Rain misted the cobblestones of Grennlow as dusk bled into evening. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, casting soft, golden halos through the town's narrow streets. Smoke curled from chimney tops, carrying the scent of firewood and meat. Vendors packed their stalls, children were called indoors, and doors creaked shut as if the entire town exhaled in unison, bracing for another night.
A hooded figure entered quietly from the eastern road, where the cobbles gave way to dirt and broken tree roots. No one saw his face. His cloak was long, stitched from thick cloth dark as river mud, the hem trailing slightly in puddles left by the afternoon storm. He walked with purpose but not urgency—neither hurried nor idle, just quiet and observing.
The few who noticed him offered only cautious glances. Travellers were common, but not ones who moved like ghosts and carried the air of things unspoken.
Vale paused when he reached the center of town.
