Ian reached a town, the only one between Blackblood and Esgard.
The town didn't have a name worth remembering.
It was the kind of place that clung to the edges of the world, not quite Esgard, not quite wilderness—just a cluster of half-rotted buildings crouched beneath the shadow of looming trees.
A place where the gutters ran brown, the taverns stayed open too late, and everyone smelled like ash and regret.
Ian stepped through the main road with slow, steady strides.
His long coat whispered behind him in the wind, dark and worn, heavy with dust. A gray scarf coiled up around his neck and mouth, hiding all but the faint gleam of his eyes—gray, cold, unreadable.
The kind of eyes that made people look away before they even realized why.
He walked without urgency. No destination but the forest. No companions but his own silence.
The town barely looked up.
