The village was quiet when they arrived.

  Karl pulled his cloak tighter, the last orange rays of the mountain sunset tracing golden edges across the thatched roofs. It was a small place—no more than thirty homes nestled against the slope of the hill, with a single dusty road running through its heart. A stream cut along the edge, and smoke curled from a handful of chimneys. Pinewood fences, half-mended, creaked in the evening breeze.

  Tanir rode slightly ahead. “Greywater Hollow,” he said. “Not much, but the ale’s drinkable and the roofs don’t leak. Usually.”

  Karl nodded, eyes scanning the road. Nothing stirred but a few chickens pecking around the stones.

  They’d been riding since dawn. After crossing the Imperial border, skirting patrol roads, and dodging attention, Greywater was the first place that felt… safe. Or at least not immediately dangerous.

  The players walked behind the wagon, chattering. Their mood was high, even if their boots were muddy and their feet blistered.

  “This game’s got amazing terrain generation,” the researcher murmured, taking in the jagged mountains above.

  “I just want to loot a house,” the adrenaline junkie said. “Any locked doors? Side quests?”

  The ex-soldier said nothing. He walked like he was still in a warzone.

  Karl’s hand brushed over the hidden interface in his palm—the Star Key humming low beneath his skin. No warnings. No alerts. Still, he didn’t relax.

  ---

  Tanir negotiated with the village elder—an old man with more beard than patience. In the end, coin opened doors, and they were given beds in the common hall and stabling for the animals. Tanir handed out sleeping mats with practiced ease, whistling to himself.

  “You think we’re in the clear?” Karl asked quietly as they unrolled bedrolls in the dim lodge.

  Tanir shrugged. “Empire’s not quick to move for a handful of dusty travelers. Especially not when there’s no profit in it. We’re not carrying spice, guns, or royal blood, right?”

  Karl said nothing.

  Tanir chuckled. “Exactly.”

  ---

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  The players, meanwhile, were already causing problems.

  By late dusk, one had been chased from the stream by a red-faced villager for “contaminating the wash stones.” Another—of course it was the pervert—had tried flirting with a local girl near the well. She'd cracked him over the head with a broom handle. The villagers, grim and weary folk, were unimpressed by strange foreigners with strange accents.

  When the pervert stumbled back to the group holding his forehead, the researcher was still laughing. “What’d you say to her?”

  “Just complimented her braid!” he groaned.

  The Star Key pinged softly over his head.

  > **[Reputation Lost: Local Village -10]**

  > **[Warning: Attacking or retaliating against neutral NPCs will trigger penalty]**

  Karl sighed into his hands. “I’m going to die surrounded by idiots.”

  ---

  The sun dipped below the ridge. Shadows lengthened. Fires were lit. The players gathered in the communal lodge with bowls of thick potato stew and clanked mismatched wooden spoons. Laughter returned. Even Karl allowed himself a moment of quiet.

  Then the ex-soldier slipped in through the lodge door, brushed off his cloak, and crouched beside Karl.

  “I don’t like it,” he said.

  Karl looked up. “What?”

  “Too quiet. No dogs barking. No night birds. No watch posted outside the village.”

  Karl blinked.

  > **[Notice: Subtle Field Disturbance Detected]**

  > **[Passive Surveillance Trace — Weak]**

  His skin prickled. He slowly stood and looked to Tanir, who was snoring in the corner.

  “We might have company,” he muttered.

  ---

  Far to the west, torches bobbed in the dark.

  ---

  Ravenn, earlier that day.

  Second Lieutenant Maric stood at attention in front of Colonel Balen’s desk. The paper report was still fluttering slightly from the colonel’s toss.

  “Suspicious travelers?” Balen said, raising an eyebrow. “Only a dozen or so?”

  “Flagged by border patrol. One spoke a language nobody recognized. Captain Myron seemed—concerned.”

  Colonel Balen scoffed and leaned back. “Unless they’re smuggling spellcrystals or noble secrets, we’re not interested.”

  “But sir—”

  “You want something to do?” The colonel didn’t wait for the nod. “Fine. Take ten men. Mountain riders. Go collect them. That’ll keep the captain quiet.”

  Maric’s mouth was dry. “Just ten?”

  The colonel gave him a look. “They’re twelve people in rags. You’ll live. And if they shoot first, make an example. Otherwise, drag them back.”

  He stood. “Dismissed.”

  ---

  Maric rode hard through the pine passes, wind biting at his cloak. Behind him, ten of the Empire’s Mountain Corps followed—riders on shaggy, compact horses, built for cliffs and shale trails. They carried curved machetes, short bows, and mountain-forged axes. One bore a hand cannon strapped to his back.

  Maric didn’t like the assignment.

  He didn’t like the way the border captain had written it. He didn’t like how quickly the colonel had dismissed it. And he didn’t like that deep, nagging feeling at the base of his skull.

  He’d seen men lie before. These weren’t smugglers. Not ordinary ones, anyway.

  “Greywater Hollow ahead,” one rider said, pointing to smoke curling over the next ridge.

  Maric raised a hand.

  “Split. Surround. Quiet. We take them at dawn.”

  They vanished into the dark, eleven wolves on the hunt.

  ---

  And in the village, by the dying fire, the ex-soldier turned to Karl.

  “I’ve been on too many patrols to mistake the stillness,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”

  Karl stared into the hearth.

  > **[Warning: Threat Level Rising — Unknown Hostiles Approaching]**

  ---

  They were already here.