James let out a sharp breath, rubbing his forehead, his fingers digging into the skin as he tried to block out the noise—not just the rain, but the voices behind him.
The town hall was packed, the air thick with damp wool and frustration. The town's people argued in circles, their voices rising over one another.
The roads are impassable.
The fields are turning to swamps.
The carts are getting stuck.
If this keeps up, we won't have winter stores left.
Complaint after complaint, but no solutions. No action. Just noise.
James shifted his weight, his back pressed against the wooden frame of the open doorway, half inside, half out. Ser Edwin had insisted they come to show they were still part of the community and had a responsibility to the town.
James wasn't sure he agreed.
He stared into the square, watching rainwater cascading off the awning, spilling in sheets onto the ruined ground. The dirt was gone, washed away into thick, sucking mud. The carts abandoned in the square were half-submerged, their wheels useless.
This storm wasn't letting up.
Something prickled at the edge of his awareness. A pressure. A pull.
James' gaze flicked to the far side of the square.
Two figures stood beneath the eaves of the butcher's shop, shrouded in heavy cloaks. The rain ran off their hoods in steady rivulets, yet the downpour didn't seem to touch them.
James narrowed his eyes.
They were watching him.
Not the town, not the gathering in the hall—him.
He focused, reaching inward, past the noise, the headache, and the weariness that had settled deep in his bones. The world sharpened, his senses stretching beyond the rain and the wind.
The figures spoke, their voices low beneath the storm.
"That him?"
The one on the left tilted his head slightly, his hood shifting just enough for James to glimpse a thick, wild beard.
"Aye, matches what the red-head was saying."
James' stomach twisted.
The taller one shifted his weight, and for a fraction of a second, James saw something beneath the hood.
A curved horn.
James' breath hitched.
It was gone in an instant, hidden by the cloak, but he had seen it.
Men don't have ram's horns.
James swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. The familiar comfort of his sword hilt just at the tips of his fingers.
The figures shifted more towards him.
James' breath caught. The rain ran down the back of his neck, his clothes sticking to his skin, but the cold sinking into his gut had nothing to do with the storm.
And they were looking for him.
The town hall doors banged open.
James flinched, the tension snapping as Ser Edwin stomped out, throwing his hands in the air.
"Useless! All of 'em!" Edwin barked, his voice carrying over the square, frustration thick in every word. "A whole room of grown men and not a single one with a damn solution!"
James whipped his head back toward the figures—
Gone.
A flicker of movement—cloaks vanishing into the narrow alley between the butcher's shop and the book-serller's. James' heart slammed against his ribs.
Ser Edwin didn't notice.
"They're just going to sit there, grumbling about the mud, and the roads like that'll stop the river from rising," Edwin continued, shaking his head as he stepped off the town hall's porch. Rain splattered against his shoulders, dripping from the ends of his beard, but if he cared, he didn't show it. "By the time they decide to act, we'll all be swimming in the square!"
James turned, words already forming on his tongue, "Edwin, listen—"
"Can't even agree on who's in charge of what!" Edwin kept going, shaking out his coat as he adjusted the belt at his waist. "Mayor wants to leave it to the Imperium. The Master, bless his black heart, wants the town to fend for itself. -–Better we be self-sufficient than call for aid from a little water—" Edwin had pitched his voice up at the last part.
"And the farmers—" Edwin scoffed, waving a hand. "I'd bet half my savings they'll still be arguing when their fields are completely washed out."
"Edwin," James tried again, voice sharper, tugging the man's sleeve.
The older man finally turned, giving him a look. "What?"
James glanced back at the alley. The figures were long gone, vanished into the maze of Oakwood's side streets. He clenched his jaw.
"I—" He hesitated.
What am I supposed to say? That he saw something impossible? That the storm and the river weren't the only dangers creeping toward us? That something about those men, about how they had spoken, had left a profound, gnawing wrongness in my gut?
It wasn't that he thought Edwin wouldn't believe him. But the older man was already so frustrated that James knew he wouldn't hear him correctly.
"Never mind." James exhaled through his nose, shaking off the feeling. He would keep this to himself for now.
"C'mon, got things to do," Edwin grunted, not pressing further. He jerked his head toward the market stalls.
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The rain showed no signs of letting up as James pushed wet curls out of his face.
"Sil left us a list," Edwin muttered, pulling a slightly crumpled scrap of parchment from his coat. He squinted at it, muttering before handing it to James. "Get readin'. I left my good spectacles at home."
James took it, unfolding the note. Miss Silvia's neat, slanted handwriting stared back at him.
- More salt, sugar, and flour for the winter stores
- Dried meat, if the butcher has it
- Two new oilskins—yours both leak
- Three spools of black thread and decent wool, if the tailor has any left
- Candles and lamp oil—do not forget this, James
- Bandages, honey, and anything else that helps with colds and coughs—Edwin is too stubborn to take care of himself
- If the herbalist has ginger or peppermint, get some. The good kind, not the twigs the apothecary tries to pass off
- See if the tanner has any decent scraps. I need new soles on my boots.
James sighed. "She's got us running all over town."
Edwin snorted.
"She's got you running all over town. I'll handle the cider. I've been needing to pick up more." Giving James a hardy pat on the back.
"So I get the whole market while you hang out with the craftsmen in the tavern?" James stumbled forward, fingers tightening around the list.
"Aye." The older man said, pulling his coat collar up and stomping into the rain. "Gonna see if the other craftsmen have any actual plans for the flood too—or if they're just planning to drink through it."
"You mean you're going to drink through it." James huffed.
"That too." Edwin grinned, adjusting his coat against the rain, and waved over his shoulder.
Despite the storm, the town square was busy, people moving quickly between the market stalls and shops, bartering for supplies, preparing for the worst. The scent of muck, wet straw, and rain filled the air, mingling with the faint, lingering warmth of baking bread from the baker's shop.
James let his shoulders relax. The unease still sat in the back of his mind, but for now, he focused on the task at hand.
He rechecked the list as a fat raindrop splattered against the parchment.
James hissed, shifting the list closer to his chest, trying vainly to shield it from the downpour.
Another drop. Then another. The ink bled, smearing into dark, useless streaks.
"Sonadia's Blade—" he cursed, a phrase he wouldn't have uttered if Edwin had still been around, shaking the ruined paper. He could still make out a few words—candles, bandages, boots—but the rest?
Gone.
James dragged a hand down his face, blinking against the rain as he tucked the list into his belt. Pushing his curls out of his face again with a harrumph.
He'd have to remember. He couldn't disappoint Miss Silvia, not after everything she'd done—not after how hard she worked to hold them together. And Edwin—James didn't need the older man's teasing if he forgot something important.
Think.
He ran through the basics.
Flour, sugar, salt. Meat if the butcher still had any. Bandages, herbs. Lamp oil.
The town square churned with movement, people pushing through the downpour, darting between market stalls and storefronts, heads ducked beneath cloaks and hoods. The usual lively chatter of Oakwood's market was dampened by the storm, voices curt, transactions quick.
James weaved through the crowd, mud sucking at his boots.
Even through the rain, the town smelled of wet straw, damp wool, and the faintest trace of baking bread. The butcher's stall was already half-empty, thick cuts of venison and rabbit wrapped in waxed paper, water beading off the slick surfaces. James paid for a rabbit and three of the venison stakes.
Flour, sugar, salt. Bandages, herbs. Lamp oil.
Everything felt normal. Or it should have.
But the unease hadn't left him.
It clung to his skin worse than the rain, tightening around his chest like a hand he couldn't shake.
He caught himself glancing over his shoulder.
Nothing.
James shook himself.
Focus.
He pushed forward, ducking under the overhang of the general store, shaking out his cloak as best he could.
The ink had run even more. James squinted at the blurred letters, trying to will them back into place. But they only ran more down the page.
James liked the general store—the neat, orderly shelves, the way it was always clean, no matter the hour. And they were always happy to see him.
He wiped the mud from his boots and glanced toward the back counter. Ashlynn sat there, reading, her dark hair falling in loose strands over her face. She brushed it aside, meeting his gaze with a genuine smile.
James felt warmth rise to his cheeks despite the cold.
"Ah, Master James, here for your monthly supply? A bit early this time, aren't you?" The shopkeeper was a thin man, his frame bent slightly with age. Wisps of iron-gray hair clung stubbornly to the edges of his otherwise bare scalp—too proud to shave it, too set in his ways to care. His eyes, dark and sharp despite the years, crinkled at the corners from a lifetime of laughter and knowing glances.
A gust of wind howled against the door, rattling the frame. James blinked, snapping his attention back to the shopkeeper.
"Yes, Mister Dai—uh, candles, bandages, lamp oil." He counted them on his fingers, racking his brain for the rest.
"And flour, sugar, salt," Mister Dai added, a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he moved through the shop, gathering each item into a wax-sealed bag. "Give Master Edwin and Miss Silvia my love."
James nodded. His eyes caught on a stack of waxed parcels near the counter. "Oh—two new oilskins, if you've got them."
"Of course. Ashlynn, grab two from the back?"
"Yes, sir."
James' gaze lingered as Ashlynn disappeared through the door, dark hair swaying behind her.
"Anything else, Master James?" James snapped back to Mister Dai—only to find a knowing twinkle in the old man's eyes. His ears burned.
Ashlynn returned, setting the oilskins in front of him before slipping back to her book.
"Thanks, Mister Dai." James stepped out of the shop, pulling his cloak tight against the rain. The downpour had not lessened to a miserable drizzle, as he had hoped, but still the same terrible downpour. He adjusted the weight of the wax-sealed bag in his arms, ready to head home—
There they were, the two figures just outside the overhang, rain pouring down around them but somehow not touching them. James felt for his sword, the worn leather a comfort. He blinked to make sure they were real—they didn't disappear. Slowly, he set the bag down next to the door and waited, hand on his sword.
The taller one shifted, a gleam of something catching a hint of light,
Fuck, that's a knife.
"Come with us," the shorter one murmured, voice low, calm, almost conversational. "Do not call out. Do not struggle."
James' grip tightened around his hilt. He glanced around—no one was looking, too wrapped up in their own errands and worries about the storm.
They think they can just take me.
"Now." The taller one took a step closer. In a fluid motion, trying to grab James.
James spun, catching the man's outstretched wrist, the knife having disappeared back under the cloak. But the rain made his grip slip, and Taller was able to pull the hand back before James snapped the wrist.
Shorter cursed, lunging forward—James barely twisted in time, the knife catching only air where his ribs had been a heartbeat before.
Taller moved, jumping high, higher than James could believe, kicking down into James chest, sending him slamming back against the shop's doors. The blow had hurt like being kicked by a mule.
Shorter moved to cut James again. But James raised his blade just in time to parry the next strike, their blades moving in tandem, one high, one low, forcing him to shift, to react. His boots slid in the mud, the uneven ground making it harder to find balance.
A feint. A real strike. A flash of silver aimed for his side—James caught it, twisting his sword to force the blade away, sending Shorter staggering.
Taller pressed forward, relentless. James ducked and sidestepped, using the momentum of the slick ground to pivot. He aimed a kick low, knocking Shorter's legs from under them, sending them crashing into the mud, with a wet smack.
Taller snarled. Another strike, this one meant to end things quickly. A blow to knock James out. James barely managed to twist his sword up in time, steel meeting steel with a harsh scrape.
Too close. Too strong. This guy is strong.
James gritted his teeth, forcing their blades apart with a wild swing to create space. Shorter was already back on their feet, circling.
I need to end this. People are starting to stare.
Taller lunged—James didn't parry. He stepped into the attack, twisting his body just enough that the blade skimmed his shoulder, pain lancing as the blade cut shallow. Then, James drove his elbow straight into Taller's chest. Every bit of power he had went into that blow.
The impact sent Taller staggering backward—hood slipping—
James froze, and he could hear the gathering onlookers gasp.
Taller had caught himself, breathing hard, rain running down striking features—sharp cheekbones, scarlet eyes that gleamed even in the dim light, from under a mop of night black hair. Thick, curling black ram's horns framed his head. A weary, almost sorrowful smile shone through his black beard.
A satyr. James' stomach dropped. He had heard stories, and Ser Edwin talked about satyrs from his days in Arrowsfall. But—
The satyr met his gaze, something soft in his expression. Like I wish you would've come with us. Then, without a word, he grabbed Shorter by the shoulder, yanking them back before turning and dashing down the alley. Now that James was listening, he could faintly hear the clop of hooves as they ran.
James stood there, sword still raised, chest heaving. The rain dripped from his hair and down his face, mixing with sweat and adrenaline still pulsing through his veins.
What in the hell was that?
Behind him, the shop door creaked open.
"James?" Mister Dai's voice was cautious, concerned.
James swallowed, lowering his blade, but his mind was already racing.