The village is smaller than Eric expects.

  It crouches along the road like something trying not to be noticed, half a dozen buildings of stone and timber, a fenced yard for animals, smoke rising thinly from chimneys. There is no square to speak of, just a widening of the road where carts might pass without scraping walls. If not for the inn’s sign, a faded plank with a tankard burned into it, Eric might have walked straight through.

  He pauses outside, fingers brushing the cracked scabbard at his hip.

  Ask polite. Offer work. Don’t beg.

  He pushes the door open.

  Warmth hits him first. Then the smell of stew, old ale, and wet wool. The common room is mostly empty, two farmers nursing mugs near the fire, boots steaming, voices low. Behind the bar stands a broad man with iron-gray hair and arms like knotted rope. He looks up as Eric enters.

  “Yes?” the innkeeper says.

  Eric steps forward, stopping well short of the bar. “Sir. I was wondering if you needed any help around the inn. I can work for a meal. And a place to sleep, if there’s space.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes flick over him, road-dusty cloak, lean frame, old sword. They linger on Eric’s hands, callused and scarred.

  “Help, huh,” the man says. “Everyone can help until there’s work to do.”

  “I helped Harlen in the last town,” Eric says carefully. “Worked for him a few days.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Harlen,” he repeats. “The old one-legged cripple still working at the bent sword?”

  Eric doesn’t answer right away. He shakes his head instead. “Bent nail,” he says. “Not sword. And he’s got both legs, though one’s bad. Walks with a limp.”

  The innkeeper watches him in silence, something unreadable passing across his face. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth lift.

  “And how is my brother?” he asks.

  Eric looks at him again, really looks this time. The set of the jaw. The shape of the eyes. It’s there, subtle, but unmistakable.

  “He’s stubborn,” Eric says. “Works harder than he should. I split firewood for him, reset a fence post, hauled water, cleaned his tools. He showed me how to keep my feet under me when holding a blade.”

  The smile deepens, pride slipping through the gruff exterior.

  “Sounds like him,” the innkeeper says.

  He nods once, decision made. “All right, then. You can stay. Help where I tell you, don’t steal, don’t start trouble and you’ll eat.”

  Eric inclines his head. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Torven,” the innkeeper says. “And if you helped my brother, we won’t have any trouble at all.”

  That earns a sigh of approval.

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  Before Eric can answer, the door creaks open again.

  An old woman shuffles in, hunched and small, her gray hair escaping a ragged headscarf. Her clothes are patched beyond dignity. In one hand she carries a leaky bucket, water sloshing onto the floor; in the other, a stiff-bristled brush worn down to uneven stubs.

  She doesn’t look up. Just sets the bucket down with a wet thunk and starts scrubbing the floor near the door.

  Eric barely spares her a glance, until something pricks at the back of his mind.

  He looks again.

  For a moment, it’s nothing. Just an old cleaning woman doing thankless work. Then he focuses, the way he does when reading faint text or spotting game trails in shadow.

  The air around her… wavers.

  Not much. Just enough that his eyes ache if he stare too long. For a heartbeat, he sees another face overlapping hers, sharper, younger, eyes too bright.

  Mara.

  His breath catches.

  The old woman works her way across the room, slow and methodical. Water spreads in thin sheets as she scrubs. She drifts closer to the bar, closer to Eric.

  “Careful,” the innkeeper mutters. “You’ll soak the whole floor.”

  The woman grunts and shifts position.

  Then, thwack.

  The bucket clips Eric’s shin.

  Pain flares sharp and immediate. Eric sucks in a breath and stumbles half a step.

  “Watch it,” the innkeeper snaps.

  The old woman finally looks up.

  Her eyes meet Eric’s.

  Just for an instant.

  She shakes her head, barely perceptible. A warning, not a denial.

  Eric swallows whatever he was about to say.

  “No harm,” he says quickly. “My fault. I wasn’t watching where I stood.”

  The innkeeper grunts again, mollified. “Mind your space.”

  The woman returns to scrubbing as if nothing happened.

  The innkeeper turns back to Eric. “You can swing an axe and follow directions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You steal?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You bring trouble?”

  Eric hesitates, then answers honestly. “I try not to.”

  That earns a short, humorless laugh.

  “Two meals a day,” the innkeeper says. “Bed upstairs. One of the rooms, empty this time of year. You help in the kitchen, yard, and wherever I point.”

  Eric nods at once. “Thank you.”

  “Name?”

  “Eric.”

  The innkeeper jerks his chin toward the back. “You eat after you haul water and stack wood. Kitchen door’s through there.”

  Eric moves to obey.

  As he passes the old woman, she clears her throat.

  “You,” she rasps. “Strong legs.”

  Eric stops. “Ma’am?”

  She points with the brush. “I could use help. Hearth’s filthy. Arms aren’t what they used to be.”

  Eric looks to Torven.

  Torven shrugs. “If you’re done stacking wood.”

  “I’ll help,” Eric says.

  The old woman nods once and shuffles toward the hearth.

  They work in silence for a few minutes. Eric lifts stones, scrapes soot, hauls ash. The brush works steadily beside him, bristles rasping against stone.

  Finally, without looking at him, the woman speaks, her voice low, sharper than before.

  “You see better than most.”

  Eric freezes, then keeps working. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You do,” she says. “Low illusions. Nothing fancy. Just enough to blur edges and dull attention.”

  She dumps dirty water back into the bucket. “Most folk never notice. You did.”

  Eric risks a glance at her face. For a breath, the overlay slips again, Mara’s eyes glinting through the disguise.

  “I didn’t say anything,” he murmurs.

  “Good,” she says. “Don’t.”

  She straightens with a faint groan. “You should leave town at dawn.”

  Eric’s heart stutters. “Why?”

  “Because you ask questions,” she says simply. “And because you listen.”

  She starts scrubbing again, voice dropping even lower. “You have a gift, Eric. Not magic. Not yet. Sight. Awareness. The sort that gets people noticed.”

  “I don’t want to be noticed,” he whispers.

  She smiles faintly, the illusion softening it into a harmless crease. “No one ever does.”

  She leans closer as if inspecting a soot stain. “Come back to the tree where you slept last night. Same place. Tomorrow evening. If you want to know more.”

  “And if I don’t?” Eric asks.

  “Then you’ll live longer,” she says, not unkindly.

  She straightens and resumes cleaning, her voice returning to a gravelly rasp. “Don’t track ash through my work.”

  Eric finishes hauling the last bucket and steps away, pulse pounding.

  Torven calls from the bar. “Wood’s stacked?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Food’s on.”

  Eric eats in silence, warmth spreading through him with each bite. The room feels safer than the capital ever did, but now he knows that safety is thin as paper.

  As night settles in and he climbs the stairs to his borrowed room, one thought keeps circling his mind.

  I’m not as alone as I thought.

  And that, somehow, feels more dangerous than the road.