The road stretched through the hills like a scar. Morning mist clung to the grass, softening the wreckage that had once been Brindle Hollow behind him. Toby didn’t look back anymore. There was nothing there but ashes and ghosts.

  He walked with the sword strapped across his back, though it still felt wrong there—a burden rather than a trophy. The leather strap had rubbed his shoulder raw, but he didn’t loosen it. The ache felt deserved.

  His boots were worn through at the heel. The bread he’d salvaged was gone. The world was too large now, too empty, and his thoughts circled the same words over and over: Why me? Why not them?

  He didn’t pray. He’d done that already, down in the well, and no one had answered.

  By midday the mist lifted, revealing the long dirt road winding north. Fields of dying wheat stretched on either side, broken by the occasional oak or hedge. Birds sang as if nothing had changed.

  When he heard the rattle of wheels and the creak of a cart ahead, he almost didn’t trust his ears. He stopped, listening. Then came the clop of hooves and the humming of a familiar voice. He rounded the bend—and blinked.

  A plump man sat on a cart stacked high with crates and cloth bundles, his round face hidden beneath a wide hat. A pair of mules trudged in front, their ears flicking lazily at flies. The man’s tune broke off when he saw Toby.

  “Toby?”

  “George?” Toby said, disbelieving.

  The merchant squinted, tugging the reins. “By the gods, boy, I thought you were a bandit! You gave me a fright, standing there all ghost-faced with a sword on your back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Toby muttered, stepping aside as the cart slowed to a halt.

  George stared a moment longer, his jowls quivering as he frowned. “You’re alive, then. I was bound for Brindle Hollow—was there trouble on the road?”

  Toby’s throat tightened. “Turn around,” he said quietly.

  The merchant blinked. “What’s that?”

  “Turn around, George. The village is gone.”

  For a heartbeat the older man just stared. “Gone? What do you mean gone?”

  Toby’s jaw clenched. “Burned. Elves.”

  George paled, hat trembling in his hands. “No… no, not Brindle Hollow. I was there but a week past! I sold your mother flour—” He stopped, realizing what he’d said, and his voice faltered. “Saints have mercy. I’m sorry, lad.”

  Toby didn’t answer. The words scraped too close.

  George looked past him, toward the faint column of smoke that still smeared the southern sky. “You’re sure it’s them? The elves?”

  “I killed one,” Toby said simply.

  The merchant studied him then—the dirt-streaked face, the hollow eyes, the way he held himself like someone balancing on the edge of something sharp. The sword on his back gleamed darkly.

  George swallowed. “Well, then. We’ll not go that way.” He tugged the reins again. “Get up, lad. Come sit. You shouldn’t be walking alone.”

  Toby hesitated. “I can walk.”

  “Aye, and you’ll walk yourself to death. Come, there’s space enough. We’ll head for Graymill—it’s half a days’ ride north from here. They’ll have guards there, walls at least. You can tell your tale to someone who can do more than I.”

  After a moment, Toby climbed onto the cart. The wooden seat creaked under his weight. The mules snorted and the cart rolled forward again, turning back the way George had come.

  George was the kind of man who couldn’t stay quiet long. Maybe silence made him nervous, or maybe he thought words could fill the emptiness around them.

  “I swear, these roads get rougher every year,” he grumbled. “The king taxes for repairs and I’ve yet to see a single new stone laid. You’d think a fief like Sire Ray’s would keep better watch, what with the elves sniffing at our borders.”

  Toby kept his gaze on the passing trees. The rhythm of the wheels was oddly soothing.

  After a few minutes, George sighed. “You’ve had a rough go, lad. I can see that plain enough. But listen here—” He shifted, setting one hand on the reins and the other on his knee. “There’s a lesson in trade, and it might serve you better than you think.”

  Toby glanced at him, unamused. “A lesson?”

  “Aye. You see, every merchant lives by risk. You buy low, you sell high—simple as that, in theory. But sometimes you buy at the wrong time, or the wrong place, and the world bites you. That’s what happened to me last winter.”

  He chuckled without humor. “Bought a cartload of wool before the spring fairs, thought I’d make a killing. Then the rains came, ruined the roads, and every bolt was eaten by mold. Lost half my year’s profit in a fortnight.”

  Toby said nothing. How could he possibly compare coin to the lives lost.

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  George went on, his tone softening. “Thing is, in trade as in life, everyone gets caught with a bad bargain now and then. Sometimes it’s a cart of rot. Sometimes it’s something worse. But what makes a man isn’t the luck of the sale—it’s what he does after. You learn from it. You set your jaw, fix what you can, and face the next deal with steadier hands.”

  He looked sideways at Toby. “Do you understand what I’m saying, lad?”

  Toby did. But he didn’t want to. “You’re saying it doesn’t matter what you lose.”

  “I’m saying it matters how you keep going after you’ve lost it.” George gave him a small, sad smile. “I’ve buried people too, Toby. Not elves, but plague. You can’t trade away grief. But you can build on it. That’s what keeps a man from breaking.”

  Toby stared at the road ahead, jaw tight. “Maybe I don’t want to keep going.”

  “You will,” the merchant said quietly. “The living always do.”

  They traveled in silence after that. The fields gave way to sparse woods, and by evening the road dipped into a valley where the roofs of another village glimmered through the trees—larger than Brindle Hollow had been, surrounded by a wooden palisade. Smoke rose from dozens of chimneys. Dogs barked from behind the gate as they approached.

  Two guards stood watch, spears in hand. When they saw Toby’s sword, one stepped forward sharply. “Hold! State your business.”

  George frowned. “By the Light! Jeff, I only left this morning and you've already forgotten me?"

  The guard startled. "What? George? When did you hire a guard?" He looked the wiry boy up and down, more rags than ware.

  "This is Toby, a farm boy from Brindle Hollow. Raiders struck his village.” In a lower tone he muttered, "Elves."

  The guards exchanged glances.

  “The elves?” Jeff frowned.

  The other cursed under his breath, then nodded. “All right. Get inside. The gate closes at sundown.”

  They passed through. The village within was bustling—carts, livestock, smoke from cookfires, children chasing each other through the muddy lanes. The sight made Toby’s chest ache. Brindle Hollow had never been so alive.

  George steered the cart toward the square, stopping near a timbered inn whose sign read The Sparrow’s Rest. The sound of laughter and music drifted out through the open door. The smell of stew and ale nearly made Toby dizzy.

  “I’ll stable the mules,” George said, hopping down. “You find us a table. My treat.”

  “I’ve no coin,” Toby said.

  “You’ve no choice either,” the merchant replied, wagging a finger. “You’ll need food before sense.”

  Inside, the inn was warm and dim. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a few farmers nursed mugs at the counter. Toby found a seat in the corner, away from the noise. He wasn’t used to so many people anymore—their voices felt too loud, too alive.

  George joined him with two bowls of stew and a jug of watered wine. “Eat,” he said, handing one over. “You look like you haven’t since yesterday.”

  Toby obeyed, though his stomach twisted at first. The stew was thick with barley and carrots— warm and full of memories. He ate in silence until the bowl was empty.

  When they were done, George leaned back with a groan. “Better, eh?”

  Toby nodded. “Thank you.”

  The merchant waved it off. “Don’t thank me, lad. If what you say is true, we’ve got bigger problems than empty stomachs. Sire Ray must be told at once.”

  “Who is he?” Toby asked, though the name sounded familiar.

  “The lord of these lands. His keep’s in Highmarsh, just a day’s walk north. If the elves are raiding again, he’ll want warning before they reach his fief proper. He’ll send riders, maybe even knights to the border.”

  Toby considered that. “Then I’ll go to him.”

  George blinked. “You?”

  “Who else?” Toby asked. “You’ve goods to protect. The guards here won’t leave their post. I saw it happen, George—I can tell him what they did.”

  The merchant hesitated, studying Toby’s face. There was a new hardness to him, grief no longer standing alone but bound to purpose. “You’d best get some rest first,” he said. “You’ve the look of someone who’s walked through fire.”

  “I have,” Toby said quietly.

  The innkeeper, Bren, gave Toby a small room under the eaves in exchange for hauling water and splitting wood. The work felt good—something to do with his hands besides clench them. When night came, he lay on the straw mattress staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the faint murmur of voices downstairs.

  He thought of his mother’s warning: The road leads to ruin. Maybe it did. But ruin was where he was headed anyway.

  Sleep came in fits. He dreamed of the well, of red eyes gleaming above the rim, of smoke and screaming. When dawn light crept through the shutters, he woke drenched in sweat.

  He washed his face, tightened the strap of his sword, and went downstairs. George was already there, packing a satchel of dried fruit and bread.

  “I thought you’d left already,” Toby said.

  “I nearly did,” George replied. “But I’d not see you off without a word.” He handed over the satchel. “For the road. You’ll need it.”

  Toby took it, unsure what to say.

  The merchant sighed. “You remind me of myself, once. Head full of iron and ideas. Listen, Toby—you’ll meet all sorts out there. Lords, soldiers, thieves, worse. Remember the trade I told you of. A man’s worth isn’t in what fortune takes from him, but in what he builds from the remains.”

  Toby nodded. “I’ll remember.”

  George clapped his shoulder. “Good lad. When you’ve seen Sire Ray, come find me. I’ve a stall in Graymill most seasons. You’ll always have a meal waiting.”

  “Thank you,” Toby said again.

  George smiled. It was a sad, but understanding smile.

  Toby left Graymill. The morning was cool and clear. The road to Highmarsh wound through low hills and marshy meadows dotted with white flowers. Toby walked alone, the sword tapping lightly against his back with each step.

  He didn’t know what he would say to Sire Ray, or if the lord would even listen to a peasant boy, but it didn’t matter. He’d tell him anyway. Someone had to.

  Each step carried him farther from Brindle Hollow, yet it stayed with him—the smell of smoke, the sound of his mother’s voice, the flash of that blade in the firelight. He couldn’t wash it away, couldn’t forget it. Maybe that was the point.

  The road forked ahead, one path leading deeper into the valley to the west, the other climbing toward distant stone towers silhouetted against the sunrise. Toby adjusted the strap on his shoulder and started up the hill.

  The wind carried the scent of wet earth and far-off woodsmoke.

  He didn’t look back.