The chronal stream was never still. It flickered and pulsed around him, an endless ocean of blue fire. Fragments of worlds caught in the flames like fish beneath the surface. He drifted as he always did — not swimming, not walking, but being carried, his body stretched thin as if each limb belonged to a different century. Sounds bled into each other: the clash of swords, the hum of engines, the laughter of children, the screams of the dying. A hundred lives brushed against him in an instant, none his own, all of them reminders that he had no home.
Then came the tug. It was a feeling more intimate than pain, more familiar than rest — that gnawing hook of destiny yanking him out of the stream. His stomach lurched. His chest burned. The azure flames surged high, swallowing his form.
Traveler hit the earth hard, spat from the blue fire like a discarded ember. For a long moment he simply stood, hat brim low, coat tugged by the damp wind, the mist curling around his boots like something alive.
He was tall and lean, his frame filling space without bulk, cut from long travel and longer suffering. The brown leather hat sat low over his brow, its brim casting his eyes in shadow. Only the straight nose and the bush of golden-brown beard shot through with silver marked the face beneath, the beard heavy enough to brush his collarbone. His hair — long, worn, and bound into a single braid — carried the signs of age and hardship, streaks of white catching the dim light.
His weathered duster clung to him like a tattered shroud, frayed edges whispering with every movement. Beneath it, the black vest and trousers were stained and worn, the off-white shirt loose at the collar, open enough to show chest and collarbone — and the faint glimmer of a bronze-gold chain, a heavy watch hanging against his breast.
His boots sank into the soft soil, dust-caked and cracked, spurs dulled but still gleaming like quiet threats. Across his hips, one belt bore the simple silver buckle of a howling wolf, the other carried what mattered most — ammunition, a revolver resting easy in its holster, and a Bowie knife worn smooth with years of use. A satchel leaned heavy against his side, and strapped across his back sat the rough bulk of a double-barrel stagecoach shotgun.
He looked every inch the stranger — a man from a frontier this world had never seen, standing now in front of a tree that seemed as much a wound as a landmark.
The Blightoak loomed before him. Its trunk split the soil like a scar, bark black and veined with slow-oozing resin, glistening red as if the tree bled. Roots clawed outward in every direction, some as thick as houses, others twisting sharp as knives. Mist coiled low around it, dense and wet, shrouding the earth itself. The air stank of rot and heat — wrong for the season, wrong for the land — carrying a pressure that gnawed at his lungs.
The skeletal arms of branches creaked above him, their canopy strangled by perpetual shadow. Where they tangled against the pale sky, even the birds dared not fly. The air hummed faintly, like a compass gone mad, the pull of something old, unfriendly, and aware.
Traveler’s gloved hand brushed the butt of Castor, his revolver, though he hadn’t yet drawn it. He crouched, sinking his fingers into the dank earth. His hazel eyes still glimmered faintly from the azure fire of Chronex as he studied the poisoned tree with a quiet, practiced wariness.
Traveler straightened slowly, his duster whispering against his legs, his beard bristling with the damp air. He looked up and scanned the massive canopy, where the mist was so thick it obscured the branches. He’d seen many cursed places in his time. This one felt older. Hungrier.
“Another road.” He muttered under his breath, voice low and rough. “Another devil waitin’ at the end.”
He slid the shotgun free of its harness with the practiced ease of countless draws, the polished barrels catching the faint shimmer of mist-light. Summoner was no ordinary firearm; its steel hummed with dormant energy, the faint tracery of runes along its stock glowing as Traveler thumbed the trigger guard open.
When it fired, it didn’t bark with buckshot—it roared with sorcery. A jagged bolt of green force erupted from the barrels, tearing into the soil. The ground split, light bleeding upward in twisted rivulets, the cracks spreading like veins until the earth itself seemed to pulse. From the wound crawled something otherworldly.
The beast that emerged was foxlike in shape but unlike any natural kin. Its fur shimmered a muted green, mottled with patches of lichen as if it had grown from the very forest floor. Six slender legs carried it forward, each step a sharp click against stone and root, graceful yet alien. A long, sweeping tail plumed behind it issuing a mist that danced in the air like torchlight refracted through smoke. Its eyes—bright, intelligent, and alive with a subtle eldritch gleam—darted warily around the dark forest.
When he saw Traveler, the creature yipped once, a sound both playful and alert, as if to announce its arrival to the cursed land.
Traveler’s shadow stretched long as he knelt, the tattered hem of his duster brushing the mist-damp ground. He rested one hand on his knee, the other extended to the fox-creature with quiet familiarity.
“Dunno where we are, Faust.” The rough gravel of his voice carried the warmth reserved only for the rarest of things in his life. He stroked the air just above his friend’s fur, as if confirming it was real in this strange place. “Best stay close. I got a feelin’ I’ll be needin’ your help soon enough.”
Faust pressed its head against his hand, tail curling around him like a plume of emerald smoke. Mist from the Blightoak swirled with the haze from Faust’s tail until the two were indistinguishable, save that Faust’s glow carried life where the Blightoak’s stank of corruption.
Traveler rose again, Summoner slung back across his shoulder. The cursed tree loomed, its branches groaning as though in recognition of the arrival of both man and beast.
Faust padded ahead with quick, eager steps, weaving between roots and snapping at drifting motes of mist. Every so often he’d dart in a circle, plume-like tail spilling a shimmer of green haze that hung in the damp air before dissipating. His yips echoed faintly, too bright a sound for a place so steeped in silence.
Traveler followed in no hurry, boots sinking into moss and soft rot, his weight and presence a slow counterpoint to Faust’s restless energy. His duster dragged over wet ferns, the edges darkened with dew. Every step he took was measured, careful—eyes scanning the dark where the trees closed in like the ribs of some great beast.
The Schattwald breathed around them, heavy and damp. Mist clung low, swallowing sound, and with it came the uncanny sense that the forest watched. A twig snapped where neither man nor fox had stepped. The moss shivered where no wind stirred. Traveler paused, head tilting slightly beneath the brim of his hat, one hand brushing the stock of Summoner.
Faust froze mid-step, ears swiveling, nose twitching. He gave a soft whine, then bounded back to Traveler’s side, tail brushing the man’s leg as though reminding him he wasn’t alone. Traveler lowered a hand briefly to rest it on Faust’s fur—an anchor for them both.
The air grew heavier still, the silence thicker, as if something—or several somethings—prowled the misty shadows just beyond sight.
The forest shifted. What had been the still, damp silence of the Schattwald grew sharp with sound—branches cracking not far behind, claws dragging against bark, the low growl of something too large to be wolf, too wild to be man.
Faust froze first, ears pricking, his plume-tail stiffening as mist curled tighter around them. He gave a sharp yip, more warning than bark, then darted back to Traveler’s boots, circling once before bounding ahead, urging him to move.
Traveler’s hand slid beneath his duster, fingers curling around the worn grip of his revolver, though he did not draw it yet. His stride lengthened, boots sinking into moss and sucking mud, the old duster flaring as he moved faster. “Go on, then,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and steady even as his pulse quickened. “I hear you comin’.”
The shadows themselves seemed to follow, flitting from trunk to trunk, the faintest shimmer of amber eyes breaking through the mist. Then came the first flash—fur bristling black under the moonlight, fangs catching silver-blue as a shape leapt between branches. The mist thickened with the musk of predators, hot and iron-heavy.
Faust bolted ahead, weaving in and out of roots, pausing only to snap at the darkness behind them with a defiant yip. Traveler pushed his pace, breath steady, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the truth—he was being hunted.
A chorus of snarls rolled through the trees, deep and hungry. The forest floor quaked with the pounding of clawed feet in pursuit. The pack had chosen its prey, and the stranger in the duster and his fox-creature were to be their meal.
Traveler glanced once over his shoulder and caught the gleam of teeth, the shimmer of fur, the silhouette of a hulking figure sprinting low on all fours. And then another. And another. The shapes of the hunters closed in, moving with the rhythm of the wild and the instinct of practiced killers.
Moonlight lanced through the canopy, glinting off bared fangs and eyes like lanterns in the mist. The wolves of Blackmaw were on the hunt.
Traveler spun, boots grinding into the wet earth, revolver barking blue fire into the trees. The arcane shots lit the mist in violent bursts—roots glowing, bark seared—but the pack pressed on, shapes weaving through the light, unfazed.
“Hell’s teeth,” Traveler spat, breath curling the thick mist. “You want to play, big beasties? Let’s see how ya like Mahira.”
He swung Summoner from his back in one fluid motion, the old duster sweeping wide. The shotgun thrummed with a faint glow as runes along its barrel woke, green light crawling over the metal. Traveler leveled it at the darkness, charging a shot that could rip earth asunder.
But before the trigger could fall, the shadows themselves lunged. A colossal muzzle, bristling with wiry black fur and jagged ivory teeth, clamped down on Summoner. Metal shrieked against fang, an unholy grind that sent sparks skittering across the forest floor.
Traveler staggered, boots carving trenches in the moss as the sheer weight of the beast forced him back. He felt Summoner’s frame groan under the pressure, the etched runes flaring, cracking, faltering. The enchanted steel he trusted for years suddenly seemed fragile in the maw of this predator.
The mist parted, revealing the hulking figure looming above him. Eight feet of sinew and hunger, fur matted with old blood, claws sunk deep into the earth. Amber eyes glowing with cruel intelligence fixed on Traveler.
Vargan. The Alpha of Blackmaw.
Every inch of him radiated dominance, from the deliberate crush of Traveler’s weapon to the low rumble that vibrated through the air, a growl deep enough to shake marrow. The pack circled wider now, their snarls subdued, waiting. The forest fell silent, as if the trees themselves bowed to the presence of the pack leader.
The Alpha’s breath steamed against Traveler’s face, hot, rancid, and absolute. Traveler clenched his jaw, teeth grinding as he stared up into those burning eyes. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, but the fury there was real, a storm pressing against the weight of dread. Faust crouched low at his heel, plume-tail bristling, ears flat, a sharp defiant yip breaking the silence.
The forest erupted in fire.
With a shriek that was both fox-cry and something older and more primal, Faust leapt into the air. His green lichen-colored fur suddenly blazed into ethereal flame, tails and paws streaking like falling stars. He collided with the chest of a charging wolfbeast, and the impact thundered like a cannon. The larger creature’s ribs cracked, flesh and fur igniting as the fox detonated into a burst of flame that sent it crashing into another packmate.
The air rippled with heat as Faust spun in the chaos, his small body glowing, sparks trailing from his plume of a tail. A second explosion tore across the clearing, the shockwave hurling one of the wolves sideways into a tree with a wet crunch. The flames flared again—this time bursting across Vargan’s face. The Alpha reeled, his black fur singed, the acrid stench of scorched hair and charred flesh rolling through the Schattwald mist. His growl turned into a deafening roar, fury shaking the trees.
Traveler didn’t hesitate. Slipping in the moss and decaying leaves, he leapt to his feet. Summoner hung broken against his back. Faust landed against him with a final spark, claws clutching the duster as the fox clambered onto his shoulders, chest heaving, eyes alight with wild fire.
“Good boy,” Traveler rasped, though his voice was swallowed by the din of snarls and snapping jaws.
He ran. The sound of his boots was ragged, each step pounding against the sodden earth, his breath sharp and shallow under the brim of his hat. He didn’t dare look back until instinct demanded it—then, mid-stride, he twisted, drew Castor, and fired. The revolver barked blue arcane flame into the shadows, bolts lancing back toward the glowing eyes of the remaining pack.
The beasts skidded, snarling, but they did not falter. Their hunger was too great, their Alpha’s rage thicker than the mist that surrounded them. They came on, shapes flitting between tree and fog, claws sparking against roots as the hunt pressed deeper into the night.
The Schattwald closed in around them—branches clutching at his hat, shadows shifting like things alive. And in the back of Traveler’s mind, a single thought clawed its way to the surface: this wasn’t a fight to win, only one to survive.
The next time he turned to fire, he saw thick roots lifting from the ground, wrapping themselves around the Alpha’s legs, crawling up his chest, forcing him to all fours like the animal he was. Traveler’s steps faltered.
“What the devil?” He muttered, as the pack slowed and surrounded their trapped Alpha, howling in rage. They fell in the vines, tearing at them with tooth and claw.
He felt a hand on his arm, feather-light, and he spun, the worn duster flaring in the mist. The woman was already disappearing behind a tree, but she motioned quickly for him to follow.
Traveler moved through the Schattwald like a shadow in pursuit of a ghost. The woman was always just ahead, her cloak a flash of green-brown vanishing between the black-barked trees, her steps soundless against the sodden earth. Faust clung to his shoulder at first, tail twitching, but soon leapt down to dart ahead—yipping playfully, as though the fox already trusted her more than Traveler dared.
The forest itself seemed to shift with her presence. Branches that should have clawed at his duster bent aside when her hand brushed the air. Roots that should have caught his boots twisted deeper into the soil, leaving the path bare for her steps. Traveler’s breath stayed low, his eyes never leaving her. He had seen mages, witches, and wanderers in his long crossings through the chronal stream, but none who walked with the woods like this—none who bent it to their will so gently, so naturally.
Still, the tension lingered. Behind them, faint and fading, the howls of the Blackmaw echoed through the mist, guttural and frustrated as the pack tore at the roots that had bound their Alpha. Every sound from behind pressed urgency into Traveler’s stride, though the woman seemed unhurried, almost serene, as if she knew the forest itself would keep the beasts at bay.
At last, the oppressive tangle of branches broke. They stepped into a clearing where the mist thinned and the light of the moon filtered faintly through the canopy. There she stopped—and for the first time Traveler saw her fully.
She stood lean and strong, clothed in shades of deep green and brown that wove her into the landscape. Long dark hair fell loose down her back, her pale face solemn yet steady. Her eyes, dark and unflinching, carried the quiet weight of someone who had survived hardship and come out tempered, not broken. A woolen cloak hung from her shoulders, cinched by a leather belt laden with pouches, scroll cases, and flasks. In one hand she held a polished staff, worn smooth from years of use. A heavy pack rested against her back, the mark of a nomad who had long since learned self-reliance.
Perched atop that pack was a flash of pale—an ermine, white as snow, coiled in watchful repose. Its black eyes darted curiously to Traveler and Faust, body taut and alert but not afraid. The creature’s presence softened her stern silhouette, adding a note of quiet wildness and companionship.
In the clearing behind her was a cottage—small, lopsided, and weatherworn, its boards patched with moss and age. The slanted roof was heavy a patchwork of shingles and thatch, giving the cottage a distinctly derelict appearance. And yet, it seemed cozy and welcoming at the same time.
Herbs hung drying from the eaves, whispering in the faint breeze. By the front door sat woven baskets and clay jugs, rough-hewn and practical. It was no fortress, no tower of stone and might; it was something older and more intimate—a life built in rhythm with the wild.
The clearing was still, the air heavy with isolation, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the soft sigh of wind through branches. Traveler felt it in his bones—this was not merely a home. This was a sanctuary.
Traveler shifted his weight forward, boots grinding against the moss-soft earth. One hand brushed the brim of his hat lower, shadowing his eyes as he cleared his throat.
“Look,” his voice was the grinding of stones, “I don’t know who you are, but I—”
The woman’s voice cut through his words, quiet but matter of fact.
“My name is Lena. This is my home.” She gestured with her staff and then shrugged off her heavy pack. “They will not follow you here. You yourself wouldn’t have been able to find this place without knowing the paths through the mist. You would have wandered through this very clearing and found it empty and silent.”
Her level voice held a hint of pride, and it struck him that he may be the first person she had ever brought here.
Traveler blinked, pausing long enough for Faust to tilt his head with a curious yip. He let a half-laugh rumble out.
“Right, well… Lena. I’m mighty grateful for the hand back there, but I—”
Again, she interrupted, turning her dark gaze on him like an arrow nocked and drawn.
“If you leave now, you won’t make it far. The pack will circle again. It’s smarter to rest for the night.”
She turned then and picked up the pack, stepping into her moss-covered cottage as though the matter were already settled.
Traveler stood there a moment, jaw tight, then let out a sharp exhale that was half disbelief, half amusement.
“Hell’s teeth,” he muttered under his breath.
Faust, tail plumed high and proud, gave a yip that sounded suspiciously like approval. Traveler shrugged at the fox.
“Don’t look at me like that. Ain’t the first time a woman’s ordered me about.” He adjusted his duster, tugged the shotgun’s strap higher on his shoulder, and followed Lena inside—more from obedience than curiosity, though he’d never admit as much.
The scent of herbs, woodsmoke, and something faintly sweet greeted him as he crossed the threshold, an odd comfort in contrast to the cold menace and putrid rot of the Schattwald beyond.
Whatever else she was, this woman was unique indeed.
Time was always something of a conundrum for him. Not a river running swift and steady, not a clock’s gentle tick, but a dull weight carried in his bones. It pressed deep into the marrow, endless and unyielding, each hour less a measure than an ache. He knew it stretched on without end, but some part of him still whispered that he was squandering what moments he had.
Yet here, here with her, it was different. The days blurred, folding over themselves until he almost forgot the edges of the pain that normally shaped them. The quiet of her home, the stillness of the clearing, the strange peace that clung to her presence; these things dulled the ache. He found himself marking time not by days or nights but by the rhythm of her steps, the hum of her voice, the rustle of the ermine across her shoulders.
Even Faust, restless as wildfire most days, settled into the place. This was the longest the little beast had ever held in the material world without being pulled back to the ether. With Summoner’s frame cracked and its runes damaged, there was no rushing his return.
Traveler could only be glad for it. Watching Faust nose through Lena’s herb baskets or chase the white ermine in harmless circles gave him something he hadn’t expected in years, quiet contentment. If he was honest with himself, he was thankful for the chance to let the critter have something close to a home.
He sat at the edge of the table, watching her move through the small space with quiet efficiency. Lena spoke as she worked, her voice low and steady, describing which roots she’d need, what salves she was short on, and the village she traded with to replenish her stock.
Traveler nodded at the right times, even offered a grunt of acknowledgement when she glanced back at him, but his mind wasn’t in the room.
At last she paused, cloak already fastened, staff in hand. “If you’d care for the walk, the company would be welcome,” she offered, her tone polite but not insistent.
He forced a thin smile, one that sat awkward on his face. “Think I’ll sit this one out. Still need a bit of rest.”
Her dark eyes lingered on him longer than was comfortable, then softened into something almost like resignation. “As you will. Then don’t wander from the cottage while I’m gone.” She shouldered her pack, Onyx shifting lazily atop it, and with a faint nod she was gone.
Traveler stayed seated a moment longer, staring at the space she’d vacated. His hand rested against the table, tapping once, twice, then stilling. His mind wasn’t with Lena, or her words, or even with the cottage she’d left in his care.
It was with the tree. The cursed one he’d first laid eyes on when the Chronex spat him into this world. The Blightoak.
Its image gnawed at him, pressing from the edges of his thoughts. He needed to understand it. Needed to know what it meant that this was where he’d been drawn, and why the damned thing would not leave him be.
He felt he’d waited long enough.
Impatience finally broke the stillness. Traveler rose from the chair with a stiffness in his shoulders. He twirled Castor once on his finger before sliding home into its holster with an easy snap. He flicked the brim of his hat forward and whistled low. Faust bounded to his side, plume-tail swaying, bright eyes locked on him as if sensing the weight in the moment.
The walk back to the Blightoak stretched long and silent. The Schattwald lay strangely still. No eyes gleamed in the shadows, no movement stirred the mossy undergrowth. Not even the twisted roots seemed eager to mock him with their shapes. Only the fog lingered, clinging thick between the trunks, until at last the tree revealed itself again—taller, darker, heavier than the rest.
The Blightoak loomed. Standing before it was enough to make the air feel thinner, as though the tree itself pulled at the breath in his chest.
Traveler cleared a space among the roots and lowered himself to the ground, settling cross-legged before the colossal trunk. He closed his eyes, exhaling slow, steady, until his pulse evened. He pushed thought aside, loosening the grip of stray worries, and let the silence grow heavy. His purpose was simple: to attune, to draw closer to whatever power lived in this place, to understand what it was that gnawed at the edge of his mind since the moment he arrived.
Faust did not rest. The fox padded circles around him, eyes never leaving the shifting mist. His loyalty held him close, but his body betrayed the unease Traveler refused to voice.
He had faced down darkness before. Varuka’s venomous tricks, the Ol’Kai’s hunger, wandering souls too far gone to recognize themselves, and the endless line of men who thought greed would make them untouchable. But what bled through this tree felt older than them all; older, and more deliberate.
The air shifted. Faust was the first to feel it. A sudden gust kicked the rot from the ground, scattering brittle fragments into the mist. It came without warning, without reason.
From the deadfall rose a flame, pale and colorless, which wrapped itself into a shape that pulled free of the soil; a corpse long forgotten with bones knitted by fire. The Geist crawled forward with unnatural grace, joints bending wrong, its weight light as shadow as it swept across the ground. Its screech tore at the stillness, a ragged, piercing sound that rattled through the clearing.
Faust reacted. The fox leapt, fur blazing with sudden fire, releasing sharp bursts of heat that ringed his master in a protective arc. Barking with feral urgency, he flung flame after flame at the advancing Geist, the air sharp with the smell of scorched leaves.
The fight, the sound, the danger; none of it pulled Traveler from where he sat. His breathing was even, his pulse steady. His mind was locked too deep, tangled in the roots beneath the Blightoak, wrapped in whatever malice coiled unseen below. The Geist lunged through flame, Faust answered with another burst, and still Traveler remained unmoved.
Traveler’s mind had slipped past the veil, drawn deeper than he had intended. The astral opened around him, a vast blackness pressing in on all sides. Within it, he felt a presence; ancient, venomous, and steeped in a rage that churned like molten stone beneath the land. Its gaze fell upon him, not with eyes but with weight, and terror slid into his chest like a cold hand. For the first time in a long while, he felt the edge of being overwhelmed, of being swallowed whole.
Then came the sound; a sharp, pained yelp at the back of his thoughts. Faust.
Traveler’s body moved before his spirit could hesitate. He snapped upright, boots grinding against root and soil, Castor already in his grip. His vision swam as reality reasserted itself, shapes pulling into focus through the fog.
There was Faust, claws digging into the earth, twisting and snapping under the crushing weight of the Geist. Its skeletal maw tore at his hide, pale fire burning across its jaw as it pressed him down.
“The hell with you!” Traveler growled, rough and raw.
He drew deep, deeper than he had in years, dragging every drop of will, every ounce of power into his hand. Castor’s runes flared to life, light building until the pistol hummed with violent energy. The shot tore from the barrel with a crack like thunder, the air itself shuddering around it.
The blast struck true. A surge of primal force, wrapped in all the desperate ferocity of a man refusing to lose his only companion.
The Geist was no more.
Faust scrambled free, whimpering but alive, pressed close to Traveler’s boot. The fox’s fur flickered weakly with residual fire
The fox was cradled tight against his chest, Traveler’s arms locked around the small body as though sheer will could keep the spark of life inside it. Each step felt unsteady, the fatigue in his limbs growing heavier with every pace. He knew he had overreached, pulled too deep from the well of his magic, and his body screamed for reprieve. But there was no room for regret. Not when Faust whimpered softly against him, breath warm but shallow.
Panic bit at the edges of his thoughts, looping him in circles. The forest blurred, one tree blending into another, and the mist seemed intent on swallowing the path whole. The cottage had to be close. It had to be.
“Hell’s Teeth!” He spat.
Through the veil of fog, her figure began to take shape. At first a shadow, then a woman’s form, moving with the same steady grace he’d seen before. Relief hit him sharp enough to make his knees threaten to buckle, but it was chased by another feeling, shame, thick and sour in his throat. He had left against her counsel. He had thought himself ready to wrestle with this cursed place on his own.
As she drew nearer, his heart steadied. There was no scorn in her eyes, no triumph at being proven right. The look fixed on her face was something quieter, sharper; simple knowing. She had expected this. She had lived long enough with the forest to know how it punished pride.
Traveler lost count of the nights. Sleep came shallow and broken, every sound in the dark stirring him awake, every labored breath from Faust digging deeper into his chest. The fox grew weaker, and with it Traveler’s strength waned. When Lena finally said the words, that they had to travel, that the medicine could not be found here, he did not argue. He had no fight left in him.
The world blurred into motion after that. He followed her steps, did what she told him, carried what was needed, never straying far. All that mattered was the small body that clung to life against his chest. If obedience was the cost of Faust’s survival, Traveler paid it without question.
Crow’s Hollow stretched above them beneath the heavy canopy, a graveyard swallowed by ancient trees. Stone markers leaned in crooked rows, the silence thick but not empty. Traveler almost didn’t notice the man at first.
He stood among the graves like a sentinel carved of shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, every line of his form was deliberate. A wide-brimmed black hat shaded scarred features, the long purple coat settling heavy across him, its stitching catching what little light filtered through the branches. The red scarf at his throat marked him, the skull-shaped buckle at his waist daring anyone to look too long. His expression was fixed, hard, but alive with an alertness that made him seem less like a mourner and more like the graveyard’s warden.
On another day, Traveler would have matched that confidence with his own. It was in his nature to challenge men who carried themselves with such certainty. But not here. Not now. His strength was already spoken for.
So he said nothing, only watched as Lena knelt, her hands working with care and skill as she ground herbs and pressed the medicine to Faust’s wounds. Traveler held his breath through every moment, as though letting it slip would steal time away from the creature in her hands.
When Faust’s breathing steadied, thin but sure, the release hit him all at once. Relief broke him open, and his eyes burned as tears slipped down without permission. He had no space left for pride.
He looked at Lena, words caught in his throat. There was too much to thank her for and too little strength to speak it.
“Come on.” He cleared his throat, the gravel returning to his voice. “I hope this fairy tree village has a bar. I need a damn drink.”
