Torvil wiped his hands on a rag that had long since given up any claim to cleanliness and nodded toward the door behind Brann.

  “Go find yourself a table in the main room, I’ll bring you something to eat.”

  Brann offered a quiet nod of thanks and stepped through the kitchen door, back into the golden hush of the inn's common room. The laughter had returned, not as loud as before, but steadier now, like the creak of old wood in a familiar storm.

  He scanned the room.

  To his surprise, Oakrin was seated at a table near the hearth, a tankard in hand and an easy grin on his face. Across from him sat a man Brann didn’t recognize, gray hair swept back from a strong weathered face, a square jaw like quarried stone, and the kind of broad shoulders that didn’t come from farm work. He no doubt was a soldier or perhaps a guard.

  Oakrin spotted him and lifted his hand in greeting.

  “Hey, kid. Come join us.”

  Brann crossed the room, brushing past benches and candlelight, and extended his hand toward the stranger.

  “Brann,” he said simply.

  The man stood just enough to meet him halfway and took the handshake firmly.

  “Jorlan Kett,” he replied with a half-smile; “Nice to meet you.”

  Oakrin leaned back, his tankard already near empty.

  “Kett’s a shy man,” he said with a chuckle, “Used to serve in the army but these days, he keeps the peace around here. I was lucky to find him at the town hall...papers signed, commission secured.” He raised the tankard in mock salute. “Now I’m free of duty and ready to celebrate.”

  At that moment, the kitchen door swung open, and Torvil stepped out with a steaming plate in hand. Oakrin spotted him and raised his voice.

  “Hey, cook! Bring us a few pints of ale while you’re at it, would you?”

  Torvil turned, clearly irritated at first until he caught sight of Oakrin.

  His scowl melted into a wide grin.

  “Oakrin, you old wolf,” he barked. “How long has it been? Velmara must be running dry if they’re sending you this way again.”

  Oakrin grinned right back.

  “They send me because I don’t die, and they hate wasting good luck.”

  Torvil laughed as he reached their table, greeting Kett with a nod and placing the plate in front of Brann.

  It was a feast, meat glazed and steaming, root vegetables roasted in herbs, and a thick slice of bread that steamed when torn. Brann stared at it for a moment, stunned by the smell alone.

  After weeks in the jungle, with little more than rot and fear to fill his belly, the meal felt unreal.

  Oakrin, watching, chuckled and nudged the cook.

  “Looks like you found yourself another helper, Tor.”

  Torvil shook his head and replied, “Not me, Lysa dragged him in. But if he came with you, I figured he can’t be worse than the last one.”

  Oakrin raised a brow in agreement.

  “Aye, he kept me company on the road, carries his weight...but he’s not all there in the head.”

  Brann blinked, caught between offense and confusion.

  “What?”

  He shot Oakrin a glare, more baffled than angry.

  Oakrin burst out laughing.

  “Look at that! He almost got angry. Maybe you’re more human than I thought.”

  Torvil chuckled.

  “If he can work, that’s all I need.”

  Kett, quiet till now, finally chimed in, grinning into his drink.

  “Well, no one right in the head comes to Westmere’s Tip anyway.”

  Brann looked around at the three of them, laughing at his expense, warm and familiar like men who'd known each other for years and realized he didn’t mind. He didn’t quite understand how he’d been swept into their rhythm, but he welcomed it all the same.

  He smirked, stabbing a piece of meat with his fork.

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  “Well, I’m more sane than any of you old-timers, that’s for sure.”

  They paused for a beat.

  Then they all laughed together.

  Even Kett, who hadn’t laughed in some time, let it out freely.

  Torvil shook his head as he turned back toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll bring your ale.”

  The night was something close to perfect. It filled Brann’s chest with a warmth he hadn’t known in years or perhaps hadn’t known at all. He could not recall the last time he’d sat beside laughter and flame, eaten with both hands, or fallen into easy conversation that didn’t end in blood or betrayal. Oakrin, already loose with ale and good spirits, said he’d stay in Westmere’s Tip for a week before making the long road back to Velmara.

  “Time enough for you to make up your mind,” the old man had said, “if you’re thinking of going back with me. The road’ll be there either way.”

  But Brann’s mind was already made up, though he hadn’t said so. Something about this town held him like a fishhook beneath the surface of still water, there was something here. He could feel it in his marrow, just as he had felt the forest before he even saw it.

  No, he wouldn’t be leaving. Not yet.

  Oakrin, generous as ever, had even shared a portion of his commission. A few coins now sat in Brann’s pouch clinking softly when he moved. Not enough for a sword, not yet, but enough to begin.

  After the third ale and a few more jokes at Brann’s expense, the table had begun to drift into yawns and clinks of empty mugs so they called it a night.

  The bed was narrow, but the blankets were thick and clean, and moonlight spilled through a small window like silver thread. Brann lay on his side, watching it, the echoes of laughter still warm on his skin. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once and went silent.

  The night was beautiful.

  But sleep did not come.

  A tension sat under his ribs, quiet but insistent, his thoughts pulled at him, unraveling in strange threads. The forest. The bridge. The name Duskmire.

  He had left that path unfinished.

  He rose quietly, dressing without sound, the floorboards groaned only once beneath his boots.

  Westmere’s streets were hushed under the weight of the nearly full moon. Pale light spilled across rooftops and alleys, glinting on shutter-latches and old iron signs. The town slept the way honest places did lightly, peacefully.

  Brann moved like a shadow, boots soft on stone.

  Past the last house, the bridge emerged from the night.

  White stone.

  It didn’t match the rest of Westmere, not even a little. The bridge had been built with care, with purpose, smooth arch, no chisel marks. No moss growing between the stones, as if it belonged to another age or another story.

  At its foot stood a guard post, a small bell hanging from a crooked beam.

  The guard inside, however, was fast asleep his arms folded across his chest, chin tucked to collar.

  Brann passed him without a whisper, quiet as smoke on the wind.

  He stopped halfway across the bridge.

  The Duskmire forest loomed beyond.

  From here, it looked impossible, the canopy swallowing moonlight, the trunks so wide they seemed to lean into one another like ancient men sharing secrets.

  No birdsong, no frogs just the rustling of leaves stirred by a wind that did not reach Brann’s face.

  Then suddenly a howl long and distant, bone-deep.

  Brann turned back instinctively.

  The guard did not stir.

  But something else caught his eye.

  A flicker of motion.

  A small shadow was ducking behind the last house on the lane, the same house he had passed not five minutes earlier.

  Someone was following him.

  He retraced his steps quickly and quietly, circling the house’s edge like a hunter in enemy woods. Just as he came around the far corner, the shape darted away toward the inn.

  Brann lunged and caught it mid-sprint.

  The small body wriggled and kicked in his grip.

  “So Lysa was right,” Brann muttered, chuckling. “You do get into a lot of trouble.”

  It was Riven, the cook’s youngest, still barefoot, his face caught somewhere between mischief and guilt.

  “Put me down!” the boy whispered furiously. “I couldn’t sleep! Too much light! I saw you leave the inn and I knew you were up to no good!”

  Brann raised an eyebrow.

  “Is that so?”

  “You passed the guard like you were made of mist, wait, are you...are you a creature of the forest?” His eyes widened. “Maybe a druid? Oh no. Let me go!”

  The boy began to thrash harder.

  Brann blinked, startled by the accusation. Then he sighed and set the boy down gently.

  “I’m no creature, kid. You’ve got a wild imagination. I just wanted to see the forest.”

  Riven narrowed his eyes. Thought, then folded his arms.

  “I’m telling Dad.”

  Brann tilted his head.

  “Go right ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide. But you’ll be in far more trouble than I will...sneaking out in the middle of the night and following a stranger.”

  Riven froze, as if struck by a lightning bolt.

  “Oh...”

  He looked back toward the inn. Then back at Brann.

  “Then maybe... we forget this ever happened?”

  Brann gave a crooked smile.

  “Suits me just fine, just promise me something, don’t go following strangers again some shadows bite.”

  Riven nodded solemnly.

  They walked the rest of the way back in silence, the night wrapping around them once more.

  But Brann did not sleep well, not even after his head hit the pillow.

  Not with the howl still echoing in his ears.

  Not with that strange pull still coiled in his chest.

  The forest had called to him, and something was waiting.