The road curved gently as Garron guided his carriage through the last stretch of forest.

  Stonehaven lay ahead.

  He knew this part of the road by heart. Every dip. Every old rut that never quite went away no matter how often it was filled. The horses did too, their pace quickening as if they recognized home as clearly as he did. Garron let the reins loosen a fraction, trusting them to keep the line steady.

  He was tired.

  Not the bone-deep weariness that came from danger or fear, but the dull, irritable exhaustion of being away longer than planned. One extra night on the road because of a cracked wheel back in Rivermark. One extra night sleeping wrapped in a cloak that never quite blocked the cold. One extra morning waking up stiff and sore instead of to the familiar creak of his own floorboards.

  He wanted his bed. He liked the way it dipped slightly on the left even though his wife always complained that they needed to rotate the mattress. He wanted his wife’s cooking. Eating days-old food was bearable for a short while but having a warm home-cooked meal was more valuable to him now that he was older.

  Stonehaven emerged from the trees slowly, the way it always did.

  It wasn’t a city that announced itself with towering walls or spires visible for miles. Instead, it revealed itself in layers. First the outer fields, carefully cleared but not stripped bare, bordered by low stone walls and stacked firewood. Then the outer watch posts, modest but maintained, smoke rising from one as a guard warmed himself against the evening chill.

  The town proper sat in a wide clearing, surrounded on all sides by dense forest like a bowl carved out of green. Timber and stone buildings clustered together behind a sturdy palisade reinforced with old stonework. The main gate stood tall and wide enough for caravans to pass through without fuss, its heavy doors open for now, though Garron knew they would soon be shut and barred once the sun dipped fully below the treeline.

  Stonehaven had always slept with its gates closed.

  Inside the walls, lamplight was already beginning to glow. Warm yellow dots flickered to life along the main road and around the square, promising supper, conversation, and the comfort of routine. The town was not rich, not in the way capital cities were, but there was money here. Honest coin. Trade passed through regularly, and skilled hands always found work.

  People here paid their debts. They greeted strangers cautiously but greeted neighbors by name.

  Garron felt his chest loosen as he rolled closer.

  This was his place.

  The smells reached him next. Wood smoke. Fresh bread. The faint tang of tanned leather. Then the noises followed, distant laughter, the ring of a hammer on metal, a dog barking somewhere near the southern quarter.

  As he approached the gate, one of the guards lifted a hand in recognition. Garron returned the gesture without slowing, a small smile tugging at his mouth despite his fatigue.

  Almost home.

  One more turn through the gate. One more short stretch down the familiar road.

  Then he could sleep in his own bed, beneath his own roof, and let the road wait for him until morning.

  Garron handed the reins off to a stablehand with a few practiced words and a coin pressed into callused fingers. The work could wait until morning. The unloading. The paperwork. All of it.

  Before he went home, there was one stop he always made.

  The tavern sat just off the main road, its wide windows glowing warmly against the deepening dusk. The sign above the door creaked softly in the evening breeze, paint chipped from years of weather but well cared for all the same. Garron stepped inside and let the noise wash over him.

  Heat. Smoke. The low murmur of voices layered with laughter and the scrape of benches on wooden floors.

  Home, in its own way.

  He ordered a single ale, no embellishments, and turned as the barkeep slid the mug across the counter. That was when he spotted Rusk.

  Rusk lounged near the back, boots hooked around the rungs of his chair, one arm draped lazily over the table. He looked the same as always, sharp-eyed, dark-haired, and wearing a grin that suggested he knew something he wasn’t sharing. A man who lived comfortably in the space between lawful and profitable.

  Garron carried his drink over and set it down with a soft thud.

  “Thought that was you,” Rusk said without looking up. “Road’s been dull without your ugly wagon clogging it.”

  Garron snorted and pulled out the chair across from him. “Missed you too.”

  Rusk finally looked up, eyes flicking over Garron with quick assessment. “Bit late getting in. I’d have bet coin you’d be home yesterday.”

  “Wheel cracked in Rivermark,” Garron said, lifting his mug. “Cost me a night I didn’t plan on.”

  Rusk winced theatrically. “Oof. That’ll earn you a look from Elaina. She’s been telling you to get a new carriage for years. You’re in trouble my old friend!”

  Garron chuckled, the sound low and fond. “She’ll be happy I’m back at all. She might even forgive the delay once we’ve slept.”

  “Lucky man,” Rusk said, raising his cup. “Not many get someone waiting for them at the end of the road.”

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  They drank in companionable silence for a moment, the noise of the tavern filling the gaps easily.

  Garron set his mug down and leaned back slightly. “So,” he said, as casually as he could, “how have things been running?”

  Rusk’s grin shifted just a fraction. “Busy. Profitable. Risky in the way you pretend not to enjoy.”

  Garron huffed. “Someone has to keep an eye on which way the trouble’s blowing.”

  Rusk tilted his head, eyes glinting. “And someone has to be ready when it arrives.”

  The tavern noise swelled around them, laughter and clinking mugs masking the weight beneath the words as Garron took another slow drink and listened.

  Rusk took a slow pull from his mug, then set it down with more care than before.

  “Busy,” he said again, this time without the humor. “Busier than I like.”

  Garron raised an eyebrow. “Busy how?”

  Rusk glanced around the tavern, eyes flicking to nearby tables, then back to Garron. His voice dropped a notch. “I’ve been asked for horses. As many as I can get my hands on.”

  Garron frowned. “That’s not unusual.”

  “Legal or not,” Rusk added quietly.

  That made Garron still. “Same buyers as before?”

  Rusk didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward instead, forearms resting on the table, his shoulders blocking their conversation from casual ears. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

  “There’s an army on the rise.”

  Garron leaned back slowly, the chair creaking beneath him. The noise felt too loud. His fingers tightened around his mug, knuckles whitening.

  An army.

  His mind raced through possibilities, old rumors, border tensions, the unrest he’d seen creeping into the roads. He leaned forward again, voice low but urgent.

  “Grey Ridge?”

  Rusk shook his head once.

  “No,” he whispered. “Clawborn.”

  The word hit Garron like a blow.

  Color drained from his face. His mouth opened, then closed. He swallowed hard, the tavern suddenly feeling too warm, too small. Clawborn was not bandits or border skirmishes. Clawborn meant old blood and older hatred. It meant monsters marching with purpose instead of hunger.

  Garron exhaled slowly, the sound unsteady.

  “So,” he said, barely managing to keep his voice even, “war is upon us.”

  Rusk didn’t argue.

  He lifted his mug and drank, eyes dark, while the tavern around them laughed and sang, blissfully unaware of what was coming down the road.

  ***

  The market in Rivermark had begun to thin as the afternoon wore on.

  Zelgra returned to her ore table with a practiced stride. She settled a fresh crate onto the planks with a dull thud. Sunlight slanted lower now, catching on polished metal and scattered coin.

  She had just begun arranging the baskets when a voice carried from a few stalls down.

  “Why are her kind still here?”

  The words were not loud. They never were. Judgement and disdain just loud enough to be heard. Just quiet enough that the speaker could pretend it wasn’t meant for her.

  Zelgra’s hands paused for a single heartbeat.

  Droll prejudice had not diminished with time. It had merely learned to lower its voice.

  Most people in Rivermark knew better than to say such things openly. Drolls were not small folk. Zelgra stood nearly seven feet tall, her frame thick with muscle earned from years of labor and survival. Even standing still, she had a presence that discouraged foolishness. Fear kept mouths closed when manners failed.

  Still, some people always tested the edges.

  She finished straightening the basket before looking up, her expression neutral, her movements unhurried. Years ago, she had learned the value of appearing unbothered. Letting the words slide past as if they were nothing more than dust in the air.

  Most days, that was enough.

  She had trained herself to ignore the mutters. The sideways looks. The whispered assumptions. It was easier than responding to every narrow thought that crawled out of someone’s head. It was easier than reminding them that the world was larger than their small, inherited fears.

  But there was a line.

  And when someone crossed it, Zelgra had never been afraid to step forward and remind them exactly who they were speaking about.

  Unfortunately, this kind of thinking kept getting passed down through generations. Humans clung to it. So did Dwarfs. Trolls, too.

  Zelgra’s jaw tightened just slightly as she lifted her gaze toward the sound.

  She weighed the tone. The intent.

  And decided, calmly, whether today was a day for silence or for correction.

  Zelgra turned the comment over in her mind as she finished arranging the last basket.

  Drolls had not existed long enough to have their own ancient grudges or myths. They were not born of gods or shaped by ages of slow evolution. They were a consequence. A scar left behind by the Last Great War.

  During the war, the Trolls had been losing. Desperate to create something stronger, something that could turn the tide, one of their leaders had forced the bloodlines of Dwarfs and Trolls to mix. What emerged were the Drolls. They inherited the height of Trolls and the intelligence and sturdiness of Dwarfs. A new species, strong, resilient, and unmistakable.

  Drolls remained as living reminders of the war. Of the conflict. The desperation. The crimes committed in the name of survival. It didn’t matter that most Drolls alive now had nothing to do with that war. It didn’t matter that they were born generations later, far removed from the battlefield.

  To many, their very existence was an accusation.

  Zelgra had learned that lesson early. Hatred did not need logic. It only needed memory, and the Drolls carried memory in their bones whether they wanted to or not.

  She ate her lunch slowly, the taste dull against her tongue. When she returned to the ore table, she found Osmund waiting.

  He stood with his hands folded behind his back, neat and composed, dressed better than most merchants but not enough to draw attention. Osmund always looked like a man who belonged wherever he was standing, which made him dangerous.

  “You’re late,” he said mildly.

  “I took lunch,” Zelgra replied, setting her bowl aside.

  Osmund didn’t care. “We need to prepare documents for another shipment.”

  Zelgra stilled. “How large?”

  “Larger than the last,” he said. “Enough that the paperwork needs special handling.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Define special.”

  He leaned in just enough that only she could hear. “The documentation will not reflect the full amount extracted. The remainder will be… accounted for elsewhere.”

  Zelgra’s jaw tightened. “That puts me at risk.”

  “It puts everyone at risk,” Osmund said calmly.

  She straightened to her full height, looming over him. “Grey Ridge taxes are calculated by volume. If the numbers don’t match, it’s my name on the ledger. And if the official accounting is wrong, that’s smuggling whether you call it that or not.”

  Osmund met her stare without flinching. “This is the job.”

  They stood there, the noise of the market flowing around them like water around stone. Zelgra searched his face for some sign of flexibility and found none.

  “This shipment is worth a great deal of coin,” he continued. “Enough to justify the inconvenience. You will prepare the documents as instructed.”

  For a long moment, neither of them moved.

  Zelgra knew the truth even as anger simmered hot and sharp in her chest. She needed this work. Needed the access. Needed the income to keep her table stocked and her position secure. Walking away would not make the system cleaner. It would only make her poorer.

  Her shoulders lowered a fraction.

  “…Fine,” she said at last. “I’ll do it.”

  The word tasted bitter.

  Osmund nodded once, satisfied. “Good. I’ll send the details.”

  He turned and melted back into the crowd as smoothly as he had arrived.

  Zelgra stood there, hands braced on the table, forcing her breathing to slow. Her expression remained controlled, but barely. Anyone watching closely would have seen the tension coiled beneath her calm.

  She hated this.

  Hated the risk. Hated the lies. Hated that survival so often meant bending until something cracked.

  As she lifted the first basket of ore to begin sorting again, the earlier comment echoed faintly in her mind.

  Why are her kind still here?

  Zelgra’s grip tightened.

  Because the world kept demanding it.