Graymill looked almost unchanged. The same wooden palisade circled the village, patched here and there where frost had split the logs. The same squat watchtower leaned a little too far east, and the same muddy road sloped down from the north gate into the market square. Only the banners were different now—the white falcon of Highmarsh hung limp in the drizzle, streaked with mud and rain.

  Toby reined in at the gate and felt a faint shiver of deja vu. The air smelled of damp timber, horses, and smoke. Somewhere inside the walls a hammer struck iron in slow rhythm—not the confident clang of a busy smith, but a tired, measured sound, as if even the metal felt the season’s gloom.

  Maxwell lifted a hand to the guardsman on duty. “Ser Maxwell of Highmarsh,” he called. “On errand from Ser Kay, by his father’s seal.”

  The guard blinked rain from his lashes, took one look at the sigil pressed into wax on the rolled letter, and straightened. “Aye, Ser. The Reeve’ll want to see you.” He waved toward the gatehouse. “He’s in the counting room—keeping dry.”

  “Good. We’ll see him now.”

  The gates creaked inward, and the horses’ hooves thudded against the softened earth as they entered.

  For Toby, every step through Graymill felt heavier. He remembered walking through these same streets in the wake of fire, clutching an elven blade in hands too small for the weight. He remembered George’s wagon rattling past this same square, the smell of burned thatch still hanging in the air. And yet, life had gone on.

  Stalls lined the main street, though many were closed against the rain. The few vendors still trading moved with the quick, guarded gestures of people who expected bad news and preferred not to speak of it. It struck him only then that he’d been hoping to see George—and that the stall’s absence felt wrong in a way he didn’t want to name.

  The Reeve’s hall was little more than a longhouse of timber and wattle, its front porch stacked with barrels and bundles of firewood. A clerk with red-rimmed eyes opened the door for them, bowing as Maxwell entered.

  Inside, the air was warm but close, the kind that clung to skin and whispered of long storms. Papers and ledgers cluttered the central table, weighed down by stones to keep them from curling in the damp. Behind them stood Reeve Harn, a thick-shouldered man in his forties with the kind of strength that came from lifting sacks, not swords. His hair was going silver at the temples; his eyes were sharp, though heavy with fatigue.

  “Ser Maxwell,” he said, wiping his hands on his tunic before offering one. “By the Light, I’m glad you’re here. I sent word twice and thought no one was listening.”

  Maxwell clasped his hand firmly. “Your messages reached Highmarsh. Ser Kay sends us to see what truth there is to your trouble.”

  Harn blew out a breath, the relief almost visible. “Truth enough, Ser. Something’s been stalking the southern woods. Two woodcutters gone this fortnight, another man found half-dragged into the underbrush. His wife says he was screaming about a shadow, big as a wagon.”

  Zak scratched his chin. “Could be a bear. Early spring’ll do that—wake one hungry.”

  Harn shook his head. “If it’s a bear, it’s a clever one. Comes only when a man’s alone. Never attacks twice in the same clearing. Doesn’t go for livestock, only folk.”

  Reece frowned. “Any tracks?”

  “None clear. The rain’s seen to that. But the men swear they heard it breathing. Low, rough—like air through a hollow log.”

  Maxwell nodded slowly. “How long since the first?”

  “Late thaw,” Harn said. “I’ve kept the cutters close to the edge since, but we’ll run out of timber soon. Folk are nervous, and I can’t blame ’em.”

  Toby studied the Reeve’s face. The man wasn’t frightened—not exactly. Just worn down by too many nights explaining to too many widows why their husbands hadn’t come home.

  Maxwell leaned against the table, the boards creaking beneath his weight. “No one’s seen it clearly, then?”

  “Only a shadow,” Harn said. “One man swore he saw eyes—red, low to the ground—but he’d been half-drunk on cider when it happened.”

  “Smart enough to hunt men,” Zak muttered, “and smart enough to wait for the one with a jug in his hand.”

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  That drew a small, strained chuckle from the Reeve. “Aye, maybe so. Whatever it is, it’s bad for work and worse for morale. The woodsmen want to pack up and move north, and if they go, the fief goes cold come winter.”

  Maxwell’s eyes flicked briefly to Toby, then back. “You did right to send word. We’ll take a look ourselves come dawn.”

  Harn nodded, grateful. “You’ll have what help I can give. The tavern’s still standing—The Sparrow’s Rest. Not much, but dry and clean. I’ll tell the innkeep to clear his best room.”

  “Appreciated,” Maxwell said. He reached into his cloak and drew a small leather pouch tied with a wax-sealed tag. “From Lawrence, the castellan. For supplies, and for your people’s trouble.”

  The Reeve hesitated, then accepted it with a half-bow. “You’ll have your worth in kind, Ser. I’ll see the horses stabled and foddered, and your men fed. It’s the least Graymill can do.”

  Maxwell offered his hand once more. “And it’s enough.”

  They left the hall to a curtain of rain. The clouds had sunk low over the rooftops, muting the world into shades of grey and brown. Even the smoke from chimneys seemed reluctant to rise.

  As they walked toward the tavern, Toby glanced around, half-expecting to see faces from his past. The cooper’s house was still there, patched and painted, the market cross still leaning slightly as if exhausted by years of barter and gossip. Children darted between doorways, barefoot and loud despite the weather. Graymill lived, stubborn as moss.

  He felt a pang of something like pride—or maybe disbelief. When he’d last left this place, he’d been nobody. Now he wore a sword, rode a horse, bore the mark of Highmarsh. The thought sat strangely in his chest.

  Zak elbowed him lightly. “Cheer up. Looks like the same hole you crawled out of.”

  Toby snorted. “You’re not wrong.”

  Reece squinted through the drizzle toward the tavern ahead—a wide-roofed building with smoke curling from the chimney and an old painted sign of a sheep bundled in cloth. “Smells like stew,” he said hopefully.

  “Don’t get excited yet,” Maxwell warned. “Village stew’s just hot water with ambition.”

  That earned a laugh from Zak and even a smile from Toby. The tension eased a little as they ducked through the tavern door.

  The interior was dim but warm. Firelight painted the low beams gold, and the smell of onions and ale filled the air. A pair of locals nursed mugs near the hearth; they glanced up as the knight and squires entered, murmured something, and quickly looked back down.

  Behind the counter stood the innkeeper, Bren, a round-bellied man with thinning hair and a beard that seemed determined to migrate into his collar. He wiped his hands on his apron and came forward with a cautious smile.

  “Ser Maxwell! I heard you’d be coming through.”

  Maxwell raised an eyebrow. “Word travels fast.”

  “Doesn’t have to, Ser—Harn just left my door.” Bren’s eyes flicked to the squires, taking in their mud-splattered cloaks and weary posture. “You’ll be needing rooms and supper, then?”

  “Aye,” Maxwell said. “And stabling for four horses and a pack mule.”

  “Done,” Bren said briskly. He snapped his fingers, and two boys appeared from the side door—one tall, one barely old enough to lift a saddle. “Get those beasts rubbed down and fed,” he said. “Then bring up a pot of stew and what bread’s left from the noon bake.”

  The boys vanished in a flurry of movement and mud.

  “You’ll take the loft rooms,” Bren continued, turning back to them. “Fire’s good and beds are clean. Might hear the roof creak in the wind, but she’s stood through worse.”

  Maxwell nodded his approval and slid a single silver coin across the counter. “Keep the change for your trouble.”

  Bren blinked, then pocketed it with surprising grace. “You’ll not regret it, Ser. I’ll have ale up straightaway.”

  By the time they reached the loft, the warmth had soaked into their bones. The room held six narrow beds and a single round window streaked with rain. A basin stood near the wall, half-filled with clean water. It wasn’t luxury, but it felt like peace after the long ride.

  Zak flopped onto the nearest bed with a groan. “If that stew’s half as good as it smells, I might start praying again.”

  Reece chuckled softly and began unbuckling his gear. “You’d stop by the first cold spoonful.”

  Toby didn’t join in. He stood by the window, watching the rain bead and slide down the glass. Beyond it, the torch by the gate flickered against the wet dark. He thought of the last time he’d slept beneath this roof—a boy running from the monsters that ruined his life. Now he was back; the road had turned, and he was the one who hunted.

  But every road demanded a cost. He remembered Maxwell’s words before the battle: The Art takes what it gives. Toby whispered them under his breath, feeling the weight of the elven sword at his back. Maxwell came up last, shaking rain from his cloak.

  “Eat, sleep, and be ready by first light,” Maxwell said. “We’ll ride at dawn.”

  Zak raised a hand lazily from the bed. “If that thing’s just a drunk bear, do we get extra pay for disappointment?”

  “You’ll get a kick for it if you’re not up on time,” Maxwell said without looking at him.

  That drew quiet laughter all around, low and weary but genuine. Outside, the rain deepened, drumming against the roof like a restless hand. The sound filled the pauses between their breathing, and for the first time since leaving Highmarsh, Toby felt a strange calm settle in his chest. Tomorrow they would find the shadow in the woods. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would see what he was truly becoming.