The stranger did not leave the Low Marches.
Not immediately.
Mihail realized it the next morning, when he saw the man again—this time not by chance, but by intent.
He was speaking with the village headman near the storehouse, posture relaxed, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of a sword that had not seen real use. He laughed at something the old man said, head tilted just enough to appear respectful.
Mihail slowed his steps.
Too soon, he thought. You should be gone by now.
In his other life, men like this passed through quietly, leaving behind rumors and questions that only mattered years later. This one lingered. Watched. Adjusted.
History was already compensating.
His father noticed his pause. "You know him?"
"No," Mihail said quickly. Too quickly.
His father grunted. "He asked about you."
Mihail's stomach tightened. "What did you say?"
"That you're my son," the man replied. "That you work hard and keep your mouth shut. Figured that was harmless enough."
It wasn't.
Nothing ever was.
The stranger spotted Mihail then and raised a hand in greeting. "There you are," he called. "I was hoping I'd see you again."
Mihail approached slowly, keeping his face neutral. The man's smile was easy, practiced.
"Name's Petru," the stranger said. "I represent interests farther north."
"I represent my father," Mihail replied. "And his fence."
Petru laughed. "Direct. I like that."
The village headman cleared his throat. "Petru here was just saying the granary fire might not have been an accident."
Mihail inclined his head. "It wasn't."
Petru's eyes sharpened. "You sound confident."
"I smelled oil."
"A detail many missed."
"They weren't looking."
Petru studied him openly now. No pretense. No humility. "Where did you learn to command people like that?"
"I didn't," Mihail said. "They were scared."
"Fear is a kind of command."
Mihail said nothing.
Petru clasped his hands behind his back. "I'll be honest. The road I walk rewards men who notice things early. You noticed me. You noticed the fire. That suggests potential."
"Or trouble," Mihail said.
Petru smiled wider. "Often the same thing."
The headman excused himself awkwardly, sensing weight where he wanted none. Suddenly, they were alone.
Petru lowered his voice. "There's a minor lord in the High Basin who values talent. He's always looking for young men with clear eyes and steady hands."
Mihail's breath slowed.
In his other life, that lord's name would one day be spoken with bitterness. A smiling man. A careful traitor.
"I'm not interested," Mihail said.
Petru tilted his head. "You haven't heard the offer."
"I don't need to."
Silence stretched.
Petru did not seem offended. If anything, he appeared more intrigued. "You refuse quickly."
"I learned early," Mihail replied. "It saves time."
Petru nodded slowly. "So it does. But let me give you advice, free of charge."
Mihail waited.
"People like you," Petru said softly, "either disappear… or rise. And when they rise without permission, they attract attention."
"From wolves," Mihail said.
Petru's smile showed teeth this time. "From shepherds too."
He stepped back, signaling the conversation's end. "I'll be staying another night. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."
Mihail watched him go, pulse steady but cold.
That night, the dream returned.
The road groaned beneath his feet, fissures spreading like veins. The figures stood closer now—but distorted, as if seen through water.
"You were warned," said the monk.
"I refused," Mihail replied.
The woman from the fields shook her head. "Refusal is still movement."
The presence lingered, heavier than before.
"The world notices deviation."
"I won't kneel to it," Mihail said.
"It does not ask."
He woke with his jaw clenched and dawn already pressing against the sky.
Petru left at sunrise.
Mihail watched from the edge of the village as the man mounted his horse. For a moment, he thought the stranger might turn, say something final.
He didn't.
That was worse.
The days that followed were uneasy.
A patrol passed through—unusual this far north. Soldiers bearing no clear banner, only colors that suggested overlapping loyalties. They asked questions politely. Too politely.
Had anyone unusual passed through recently?
Mihail kept his head down.
His father noticed. "You're thinking again."
"Yes."
"About what?"
Mihail hesitated. Then, truth—carefully shaped. "About leaving."
His father studied him for a long moment. "The world is wider than this place."
"I know."
"Just remember," the man said quietly, "roads change people."
Mihail swallowed. "I remember."
That night, he packed nothing.
Not yet.
Leaving now would draw suspicion. Staying too long would do the same. The balance was delicate, and history leaned hard against it.
He walked to the edge of the marsh, where reeds whispered secrets they never kept. The moon reflected faintly in black water.
In his other life, he had crossed this marsh at the head of an army.
Now, he stood alone.
"You see me," he murmured to the dark. "I know."
The road did not answer.
But somewhere far north, a minor lord received a report about a boy in the Low Marches—quiet, observant, dangerous in ways not yet defined.
And the wolves began to listen.