The whispers grew louder over the next few days.
Cyrus hadn't seen the strangers again since that night, but their presence lingered like the last echoes of a hammer striking steel. The village murmured about them in hushed tones—some dismissed them as travelers, others weren't so sure.
"They don't act like lost folk," Mira Durand said, arms crossed as she leaned against the forge. "Too quiet. Too… deliberate."
Cyrus kept his focus on the blade he was shaping. "You think they're trouble?"
Mira shrugged. "I think they're watching someone."
Cyrus didn't ask who. He had the same feeling gnawing at his thoughts.
Even Old Beric, who was usually eager to weave a grand tale out of village gossip, was reserved. When Cyrus passed him near the well, the old man only muttered:
"Best to keep your head low, boy."
It wasn't a warning. It was a certainty.
The feeling of being watched didn't fade.
While working in the forge, Cyrus caught flickers of movement at the edge of his vision—gone when he turned. In the market, he felt the weight of unseen eyes. Even in the forest, when he went to gather wood for the forge, the silence felt unnatural.
One evening, he tested it.
Instead of heading straight home, he took a longer path through the outskirts of the village, keeping his steps light, his senses sharp. The mist clung to the trees, making it hard to see far, but he trusted his instincts.
Then, he felt it.
A presence behind him.
Cyrus stopped walking. The air was heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Slowly, he turned his head—
A figure stood just beyond the tree line. Cloaked. Still. Watching.
A sharp gust of wind swept through the branches, scattering dead leaves across the ground. When Cyrus blinked—they were gone.
His breath came quicker now, his heart pounding.
They weren't just passing through.
They were waiting.