Chapter 15 — Hearthfall
The road was still damp from the night’s rain. Most of the trees along the ridge had already shed their leaves, their branches thin against the sky.
Harvest had already passed here.
Each step reminded Crimson how thin her boots were.
She lifted her gaze as she and Blade crested the hill.
Hearthfall.
She had asked him about the town on the way here. He knew little—only what passed between travelers. Far enough from the capital to avoid its politics. Not far enough to escape trade.
They would have to pass through it to reach the mountain pass leading toward Karsveil.
Smoke drifted from distant chimneys. A mill stood near the center, its wheel turning slow and steady.
A cold wind swept across the ridge.
Crimson raised a hand to shield her eyes.
As she drew closer, she noticed there were no guards at the entrance.
She slowed slightly, her gaze moving past the bridge and along the street beyond.
Perhaps they were posted elsewhere.
A wooden sign stood near the road, the name Hearthfall carved unevenly by hand.
There were no banners hanging from the buildings. No colors marking allegiance. No sigils painted above doors.
Nothing claiming the town.
Only weathered wood and stone, left bare to the wind.
From a distance, a tower rose above the rooftops. Up close, she realized it was only a bell tower.
Another gust of wind stung her eyes.
Leaves scattered across the road. The cold crept into her fingertips.
Yet the bell in the tower did not move.
Blade glanced at her.
“Ready?”
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Crimson gave a small nod.
He stepped onto the stone bridge without waiting for more. She followed.
The sound of their boots changed as they crossed from mud to stone.
The uneven stone pressed through the thin soles of her boots. Very little separated her from the cold.
The bridge carried them into the town proper.
The first thing she noticed was the sound.
Not conversation. Not greeting.
Work.
A hammer striking metal in steady rhythm—slower than it should have been. The creak of wood under weight. The scrape of something dragged across stone.
A saw bit through timber in short, measured pulls. Cloth snapped once, then again, as it was shaken free of frost before being folded.
A cart rolled past, its axle groaning softly. The horse pulling it exhaled steam into the cold air.
Voices carried, low and practical.
“Not enough.”
“It’ll have to do.”
“Before the next frost.”
Blade’s gaze shifted briefly toward the speakers, then away.
He did not slow.
No one called out to them.
The rhythm did not change.
A few stalls lined the street, displaying small piles of winter vegetables and bruised fruit. There was no abundance here—only enough.
A woman stood at one of the stalls, wrapped in heavy winter gear. She was no taller than five feet.
Folded behind her, half-hidden beneath her cloak, were wings.
She turned an apple slowly in her hand, examining its skin before handing over a coin.
She did not look up.
Crimson slowed.
Her gaze lingered on the woman for a moment before shifting outward.
A child passed the stall, glanced at the folded wings, and kept walking.
Nothing changed.
Blade did not linger at the market.
His gaze moved past the stalls and past the people.
Stacked firewood lined the walls of nearby buildings. The piles were modest, some already edged with frost.
Canvas coverings had been pulled tight over barrels. Windows reinforced with extra boards.
Blade’s gaze shifted briefly toward the northern ridges beyond the town.
“Two weeks.”
Crimson looked at him.
“For what?”
“The pass.”
He resumed walking.
“If we stay longer, we don’t leave.”
They left the market street behind.
The buildings narrowed as they moved deeper into town. Wood replaced stone in places, patched where repairs had been made over time. A faded sign swung above a doorway ahead, its paint worn thin by seasons of wind.
An inn.
Smoke rose thicker from its chimney than the others.
Blade adjusted his pace toward it.
A man stepped out of a nearby doorway carrying a bundle of split wood, nearly colliding with them before shifting aside.
He did not apologize. He did not look twice.
Two women passed further down the street, speaking in low tones, their arms full of folded cloth. A boy ran past them with a bucket that sloshed against his knees.
The street was not empty.
Just occupied.
The wind picked up as they approached.
Crimson caught the edge of her hood before it slipped back. The fabric strained in her grip.
There was a soft, splitting sound.
The cloth gave way.
For a moment, her hand remained raised, holding nothing.
She lowered it slowly.
The man with the firewood continued on. The women kept speaking. The boy did not slow.
No one had stopped.
Her gaze lingered a fraction longer than it should have.
Then she straightened, shoulders tightening, chin lifting slightly.
She adjusted the remaining fabric as if nothing had happened.
Only the wind moved through the street, tugging at loose cloth and swinging signs overhead.
Blade reached the inn first.
He pushed the door open, and warm air slipped into the street.
Without looking back, he stepped inside.
Crimson followed.
The wind caught the torn edge of her hood once more before she crossed the threshold.
Then the door closed behind them, and the wind vanished.
