The forest held its breath in the hour before dawn.

  Crow blinked into the pale gray light, the world still cold with night’s memory. Ash was already on his feet, ears forward, tail still. He stood beside what was left of the knight; scattered bones in battered armour, slumped beneath the crooked pine where they'd left him. Little did Crow know, that while he battled with the knight, the pair of hunters battled for their lives in, “his” dungeon.

  Ash didn’t snarl. He didn’t even growl. Just watched the body like it might get back up.

  Crow sat up slowly. His back ached. The bruises from the fight hadn’t settled yet, and the bruises on his chest and cut on his arm, where the knight’s blade had clipped him, throbbed beneath the poultice he'd packed it with the night before. But there was no blood loss, and nothing felt broken.

  He rose, stepped carefully over the cooling coals of their small fire, and crouched by the body. The bones were already paling in the morning light. Flies buzzed in quiet industry, their wings catching gold as they danced around the corpse. Beetles worked with tireless precision, disappearing beneath scraps of cloth and curling sinew, already breaking him down into soil and silence. Moss crept up one boot as if to soften the man’s passing. Crow watched it all with a kind of reverence. Not horror, not guilt, just awe at how quickly the forest began its quiet work.

  “Didn’t even take a full day,” he murmured. “Out here, even ghosts feed the roots.”

  Ash just gave a small bark in response.

  Crow started to review the man’s belongings. The knight’s armour had been finer once. Under all the mud and scrapes, it bore a faint design etched along the chest plate; lions and stars, faded now. Crow brushed moss from the emblem and saw the bent badge hanging from a leather cord. A minor house. Border-born. Forgotten, most likely. The man had worn it like memory, not pride.

  Crow pried open the rusted belt pouch. Gold clinked inside. Coins stamped with a city crest he didn’t recognize. He counted quickly: one hundred pieces, give or take. A king’s ransom to someone like him.

  Next came the sword. It had fallen partway into the underbrush, blade-first. Ash watched closely as Crow knelt to pick it up. The hilt was leather-wrapped, worn smooth from use. The crossguard had a simple, balanced design. Nothing ornamental. But when Crow turned the blade in his hand, it gave off the faintest hum, like a beeswing or a drawn breath.

  Old magic. Not bright. Not showy. But real. Crow stood slowly, testing its weight. He gave it one easy swing, then another. It fit well in his hand.

  “You didn’t belong out here,” he murmured to the dead knight, sliding the blade into its scabbard. “But maybe you still have a place.”

  Ash padded beside him, nose still twitching. He sniffed the bones once more, then walked away. They left the body beneath the crooked pine: bare bones and empty metal. The forest would take the rest.

  Before they left their campsite, Crow crouched by the fire pit, brushing aside the last trace of warmth with the back of his hand. “No ember left,” he muttered, then raised two fingers and whispered a small incantation. A trickle of conjured water poured down like a morning drizzle, hissing softly as it met the stones. He grinned to himself, rubbing Ash’s ears. “Only I can prevent forest fires,” he said, with a mock-serious tone, the joke echoing off the trees that, thankfully, didn’t laugh back. “Well, off to town we go.”

  During the walk to two, the morning sun filtered through the trees in long, slanting beams, catching dew on the underbrush and lighting the path in gold. Crows cawed once, far off. This mother loved those birds. He could remember his mother telling him stories of two famous birds. His favour was incharge of knowledge. He takes a deep breath while remembering his mom. The air smelled of wet bark and old leaves.

  Crow, not the birds but the man, walked with his shoulders low, the knight’s sword slung across his back and the coin pouch tied tight against his hip. His boots squelched now and then in the softer parts of the trail, but otherwise the forest was quiet.

  Ash padded beside him, tail high, tongue lolling, belly full and spirit higher. He trotted in loose zigzags, sniffing shrubs and stones, occasionally glancing back as if to say, You coming or what?

  Crow gave him a small smile. “You’re in a good mood.”

  Ash snorted and sneezed at a cluster of mushrooms, then pounced on a leaf like it had insulted his ancestors.

  They walked on.

  After a while, Crow spoke again; softer this time, words for Ash but more for himself.

  “I didn’t want him dead, you know. That knight.”

  Ash flicked an ear.

  “He was drunk. Lost. Maybe worse inside than he looked on the outside.” Crow paused, and stepped over a root. “Still doesn’t sit right, waking up with bones beside your fire.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Ash let out a short whuff, then stretched into a jog, bounding ahead through the brush. No fear. No guilt. Just muscle and fur and life.

  “Not your burden, I know,” Crow said. “You just do what needs doing.”

  The forest began to thin, trees spaced wider, the dirt path widening beneath them. The signs of old carts and boots began to reappear. Ruts worn into the soil, the occasional bit of torn cloth stuck to a branch.

  Crow’s gaze drifted up toward the distant slope of Jackass Mountain. The peak was still touched with snow, like powdered sugar over stone.

  “People don’t understand what they walk through,” he said. “They take from the forest like it owes them something. Build their little towns, pave their little roads. Then call this wild. Dangerous.”

  Ash stopped to drink from a shallow stream, slurping noisily. Water dripped from his muzzle as he looked back, content and unconcerned. Crow crouched nearby, running his fingers through the cold water.

  “They don’t see how rich it already is,” he murmured. “They think gold’s the prize. Iron, land, whatever they can hold. But they don’t thank the trees that give them air. The roots that keep the soil from slipping away. Or the silence that lets a man find himself.”

  Ash sneezed again, then trotted forward, tail wagging.

  “You’re no philosopher,” Crow muttered. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

  They continued, the trees giving way to scrub, the smell of smoke and old stone wafting from over the next rise. Crow’s hand tightened slightly around the sword’s strap.

  “Town’s close. Keep your head down.”

  Ash’s ears flicked.

  “Not that kind of down,” Crow added, smirking faintly.

  Ash barked once, just to prove he’d do as he pleased.

  They crested the final hill as the sun slid higher behind them, casting long shadows over the rough gravel trail. Below, nestled in a low bend of the river, the town waited. To Crow’s eyes it was half asleep, half suspicious. Wooden buildings slouched into the earth like old trappers resting against their rifles, their log walls patched with tar, bark, and the stubborn pride of survival. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, pale and lazy, mixing with the morning mist that clung to the rooftops.

  Rough-planked walkways ran between buildings like thawed veins in frozen mud, and the scent of tanned leather, pipe smoke, and boiled grain wafted up on the breeze. Somewhere, a hammer struck metal in a lazy rhythm; someone shaping a hinge, a horseshoe, or maybe just passing the time. Voices rose sharp and scattered, trading prices, news, or insults in that thin, brittle tone of people used to cold winds and harder lives. Crow stood still a moment, one hand resting on Ash’s back.

  “Welcome back to Fort Gallows,” he muttered. “Smells like boiled turnip and bad opinions.” Ash just wagged his tail.

  Crow paused for one breath. Then stepped forward, walking back into the world.

  As Crow walked through the dusty street, more than a few eyes followed him. Some curious, most dismissive. A pair of merchants chuckled behind their hands, one muttering, “There goes the silly druid, buying forests like a fool.”

  A younger man spat into the dirt near Crow’s boots and called out, “Better watch your fleas, forest-boy don’t want ’em jumping on decent folk!”

  Crow didn’t bother turning. He knew that that boy was riddled with bugs. His dog was cleaner than half these villagers. So he shrugged it off and simply kept walking, shoulders loose, eyes steady, Ash padding faithfully at his side. Let them sneer. He’d rather be a strange druid with pine sap on his sleeves and purpose in his chest than another clean-shaven soul rotting from the inside in a cramped cottage with nothing but coin to show for it.

  At the center of Fort Gallows, two stone buildings rose above the sagging rooftops and weatherworn timber of the town like granite fists thrust up from the earth. In Crow’s mind, they were monuments to power in a place mostly built from necessity.

  The Company Hall was the broader of the two, squat and muscular in its design, with thick flagstone walls and iron-braced doors wide enough for wagon teams. As if the Company was prepared for war. Smoke seeped constantly from its wide forge vents, and its slate roof gleamed darkly when the light hit just right. Paid for, no doubt, by generations of coin, trade, and the sweat of laborers beneath it. Above the entrance hung a massive carved emblem: Sword and compass crossed over a bear’s skull, flanked by tools of the various trades. Windows were few, narrow, and barred. Not for fear, but to remind everyone who held the ledger, the locks, and the muscle behind every deal struck in town.

  Just down the packed-dirt road and elevated slightly on a bluff of cut stone sat the Kingdom Hall, taller and leaner, as if looking down its nose at the rest of Fort Gallows. Pale limestone and red brick gave it an austere elegance, marred only slightly by the moss that crept up its north wall. Its tower bore the tattered royal pennant, fluttering without conviction. Inside, the king’s representative kept records, issued decrees, and dispensed justice with the cool indifference of a distant crown. The stained-glass window above the main door depicted a rearing griffon with a sword in its beak. Impressive, if a bit excessive for a frontier post that hadn’t seen a true noble in years.

  Still, both buildings served as reminders: one of gold and grit, the other of power and lineage.

  As Crow made his way toward the Kingdom Hall, his path curved past the modest Temple to Violet, nestled low between the town’s more imposing structures like a soft breath between shouts. Unlike the stone bulk of the guild or the rigid lines of royal authority, the temple had a warmth to it. It was a one-story tall, with smooth whitewashed walls and a gently sloped cedar-shingle roof that caught the light like a resting animal’s back.

  Two great willow trees flanked the entrance, their long limbs swaying lazily in the breeze, casting shifting dappled shadows over the wide steps. The double doors were carved with simple sigils of peace, growth, and quiet strength, all worn smooth by time and touch. A faint, calming scent of herbs and incense lingered in the air: lavender, maybe sage. Birds nested in the eaves. A few townsfolk stood nearby talking in low, easy tones, while others wandered in and out with no ceremony.

  Crow always liked passing by. The temple didn’t demand anything. It didn’t preach or posture. It felt... neutral. Kind. A place that expected nothing, but offered shelter just the same. He gave a small nod as he passed, Ash trotting beside him with his ears twitching at the rustling branches.

  Then he approached the Kingdom Hall and entered.