Word had spread like rot through the villages. Mothers kept children close. Doors stayed latched. The smiths worked late into the night, hammering iron into traps that nobody believed would hold.

And now, in the fading light, a new arrival crested the hill.

Smoke rose from the chimney of a cottage just beyond the treeline — a small, well-kept home with a fence of sharpened stakes around its garden. A figure moved behind the curtained window, cautious, checking, always checking.

The village of Ashford lay ahead, nestled between the forest's reaching fingers. Its gate was closed. Its walls were newly reinforced.

An old woman sat on a stump by the side of the road, a basket of wild mushrooms at her feet. She watched the traveler approach with rheumy, knowing eyes.

Her voice was like dry leaves skittering over stone.