The sky was a bruise, heavy and purple, threatening to split open as Caelum Vyre trudged along the muddy trade road. His boots sucked at the earth with every step, the weight of his pack dragging at his shoulders. Inside, wrapped in oiled leather, was the parcel—a bolt of black silk so fine it felt like liquid shadow when he’d touched it. The client, some pompous noble in Elnair, had paid half upfront in gold, more than Caelum had seen in a year. The other half waited at the border town, assuming he didn’t fuck it up. He wasn’t about to let that happen. A job like this could buy him a month of rest, maybe a proper bed for once, instead of the flea-ridden cots of roadside inns.

  Caelum adjusted the sword at his hip, a short, practical blade, nicked and scratched from years of use. He wasn’t a hero, just a man who knew how to swing steel and not die doing it. The caravan life had taught him that much—keep moving, keep sharp, trust no one. His horse, a stubborn mare named Ash, snorted behind him, her hooves sinking into the mire. She was as tired as he was, but she didn’t complain.

  The forest loomed ahead, a tangle of black pines and gnarled oaks that swallowed the horizon. It wasn’t on his map, but maps were shit anyway, drawn by scholars who’d never left their candlelit studies. The road to Elnair was supposed to be straight, but the trade path had veered, forcing him to choose: stick to the long route and risk missing the delivery deadline, or cut through the woods and shave off a day. Caelum wasn’t a fool. Time was money, and money was survival. He tugged Ash’s reins, guiding her toward the forest’s edge.

  The air changed as they entered, growing colder, sharper, like breathing in a blade. The trees closed in, their branches clawing at the sky, blotting out the weak daylight. Caelum’s breath fogged in front of him, though it wasn’t cold enough for that. He frowned, scanning the undergrowth. No birds. No wind. Just the steady squelch of Ash’s hooves and the faint creak of his leather armor. His hand rested on his sword’s hilt, instinct prickling at the base of his skull. Something was off, but he couldn’t place it.

  “Easy, girl,” he muttered to Ash, more to hear his own voice than to soothe her. She flicked her ears but didn’t slow. Good horse. Smarter than most people he’d met.

  The storm came fast. One moment, the sky was sullen but still; the next, it roared, thunder cracking like a whip. Rain lashed down in sheets, turning the path to sludge. Caelum cursed under his breath, pulling his cloak tighter. The parcel was waterproofed, but he checked it anyway, fingers brushing the leather wrap. The silk inside seemed to hum, a faint vibration he felt more than heard. He shook his head. Tired. That’s all it was. Too many nights sleeping on roots and rocks.

  Then the fog came.

  It rolled in like a living thing, thick and gray, curling around the trees like smoke. Caelum’s visibility dropped to a few feet. He couldn’t see the path anymore, just vague shapes—tree trunks, maybe, or something else. Ash snorted, her head jerking up, eyes rolling white. “Whoa,” Caelum said, gripping the reins. “Steady now.”

  She didn’t listen. A low whine built in her throat, and before he could tighten his hold, she reared, hooves slashing the air. The reins snapped from his hands. Caelum stumbled back, slipping in the mud, and Ash bolted into the fog, her panicked whinny fading fast.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, voice swallowed by the storm. He scrambled to his feet, wiping mud from his face. His pack was still secure, the parcel safe, but Ash was gone. With her went his food, his bedroll, and his only way out of this damned forest. He stood there, rain pounding his shoulders, weighing his options. Chase her and risk getting lost, or keep moving and hope she found her way back. Neither felt right, but standing still was worse.

  He started walking, following the faint ruts of the path, though they were fading under the deluge. The fog thickened, clinging to his skin like damp cloth. His compass, a battered thing he’d won in a dice game, was useless—its needle spun lazily, pointing nowhere. He stuffed it back into his pocket, muttering another curse. The forest was playing tricks, or he was more exhausted than he thought.

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  Hours passed, or maybe minutes. Time felt slippery, like the mud under his boots. The storm didn’t let up, and the fog grew denser, until he could barely see his own hands. Then, through the haze, he saw it—a flicker of something solid. A signpost, half-buried in the earth, its wood warped and gray. He knelt, squinting at the carving: a crude spiral, like a coiled snake, and beneath it, a single word scratched deep.

  HOME.

  Caelum’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know this place. He didn’t have a home, not since the caravan days, and even those weren’t home—just a string of campfires and faces he’d rather forget. He stood, scanning the fog. The sign pointed to the left, where the path seemed to widen. No other markers, no other sounds but the rain and his own breathing. He didn’t have a choice. He followed it.

  The path opened into a clearing, and there it was: an archway, wooden and ancient, its posts carved with spirals like the sign. The fog seemed to part around it, as if afraid to touch the wood. Above the arch, words were burned into a crossbeam: Welcome to Mystic Nights.

  Caelum stopped, his hand on his sword. A village? Here? His map hadn’t shown anything for miles, just forest and the occasional bandit trail. But the arch was real, the letters sharp and deliberate. He stepped closer, peering through the fog. Beyond the arch, he saw shapes—rooftops, maybe, or lanterns glowing faintly. A village meant shelter, maybe food. Maybe someone who’d seen Ash. He didn’t trust it, but he didn’t trust the fog either.

  He passed under the arch, and the air changed again. The rain softened, the fog thinning just enough to reveal a dirt road lined with crooked houses. They were old, their timbers sagging, but lived-in—smoke curled from chimneys, and faint light glowed behind shuttered windows. The village smelled of wet earth and something else, something sharp and metallic, like blood or rust.

  People moved in the streets, their faces half-hidden by hoods or scarves. They didn’t call out or approach, but their eyes followed him, steady and unblinking. Caelum kept his head down, his hand near his sword. He wasn’t here to make friends. He just needed a place to wait out the storm, maybe get directions to Elnair.

  The inn was easy to spot—a two-story building with a sign swinging in the wind, painted with a faded crescent moon. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a dim common room. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across worn tables. A few villagers sat nursing mugs, their conversations dying as Caelum entered. He felt their stares like needles.

  Behind the counter stood an old woman, her hair white as bone, tied back in a severe bun. Her eyes were sharp, too sharp for her lined face, and they locked onto him as he approached. “Evening,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. “Need a room. Just for the night.”

  She didn’t answer right away, just studied him, her lips twitching like she was chewing on a thought. “You’ve returned,” she said finally, her voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot.

  Caelum frowned. “Never been here before. You got a room or not?”

  She didn’t blink. “You’ve got his face. Same eyes.” She leaned closer, her gaze flicking to the parcel under his arm. “And you’ve brought it back.”

  His hand tightened on the parcel. “Lady, I’m just passing through. Got a delivery to make. Storm’s got me stuck. Room, yes or no?”

  She smiled, thin and knowing, like she’d heard a joke he didn’t get. “Yes. The room you always took.” She slid a key across the counter, iron and heavy, etched with that same damn spiral. “Upstairs, third door. Call me Brida.”

  He took the key, his jaw tight. “Caelum,” he said, because it felt like she expected a name. “How much?”

  “No charge.” She turned away, busying herself with a rag and a mug. “Not for you.”

  He wanted to argue, but the weight of the day pressed down on him—mud, rain, Ash’s betrayal. He nodded and headed for the stairs, feeling the villagers’ eyes on his back. The parcel felt heavier now, the silk inside shifting slightly, like it was restless. He told himself it was his imagination. Had to be.

  The room was small, just a bed, a table, and a single window shuttered against the storm. He set the parcel down, checking the leather wrap. Still secure, still dry. But that hum was back, faint and insistent, like a heartbeat. He sat on the bed, running a hand through his wet hair. The village was wrong. The people were wrong. And Brida’s words—you’ve returned—sat in his gut like spoiled meat.

  He didn’t sleep that night. The storm raged on, and every creak of the inn felt like a whisper, every shadow a figure just out of sight. The parcel sat on the table, silent but alive, and Caelum couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d walked into something bigger than a delivery. Something that had been waiting for him.