before Skivven added, quieter now:
"I learned roads feed you if you stop pretending anyone waits for you at the end of them."
That line landed differently than his earlier quick answers.
Less performance.
More fact.
Sh'thíd looked ahead through the trees.
He understood that line more than he wanted to admit.
The road dipped toward lower ground where runoff had carved narrow channels through the earth. The horses picked carefully now, slowing near exposed stone slick with damp moss.
Skivven kept pace anyway, breathing only slightly harder.
"How long to Black Hollow?" Sh'thíd asked.
Skivven spat sideways into the leaves.
"If no one stops you? Before dark."
"And if someone does?"
Skivven looked up.
"Then likely because they don't want strangers reaching town after dark."
That sharpened the road immediately.
Kaelen's horse slowed a fraction.
"What changed there?"
Skivven's grin vanished.
The scar along his jaw made his face look older when he stopped smiling.
"At first?" he said.
"Nothing obvious."
The forest seemed quieter now.
"Fishers stopped going to the river after sunset."
He stepped over another root.
"Then two men disappeared."
"Dead?" Sh'thíd asked.
"No bodies."
Kaelen finally spoke.
"Whispers?"
Skivven nodded.
"Doors barred earlier. Lamps extinguished sooner. One priest arrived. Then another."
That caught Sh'thíd's attention.
"A priest?"
"Two now," Skivven said.
"And when priests arrive quietly, either something is wrong…"
He looked at Kaelen.
"…or something is wrong and they don't want saying so."
Kaelen's expression remained unreadable.
Which meant Skivven had likely guessed correctly.
They emerged briefly from the heavier trees then into a stretch of low clearing where pale grass bent under the wind and the sky opened above them.
Far ahead, just visible between distant trees, a thin silver line cut through the land.
River.
Skivven saw Sh'thíd looking.
"That feeds Black Hollow."
His voice lost humor entirely now.
"And whatever the town fears, it began there."
The horses continued downhill.
The air smelled colder near water.
Sh'thíd rested one hand unconsciously against the shield grip at his back.
The oath beneath his ribs answered faintly again — not warning, only presence, as if recognizing the road had finally begun presenting something worthy of standing for.
Kaelen noticed the motion.
And for the first time since leaving the shrine, his voice softened slightly.
"This is what I meant."
Sh'thíd looked sideways.
Kaelen kept his gaze ahead.
"No drill yard tells you which stranger matters."
A glance toward Skivven.
"No doctrine teaches which thief becomes ally."
Then toward the river beyond.
"And no order teaches meaning before uncertainty arrives."
The words sat quietly between hoofbeats.
Skivven gave a crooked smile without looking at either of them.
"For the record, I am not ally yet."
"No," Kaelen said.
"Not yet."
That almost sounded like certainty waiting.
The trees thickened once more as the road bent toward the river crossing.
And somewhere ahead, where afternoon light had already begun leaning toward evening, Black Hollow waited—
with priests, whispers, and a river no one trusted after dark.
They made camp before sunset.
Kaelen chose the place without discussion — a shallow rise above the river where pine roots held the earth firm and an old hunter's fire ring still sat between three stones blackened by years of use. The road curved lower a short distance away, hidden enough by brush that passing wagons would miss the firelight unless looking for it, but near enough that horses could hear anything approaching.
Below them, through thinning trees, the river showed in pale stretches where the last light caught it.
Not wide.
Not narrow either.
A steady moving ribbon of gray-blue winding east toward Black Hollow.
Skivven stopped at the edge of the clearing and looked around with visible approval.
"This is acceptable."
Kaelen dismounted.
"That from someone who slept under a wagon this morning?"
Skivven lifted both hands slightly.
"A wagon is shelter. This is judgment."
He pointed toward the fire ring.
"Old camp. Good sightlines. Dry ground. Two exits if someone unpleasant arrives."
That answer earned the faintest glance from Kaelen that might have counted as approval if spoken aloud.
The horses were tied beneath a low pine where grass still pushed through the roots. Kaelen worked with the ease of long habit — checking straps, rubbing down necks, loosening bridles enough that neither animal resented the halt.
Sh'thíd gathered deadfall while there was still enough light to see clearly.
The shield came off first and leaned beside his pack. Even set down, it seemed to claim space differently than his old things from Greystone had ever done.
Skivven noticed immediately.
"Still looks too clean."
"It's old."
"Yes," Skivven said, crouching near it. "But old cared for by men who expect tomorrow. That is cleaner than road old."
He tapped one scar near the rim with one narrow finger.
"This one from axe?"
Kaelen glanced over while striking flint.
"River bandit. Poor angle."
"You won?"
"He drowned."
Skivven nodded as though that improved the shield considerably.
The fire took slowly, then properly.
Soon enough a low orange light pushed back the cold gathering between the trees.
By full dark the river had become sound more than sight — steady water over stone, carrying somewhere unseen through the valley below.
Kaelen divided the last of the bread and smoked meat without ceremony.
Skivven accepted his share like a creature expecting it to be revoked if gratitude appeared too quickly.
He ate fast at first, then slower once certain no one intended to take it back.
For a while the fire handled most of the speaking.
Wood cracked.
Night settled.
The first stars appeared between the pines overhead.
At last Sh'thíd looked across the flames.
"You said your warren burned."
Skivven did not answer immediately.
He held the strip of dried meat in both hands, turning it once before speaking.
"Not all at once."
The humor he usually kept near his voice had thinned.
"Goblin warrens burn badly because goblins argue while things are already burning."
Kaelen leaned back against a root, listening without interruption.
Skivven scratched lightly at the pale scar along his jaw.
"We lived under old quarry stone south of Harrow Fen. Dry tunnels. Good hidden exits. Terrible elders."
He gave a short breath that almost became laughter.
"One elder thought stealing chickens built courage. Another thought singing after dark improved morale."
"That sounds terrible," Sh'thíd said.
"It was terrible," Skivven agreed.
"Mostly because both were right often enough to survive criticism."
The fire shifted.
"One winter food went wrong. Traps empty. Streams iced too early. Hunters blamed each other because blame feeds nothing but always arrives first."
He looked toward the dark trees beyond the fire.
"So someone chose grain instead."
"From the shed?" Sh'thíd asked.
Skivven nodded.
"Large farm near Harrow Fen. Human family. Good dogs. Better temper."
The grin did not come now.
"We got in clean. Four of us. Quiet enough until Rekk found lamp oil and decided stealing oil while carrying grain was ambitious."
That sounded like the beginning of disaster before the sentence ended.
"It spilled," Skivven said simply.
"Lantern fell. Grain caught first."
He tapped the scar.
"Then wall."
The river below moved steadily through the dark.
"I ran because smoke teaches quickly."
A pause.
"Two others ran slower."
He said it with no visible performance now.
No invitation for pity.
Just fact made ordinary through repetition.
"And after?" Sh'thíd asked quietly.
Skivven shrugged once.
"After, surviving alone seemed less loud."
That line sat heavily for a moment.
Then Skivven looked toward Kaelen.
"You?"
Kaelen fed one small stick into the fire before answering.
"My first road?"
"No," Skivven said.
"Your first wrong road."
That earned the faintest shift of expression.
Kaelen accepted the question without resistance.
"I was younger than him."
A nod toward Sh'thíd.
"Thought armor meant answers."
"That sounds human," Skivven muttered.
Kaelen almost smiled.
"First year sworn, I rode south with three wardens chasing smugglers through marsh country. We expected thieves."
The fire snapped softly.
"It was children."
That altered the clearing immediately.
Sh'thíd looked up.
Kaelen's gaze stayed on the fire.
"Not smugglers. Refugees moving stolen grain because someone farther north had already taken what was theirs."
He rested forearms loosely on his knees.
"One knight with us still insisted theft was theft."
"And?" Sh'thíd asked.
Kaelen's answer came plain.
"He broke a boy's arm proving law."
The river sounded louder after that.
"What did you do?" Skivven asked.
"I hit him."
That answer came without flourish.
The goblin blinked once, then visibly approved.
Kaelen continued:
"His rank survived it. Mine nearly didn't."
"Worth it?" Skivven asked.
"Yes."
No hesitation at all.
That answer lingered longest.
Sh'thíd sat with it quietly before Kaelen finally looked at him.
"And you?"
The firelight shifted across Sh'thíd's face.
He had not expected the question to turn.
For a moment he watched sparks lift and disappear.
Then answered slowly.
"Greystone isn't a place where stories begin dramatically."
Skivven leaned forward immediately.
"That usually means the best stories hide first."
Sh'thíd gave the faintest breath through his nose.
"When I was younger, Tomas convinced Alan and me we could trap a boar using rope, two fence stakes, and half a loaf of bread."
Skivven's ears lifted instantly.
"This sounds excellent."
"It wasn't."
Kaelen already looked unsurprised somehow.
"We forgot boars run where they want."
Skivven grinned now.
"Someone climbed something."
"Tomas climbed first," Sh'thíd said.
"Alan dropped the rope. I ended up in the ditch."
Kaelen's mouth finally shifted.
"And the boar?"
"Destroyed the fence we were trying not to explain."
That drew actual laughter from Skivven — sharp and brief, but real.
"Now that," the goblin said, "is proper early training."
The warmth of the fire held easier after that.
Long enough that Black Hollow returned naturally when silence opened again.
This time Skivven brought it.
"The town used to be dull."
Kaelen looked toward the river.
"Used to?"
"River trade. Timber rafts. Fish, salt, ferry crossing, arguments about prices. Honest dullness."
Skivven picked a bit of bark from one sleeve.
"Then spring floods shifted part of the east bank."
Sh'thíd listened.
"Washed out old foundations near the lower ferry."
Kaelen's gaze sharpened slightly now.
"What foundations?"
Skivven shrugged.
"Stone older than town. Buried under mud until flood took half the bank."
The fire crackled low.
"First month after, boys started saying lights moved near the river after dark."
"Children say many things," Kaelen said.
"Yes," Skivven agreed.
"Then two fishers vanished."
That made the clearing still again.
"Same stretch?" Kaelen asked.
Skivven nodded.
"Lower east bank. One boat found tied wrong next morning. Oars inside. No blood."
The river below kept moving, indifferent.
"Then priests arrived," Skivven added.
"One from north road first. Another a week later."
"Silver Sun?" Sh'thíd asked.
"No banners," Skivven said.
"But they wore enough clean cloth to offend fishermen."
Kaelen said nothing for several breaths.
Which told Sh'thíd that mattered more than Skivven perhaps knew.
"And townsfolk?" Kaelen asked.
"Doors close early. Ferryman refuses last crossing after dusk. Inn keeps lamps lit all night now."
Skivven looked toward the river once more.
"And nobody goes near lower bank willingly unless paid."
That last line settled like invitation waiting to happen.
A town where fear had already made labor into work worth coin.
Exactly the sort of place a first road might begin.
Kaelen finally leaned back, eyes half on the flames.
"This is why towns matter more than halls."
Sh'thíd looked toward him.
Kaelen's voice stayed low now, almost absorbed by fire.
"Westmarch would hand you doctrine first."
A small gesture toward the river below.
"The road hands you a place where no one cares what title you carry if you cannot help."
Skivven gave immediate agreement.
"Titles burn badly too."
That line almost drew another smile.
The night deepened around them.
The horses settled.
The river moved on unseen below the dark.
And somewhere beyond the trees, beyond one final stretch of road, Black Hollow waited with old stone under floodwater, vanished men, uneasy priests, and the kind of first work that might decide what sort of adventurer Sh'thíd became before anyone ever called him one.
Morning came gray and wet.
Not rain — not fully — but the kind of cold mist that settled low enough to blur distance and leave every branch dripping before the sun had properly risen. The fire had burned down to black coals by the time Kaelen kicked earth over what remained and tightened the last saddle strap without speaking.
Below the rise, the river had disappeared almost entirely into fog.
Only sound remained — steady water moving somewhere beneath the pale morning haze.
Skivven was awake before either horse finished stamping the night from their legs.
He stood near the edge of camp chewing something Sh'thíd did not ask about and staring downhill as though measuring how much town he was willing to tolerate before noon.
"You look unhappy," Sh'thíd said while fastening the shield behind his shoulder again.
"I look prepared," Skivven answered.
"That expression is survival."
Kaelen mounted first.
"That expression is goblin."
Skivven narrowed one eye upward at him.
"Both often overlap."
The road dropped steadily through thinner trees until the river finally appeared again — broad enough here to matter, moving dark beneath the fog with long reeds crowding both banks. Beyond it, Black Hollow emerged slowly rather than all at once.
At first only rooftops.
Low timber buildings darkened by river weather, clustered close where the bank widened enough for a town to claim dry ground.
Then the wharf.
Three narrow docks pushed into the river like old fingers, two empty, one tied with a flat-bottom ferry and a pair of fishing boats that looked as though neither had left shore before dawn.
Then the bell tower.
Not a church tower — smaller, practical, square timber rising above the nearest roofs where river warnings and flood calls likely mattered more than prayer.
The whole town sat beneath mist like something half deciding whether to reveal itself.
No walls.
No gates.
Just wet road becoming muddy street between buildings shaped by years of river wind.
"It always looks like it regrets existing this early," Skivven muttered.
The first people noticed them before they reached the ferry crossing.
A woman carrying a bucket stopped beside the well near the road and watched openly.
Two men near the dock lifted crates more slowly than necessary to keep looking.
A ferryman in a thick wool coat stood near the landing rope, one hand on the rail, expression already suspicious before they were close enough for greeting.
Then he saw Skivven.
And his face hardened immediately.
"No."
The word came before anyone had asked anything.
Skivven spread both hands.
"I'm wounded by the speed."
"No goblins near my ferry."
"I am not on your ferry."
"You're near it."
Kaelen reined in calmly.
"We're crossing?"
The ferryman looked at Kaelen, took in the sword, the old shield marks, the road dust, then looked at Sh'thíd and lingered there slightly longer.
New armor always drew a different kind of eye than old steel.
"You crossing for town?" the ferryman asked.
"We are."
The ferryman jerked his chin toward Skivven.
"Not him."
Skivven sighed heavily, already expecting this.
Sh'thíd looked from ferryman to goblin.
"Why?"
The ferryman barked a humorless laugh.
"Because every missing chicken in this town becomes my problem if goblins walk the bank."
"I don't even like chickens," Skivven muttered.
"You stole from Derren's wagon yesterday," the ferryman snapped.
Skivven blinked once.
"That reached town quickly."
"Road's shorter than you think."
Kaelen remained still in the saddle.
Again — not intervening first.
Again leaving room.
Sh'thíd had already learned enough to recognize when Kaelen chose silence deliberately.
The ferryman folded thick arms across his chest.
"Town's uneasy enough without green trouble."
That line mattered more than the insult.
Sh'thíd stepped down from the mare.
Boots sank slightly into wet mud near the landing boards.
"He came with us."
The ferryman looked at him carefully.
That answer held more weight because it came plain.
Not argued.
Just stated.
Something in Sh'thíd's posture — perhaps the shield, perhaps the road still on him, perhaps simply certainty offered without noise — made the ferryman hesitate before answering.
"You from Westmarch?"
The question came bluntly.
Kaelen answered before Sh'thíd did.
"Passing through."
That was true enough to satisfy no one fully.
The ferryman spat into the river.
Then finally stepped aside.
"One crossing. Goblin stays out of trouble."
Skivven looked offended.
"I am often misunderstood during calm periods."
"You are trouble standing upright," the ferryman muttered.
The ferry took them across in silence except for chain creak and river current striking wood beneath the platform.
The fog made the crossing feel longer than it was.
Halfway across, Sh'thíd noticed something else:
No one else used the river.
No boats moving.
No nets out.
Even the tied fishing boats near the lower dock sat untouched.
That matched last night's talk too well.
The far bank rose into town proper where muddy streets split around a central square built more by habit than design.
Black Hollow up close smelled of wet timber, fish oil, smoke, and river mud worked too long into every board.
The buildings leaned slightly toward one another as though old weather had taught them cooperation.
A narrow inn stood nearest the square, sign swinging lightly above the door:
The Hollow Lantern
Beside it stood another building broader and lower, half storehouse, half public hall, with notices nailed beneath the eaves.
Sh'thíd noticed that immediately.
Sheets of parchment weighted under knife points.
Small contracts.
River schedules.
Missing tools.
Livestock disputes.
And one notice newer than the rest:
Two silver for verified word regarding lower east bank disturbances. Report to town reeve.
Skivven saw where his eyes landed.
"There," he said.
"Town's version of bravery — paying someone else first."
Kaelen dismounted beside the notice board.
"This is where roads begin teaching useful things."
Sh'thíd stepped closer.
The parchment edges fluttered slightly in the damp wind.
There were more notices beneath:
escort wagon south road
lost mule near marsh lane
ferryman seeking repair hands
Practical things.
Nothing grand.
Exactly the kind of work real towns paid for because someone had to.
Kaelen let him read them all before speaking.
"No herald announces adventurers in places like this."
He tapped the board once.
"Work does."
That sentence settled deeper than instruction.
Because this looked far closer to reality than the stories boys in Greystone had told beside Tomas's ovens.
No guild banners.
No heroic contracts.
Just a town writing down the things it feared, lost, or needed.
Skivven leaned against the wall near the board, arms folded.
"Lower east bank notice appeared three days ago."
A pause.
"After the second priest stopped pretending he was visiting casually."
That drew Kaelen's eyes toward the square.
And only then did Sh'thíd notice the white robe near the far side of town.
Not priestly grandeur.
But unmistakable.
A man in pale doctrine cloth speaking quietly with two townsfolk near the steps of the reeve's hall.
No armor.
No visible escort.
Yet somehow still watched by everyone nearby.
Kaelen's expression changed only slightly.
Enough that Sh'thíd caught it.
"Silver Sun?" he asked quietly.
Kaelen nodded once.
"Likely."
Skivven clicked his tongue softly.
"This is why mornings improve slowly here."
The priest looked up then.
And saw them.
His gaze moved first to Kaelen.
Then to Sh'thíd.
Then stopped — briefly — on the shield and brigandine.
Not recognition.
But interest.
Measured.
Intentional.
And for the first time since arriving, Black Hollow no longer felt merely uneasy.
It felt like a place where several people had arrived for the same reason —
and none yet trusted the others to name it aloud.