Dawn crept into Grayhaven quietly.
Lanterns dimmed one by one as pale sunlight slid between stone buildings, catching on window glass and tiled roofs. Shopkeepers lifted wooden shutters with sleepy groans. One merchant swept dust from his doorstep while muttering about late customers and early mornings.
A bakery door opened.
Warm air spilled into the street, carrying the scent of fresh bread. A pair of children lingered nearby, pretending not to stare.
At the town gate, two guards leaned against their spears.
One yawned wide enough to show his teeth.
"Nothing happened last night," the other said, rubbing his eyes. "Good," came the reply. "Let's keep it that way."
Bootsteps crossed the square.
Unhurried. Steady.
Altair Vane walked through the waking town.
His coat caught the early light, dark fabric edged faintly with crimson thread. He passed merchants setting up stalls, adventurers nursing hangovers, locals starting another ordinary day.
No one stopped him.
No one followed.
A few eyes lingered longer than necessary—but curiosity faded quickly in the face of routine.
Altair reached the gate.
The guards straightened automatically as he passed between them. One opened his mouth, hesitated, then said nothing.
Beyond the walls, the road stretched eastward—empty, quiet, waiting.
Altair stepped onto it.
Behind him, Grayhaven woke fully.
Ahead of him—
the world waited.
The road curved gently out of Grayhaven, pale under the early light.
Altair walked alone.
Wagon tracks cut shallow grooves into the dirt, some fresh enough that loose soil still clung to their edges. Hoofprints overlapped older marks. A broken reed lay crushed into the road's shoulder, damp with morning dew.
Someone had passed through not long ago.
The air shifted.
Altair slowed—not stopping, just easing his pace until his boots barely disturbed the dust.
His nose caught it first.
Iron.
Stale blood.
Charred wood.
His eyes lifted.
The cart lay ahead.
Or what remained of it.
One wheel rested half-buried near the roadside, the hub split clean through as if struck by something far heavier than it should have endured. The axle lay several paces away, twisted inward, metal warped and folded against itself.
Planks were lodged in the trees.
Not fallen.
Driven.
One board had punched straight through a young sapling and vanished into the trunk behind it, the wood split wide around the impact.
Altair stopped.
The road was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Altair approached without haste.
The crates were gone first.
Not missing—destroyed.
Altair crouched near the wreckage.
The crates were ruined beyond recognition. Boards split unevenly, iron bands torn loose and bent out of shape. Whatever they had carried hadn't been stolen cleanly—if it had been taken at all, it was after the cart was already broken past use.
His eyes dropped to the road.
Blood marked the stone.
Not pooled.
Not smeared.
Dropped.
Dark spots dotted the dirt in uneven spacing, some soaked deep, others barely touching the surface. A few had splashed against the stones at shallow angles, as if the person bleeding had been moving—unsteady, but upright.
Altair followed the pattern with his gaze.
Step. Pause. Step again.
He crouched and pressed two fingers into one of the darker stains.
Dry.
He straightened slowly.
No torn clothing caught on branches. No signs of feeding. No remains scattered nearby.
Just absence.
The trail didn't end here.
It continued.
Altair turned and followed the drops as they thinned, leading away from the cart and toward the trees. Each step carried less blood than the last, the spacing growing longer—controlled, deliberate movement from someone forcing themselves forward.
"…Wrong," he murmured.
His eyes narrowed—not at what was there, but at what wasn't.
No panic marks. No collapse point.
Whoever bled here hadn't fallen.
They had kept going.
Altair stepped after them, boots crunching softly as he entered the treeline—
Then—
movement.
Branches snapped.
Fast. Uncoordinated.
Altair straightened as figures burst from the trees.
Goblins.
Four of them, sprinting hard, limbs flailing with panic rather than intent. Armor hung loose on their frames, straps torn. One clutched half a spear, the broken shaft jagged where it had snapped. Another was smeared with blood that didn't belong to it.
They didn't slow.
Didn't spread out.
Didn't prepare to fight.
They were fleeing.
One looked back mid-run, shrieking something sharp and terrified.
Then they saw him.
The goblin in front skidded sideways, nearly colliding with Altair before scrambling away, eyes wide and unfocused. None raised a weapon. None even snarled.
They ran.
Altair didn't turn his head.
Didn't track them.
Didn't look.
He lifted one hand.
And snapped his fingers.
The sound was soft.
Almost casual.
Crimson lines flashed through the air—thin, precise, silent.
The goblins were cut apart mid-stride.
Bodies slid forward another step before separating, collapsing into the dirt in uneven pieces. Blood followed, splashing fresh across the old stains.
Altair lowered his hand.
His eyes were already back on the wreckage.
"…So, Interesting." he said quietly.
Whatever scared goblins enough to run—
was still ahead.
Altair followed the thinning drops into the forest.
Leaves parted under his boots. Branches bent and snapped quietly as he moved deeper, eyes fixed on the ground ahead. The trail wasn't obvious—but it didn't need to be. A scuffed root here. A leaf pressed flat there. Dark flecks of blood catching briefly on bark before fading again.
The same direction.
The same path.
The goblins had come from here.
So had the blood.
Altair kept walking.
The forest began to thin.
Light leaked in through the branches ahead, pale and even. The trees loosened their grip on the path, undergrowth giving way to packed soil and stone.
Altair slowed.
Then stopped.
The blood ended.
Not gradually.
Not scattered.
It simply wasn't there anymore.
One step farther and the ground was clean—dust undisturbed, stones unmarked, no trace of passage beyond the tree line.
The road stretched ahead.
Ordinary.
Used.
Wagon tracks crossed it. Hoofprints overlapped older marks. Nothing out of place.
Altair turned slowly.
Behind him, the forest told another story.
Broken twigs. Flattened leaves. Faint disturbances that hadn't yet been reclaimed.
Something had come out of the trees.
Crossed the road.
And vanished.
Altair stood there for a long moment.
"… Really Interesting," he murmured.
His gaze lingered on the road—then shifted forward, following the curve it traced through the land.
The trail hadn't ended.
It had been cut.
Altair frowned.
He stepped onto the road.
The stone was warm beneath his boots, dust shifting softly with each step.
Ten paces.
Then ten more.
He stopped.
Not because something moved—
but because something waited.
The air felt thin.
Not heavy.
Not oppressive.
Sharp.
Like standing too close to an unsheathed blade.
Altair's shoulders eased back as his posture straightened. His breathing slowed, deliberate and measured. The faint scent of iron brushed his senses again—not old blood this time.
Fresh.
Intentional.
Blood-thirst.
Restrained. Focused. Directed outward rather than spilling freely.
Someone here knew how to hold it.
Altair turned his head slightly, eyes drifting toward the treeline.
"…So," he murmured, voice low, almost amused, "that's where you're standing."
He stepped off the road.
The forest thinned as he advanced, trees giving way to a stretch of cleared ground. The soil here was packed flat, smoothed by repeated passage. No loose stones. No careless footprints.
Anything that had been there—
had been removed.
Too clean.
Altair slowed.
Then he saw it.
Ivory cloth hung between two posts, unmoving despite the breeze brushing past the trees. Its symbol was stitched in muted ash-gray thread—precise lines, perfect symmetry, a design meant to be recognized rather than admired.
Another banner stood beside it.
Then another.
They didn't block the path.
They marked it.
Altair stopped short of the line they formed.
A wooden signpost stood just beyond, freshly set into the ground. The wood hadn't weathered yet. The letters were carved deep, filled with dark pigment that hadn't faded.
> RESTRICTED AREA
DIVINE ORDER JURISDICTION
UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY PROHIBITED
Altair read it once.
His gaze lingered.
Then he read it again.
"…Divine Order," he said quietly.
The words meant nothing to him.
The space around them did.
There were no guards.
No patrols.
No warning horns or watchtowers.
And yet—
the forest beyond the banners felt aware.
Not watching wildly.
Not reacting.
Simply present.
Altair stepped closer.
Not crossing.
Just enough to see.
Beyond the boundary, the trees were trimmed with purpose. Undergrowth was sparse, paths erased before they could form. The land had been trained to forget footsteps.
Whatever operated here didn't announce itself.
It didn't need to.
Altair stood there for a long moment.
"…Too early."
He straightened, hands slipping into his pockets, posture loosening as if he were backing away from an interesting shop window rather than a restricted zone
Then he exhaled.
Slowly.
"…Not today," he muttered. "Information first, Then decisions."
He took a step back.
Then another.
As he turned away, the banner stirred.
Just once.
A ripple passed through the cloth—subtle, almost polite.
Something shifted behind the trees.
Altair didn't look.
He didn't need to.
The road met his steps again—worn, uneven, alive with ordinary use.
He walked on.
But the ease in his stride was gone.
Lines had been drawn.
And for the first time since returning—
Altair knew exactly where not to step.
To Be Continued....