Dusk draped the trees in hues of burnt gold as the trio trudged down the dirt path, boots crunching against gravel and dried leaves. The forest seemed endless now, the canopy above folding them into a world removed from time. Isla clutched her cloak tighter as the wind turned sharp, nipping at her skin. Caius walked ahead, silent as always, while Finn lingered just behind her, whistling to Melodias, who trotted beside them with twitching ears.
"Why do we always walk so fast?" Finn groaned, shouldering his satchel. "It's not like the Circle's watching our every step."
"They are," Caius replied, his voice like a blade. "You just haven't noticed."
Finn opened his mouth but thought better of it. Melodias barked once—then twice—before quieting again.
The day passed slowly. They crossed a narrow bridge over a dried riverbed and paused by a hollowed-out tree that looked burned from within. Faint carvings—sigils?—marked its trunk. Isla ran her fingers across them, feeling the deep ridges like open wounds.
"What do you think it means?" she whispered.
Caius didn't look back. "Bad things. That's all we need to know."
They pressed on. Shadows stretched longer as the sun dipped behind a jagged ridge. With each mile, the air grew heavier, as if the very earth they walked on had once borne blood.
Eventually, as the moon began its quiet ascent, a structure emerged in the distance—stone and wood, low-roofed, framed by two withered trees. A battered sign creaked overhead, its paint faded to near nothing, though the words The Elmshade Posting House still remained.
"A posting house," Isla murmured. "Not exactly inviting."
"I say we risk it," Finn said. "I can't feel my legs."
"I don't like this," Isla muttered. "What if it's not safe?"
Caius gave her a sideways glance. "And the woods are?"
He stepped forward and pushed the door open with a heavy creak.
Inside, the air was warm, scented faintly of pine smoke and something metallic. A young man stood behind a wooden counter—perhaps sixteen, with pale skin, dark curly hair, and a flickering lantern at his elbow.
"Evenin'," he said, eyes widening slightly as the trio entered, dog in tow. "Didn't expect travelers this late."
"We need a room for the night," Caius said flatly.
The boy smiled. "Lucky you. We've only got one left. Name's Jacob. My family's kept the Elmshade running since before my grandfather was born."
Isla's eyes lingered on the strange framed photos along the wall—sepia-toned faces staring out, grim and unsmiling.
"You get many guests?" Finn asked, glancing around.
"Not lately," Jacob replied. "But back in the day? Dozens. Hunters. Riders. Even nobles, once or twice."
Caius tossed a few coins onto the counter. "We'll take the room."
"Room's just up the stairs. First door on the left." Jacob handed over a rusted key.
Caius paused, his eyes scanning the boy. "You ever had dealings with the Midnight Circle out here?"
The air in the room changed. The crackle of the lantern flame seemed to slow. Jacob stiffened, his casual smile fading like ash in water.
Isla frowned. "Caius…"
Jacob looked down at the counter, then back up—eyes suddenly older than before. "Why'd you ask that name?"
"No reason," Caius muttered. "We've run into strange folk. Symbols. Whispers."
Jacob nodded slowly. "That's no name to say lightly around here."
Finn raised a brow. "Do you know them?"
"I don't," Jacob said carefully. "But my family… we've had stories. Most are buried with the old ones. But one sticks."
He stepped out from behind the counter, gesturing for them to come closer, as if even the walls might be listening. Melodias gave a low, uneasy growl.
"My grandmother," Jacob began, "used to tell it on nights the wind wouldn't sleep. She said it happened here. In this very house. Sixty years ago."
Finn exchanged a look with Isla. She nodded for Jacob to continue.
Caius leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
" One night," Jacob went on, his voice lower now, "a woman arrived. Carriage broken. Bleeding. Clutching a baby wrapped in velvet. She was desperate, begged for shelter. Grandmother was just a girl then. Said the woman never stopped looking over her shoulder. Like something had followed her all the way there."
"What happened to her?" Finn asked, breath held.
Jacob took a deep breath. "Next morning, they were all gone. Woman. Child. Man in the back room. But the walls were black. Charred. Like a fire had tried to start—but couldn't. And above the bed, scrawled in blood, were four symbols no one could ever wash away."
Isla felt cold bloom in her chest.
"Four?" she echoed.
Jacob nodded grimly. "My grandmother swore it was the mark of the Circle. Said they don't kill like men—they unmake you. Strip the soul. She always said if you see their sign, it's already too late."
Silence fell like snow.
"Of course," Jacob added with a brittle smile, "maybe it's just an old tale to scare guests."
Caius took the key and turned away. "We'll be out by morning."
Finn looked back once at Jacob. "Thanks… I think."
They climbed the stairs in silence, the tale lingering like smoke.
—
Outside, miles away, the forest whispered with a different voice. Atop a hill, a man stood beneath a crooked tree. He was built like a forge-made weapon—broad shoulders, one eye gleaming like a wolf's in the dark, a jagged scar slicing across his jaw. A curved blade hung at his hip.
He stared down at the distant flicker of the Elmshade Posting House, its lantern no more than a firefly's glow.
A voice echoed in his memory: "They'll be stopping there. The girl. The thief. The boy. Make it clean."
The bounty hunter cracked his neck, his fingers tightening around the hilt.
"A job's a job," he muttered. "But for the Main Man? I'll make it art."
He stepped into the shadows.