Prologue | Border Sign

The captain’s quarters smelled of damp timber and stale wax. Maps covered Eldric’s desk, overlapping and peeling at the corners. He didn’t look up when Varian entered, nor did he acknowledge the stiff salute.

“Tell me,” Eldric said, his finger tracing a ridgeline on the parchment.

“More sign, sir.” Varian’s voice came out lower than he intended. “Fresh. Within a league.”

That got him. Eldric’s head came up, eyes flinty beneath grizzled brows. Garrick stepped forward with the sketch—charcoal lines on crumpled parchment—and jabbed a finger northeast of their position.

“Here. Tracks in the loam. Snapped branches.”

Eldric stared at the map. His jaw worked once, twice, like he was chewing something that wouldn’t break down. Against the far wall, Tormund and Brynn exchanged a look that Varian pretended not to see.

“Double the watch.” Eldric’s voice cut the silence. “Every approach patrolled. Tormund, Brynn—pull in the men from the farthest fields.”

The two guards moved for the door without a word. Eldric turned back to Varian and Garrick, and something shifted in his face—a loosening, or maybe just exhaustion finally showing through.

“Walk the northern line. Follow the tracks, but don’t range far.” He paused. “First sign of trouble, you turn back. We’re not hunting glory out here.”

“Yes sir.”

Eldric held Varian’s gaze a moment longer. Whatever flickered in those hard eyes was gone before Varian could name it.

They walked the old game trails in silence. Mist curled between weathered trunks, swallowing sound. The sun rose behind them—pale, grudging light that did nothing to warm the air.

Varian watched the drifting shrouds, tension building with each step. Hal and Leofric followed close behind, boys with patchy stubble and white-knuckled grips on their spears. Too young for this. But the outpost took whoever the villages could spare.

The stories whispered in Varian’s head. Dark legends from late-night fires. Cunning beasts who walked like men. Blood-spattered stones.

Children’s tales.

But out here, in this hushed world of mist and shadow, those tales felt like something else entirely.

Garrick froze. His knuckles went white on his spear-haft.

Varian eased forward, heart thumping beneath his leathers. Garrick didn’t speak—just pointed with a jerk of his chin toward the loam beneath the fern-line.

The prints were there. Clawed, splayed, and deep. The mud at the edges was still slick, water seeping into the depressions.

Varian crouched and touched one. His fingertips came away damp.

“An hour,” Garrick whispered. “Maybe less.”

Behind them, Leofric’s breathing had gone ragged. Varian didn’t turn around. He kept his eyes on the tracks, on the way they disappeared into the mist like a path inviting him forward.

“Back,” he said. “Now.”

Dusk bled across the sky as they walked back. No one spoke. Varian’s shirt clung to his back—sweat gone cold.

The outpost hunched ahead, a dark shape against the trees. The guards on the palisade hailed them, voices harsh with something that might have been relief.

Eldric waited in the torchlit yard. Varian made the report, tongue heavy with exhaustion. The captain listened, gaze distant, seeing something beyond the words.

“Get some rest,” Eldric said. “I’ll want you fresh come morning.”

They trudged toward the cookfires. The smell of stew—barley and salt pork—should have made Varian’s stomach growl. It didn’t.

“Scouts,” Garrick said, low enough that only Varian could hear. “Testing our lines.”

Varian nodded. He glanced back at the darkness beyond the palisade, at the place where torchlight gave way to black.

Nothing moved out there.

That was the part that bothered him most.

End of Prologue 5 — continues in Prologue 6: No Tracks