The caravan moved cautiously at first.
Wheels creaked as wagons rolled over stone that hadn't seen traffic in days. Drivers kept tight grips on reins, eyes flicking constantly toward the trees on either side of the road. Mercenaries spread out along the flanks, shields raised more out of habit than necessity.
Nothing came.
By the time the moon rose above the treeline, the tension had eased into something closer to embarrassment. Conversations resumed in low tones. Someone laughed too loudly. A fire was lit when the caravan stopped to rest, its glow pushing back the darkness in a wide, reassuring circle.
Alaric did not join them.
He stopped a short distance ahead of the wagons, where the road widened slightly before narrowing again toward the inner towns. He leaned the staff against a stone marker and stood with his back to the camp, watching the forest the way a surveyor might watch a stretch of land—without expectation.
Roland Kestrel approached quietly.
"You could've kept walking," Roland said, stopping a few paces away. "No one would've blamed you."
Alaric glanced at him. "The road's clear. I said I'd clear it."
Roland snorted softly. "That wasn't part of the deal."
"It was implied."
Roland folded his arms. "You don't strike me as someone who does things because they're implied."
Alaric considered that. "Fair."
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire and the low murmur of voices behind them.
Roland spoke again. "You dismantled that spell like it wasn't even there."
"Yes."
"No chant. No gesture worth mentioning."
"Yes."
Roland shook his head slowly. "I've fought alongside court mages. Academy graduates. Even saw a saint once, during the border wars. None of them could do that."
Alaric picked up the staff and rested it across his shoulders. "Most people don't need to."
Roland frowned. "That's not an answer."
Alaric looked back toward the road ahead. "You didn't ask the right question."
Roland studied him. "All right. Then let me try again. Where did you learn to do that?"
Alaric shrugged. "Long time ago."
Roland exhaled through his nose. "Figures."
He hesitated, then said, "You planning to travel alone the rest of the way?"
"Yes."
Roland nodded once. "You're welcome to stay with us until dawn. Safer in numbers."
Alaric shook his head. "You're safer if I'm not close."
Roland blinked. "That's a strange thing to say."
"It's accurate."
Roland watched him carefully. "You expect trouble."
"Eventually."
"From what?"
Alaric looked at him. "From people who ask too many questions."
Roland barked a laugh. "Then you're in the wrong line of work, friend."
Alaric allowed himself a faint smile. It didn't last.
Roland cleared his throat. "I could offer you a place. Short-term. Mercenary league's always looking for… specialists."
"No."
Roland raised an eyebrow. "Didn't even hear the terms."
"Doesn't matter."
"You don't want steady coin?"
"I don't need it."
"You don't want protection?"
Alaric met his gaze directly. "No."
Roland studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Worth asking."
He turned back toward the camp, then paused. "You ever think about what comes after?"
Alaric didn't answer.
Roland glanced back. "That was rhetorical."
He walked away.
---
The fire burned low as the night deepened. One by one, the merchants retired to their wagons, leaving mercenaries to keep watch in rotating shifts.
Alaric remained where he was.
He did not sleep.
He didn't need to.
Shortly before dawn, a figure approached hesitantly from the camp. A young mercenary, barely out of his teens, armor still stiff with new leather and inexperience.
"Captain said I should relieve you," the boy said, voice uncertain. "If you were still here."
Alaric nodded. "I'll be leaving."
The boy swallowed. "I just wanted to say… thank you."
Alaric tilted his head. "For what?"
"For not letting that thing reach us," the boy said. "Back there. In the ravine."
Alaric regarded him for a moment. "You were holding the line," he said. "That matters."
The boy straightened slightly. "Yes, sir."
Alaric frowned faintly. "Don't call me that."
The boy flushed. "Right. Sorry."
Alaric picked up his staff. "Keep your shield angled when facing spellcasters," he added. "Most force attacks glance off rather than break through."
The boy blinked. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't anyone tell us that?"
Alaric shrugged. "Most people who know don't fight on roads."
The boy laughed softly, then sobered. "Safe travels."
Alaric nodded once and turned away.
---
The town of Grayridge lay less than a day's walk ahead, its outer farms visible by midmorning. Smoke rose from chimneys, thin and steady. Life continued, unaware of how close it had come to interruption.
Alaric passed through without incident.
He stopped briefly at a well to refill his canteen, exchanged a few words with a farmer about road conditions farther east, then moved on. No one recognized him. No one asked questions.
By midday, he reached the river crossing.
The bridge was old but sturdy, stone arches spanning slow-moving water that reflected the sky in broken fragments. A small group had gathered there—travelers delayed by the road closure, now cautiously resuming their journeys.
Alaric waited his turn to cross.
A pair of merchants whispered as he passed.
"That him?" one murmured.
"Don't know," the other replied. "Doesn't look like much."
Alaric crossed the bridge and continued.
---
The inn stood just beyond the river, a squat stone building with a slate roof and a sign depicting a cracked wheel. It was busy, its common room filled with voices and the smell of food.
Alaric took a seat near the wall and ordered a meal.
As he ate, conversations drifted past him.
"They say it was five beasts."
"No, seven."
"I heard a mage was behind it."
"Someone cleared the road single-handed."
"Impossible."
"Maybe not."
Alaric finished his food and stood.
As he reached the door, a voice called out.
"Wait."
A woman stood near the bar, her hair pulled back in a practical knot, a healer's satchel slung over one shoulder. Éloise Marcenay regarded him with sharp, assessing eyes.
"You left before I could thank you," she said.
Alaric inclined his head. "The road needed clearing."
She smiled faintly. "You make it sound simple."
"It was."
She studied him for a moment. "You're not staying."
"No."
"Pity," she said. "People like you tend to attract… attention."
Alaric met her gaze. "So do people who follow them."
She laughed quietly. "Fair enough."
She hesitated, then said, "If you pass through Westbridge again, the church will want to speak with you."
Alaric's expression didn't change. "They usually do."
"That doesn't worry you?"
"No."
She nodded slowly. "Then I suppose it shouldn't worry me either."
She stepped aside.
Alaric left the inn and resumed his journey east.
---
By the time night fell again, he had put significant distance between himself and the crossroads. The road narrowed, the land flattening as it approached the border routes that led toward Sahraem.
He made camp beneath a stand of trees, built a small fire, and sat with his back against a trunk.
The world was quiet.
Somewhere behind him, rumors continued to spread—growing, changing, losing accuracy with every retelling.
Alaric didn't listen.
He stood, extinguished the fire, and continued walking.
The road stretched on.
And somewhere far ahead, a caravan waited—unaware that the man who would soon change its course was already on his way.