The sun was already sinking when Gabriel reached the rise overlooking Bridgedon.

The town sat alongside the inland trade road, its stone walls rising against the fading sky. Watchtowers marked the perimeter, Church banners hanging stiff in the evening air. The sigil of Mazrian was carved deep into the stone, weathered but intact.

This was Vaelmir territory.

Gabriel slowed, eyes moving across the walls as he studied them. He noted the guard rotations, the sightlines, and the narrow stretch of road leading to the gate. Bridgedon wasn't large, but it had been built to endure.

The air cooled with the dying light, carrying woodsmoke and damp earth from the surrounding forest. Fires were being lit inside the walls as night settled in.

He pulled his hood lower as he descended the slope, shadow swallowing the faint red glow of his eyes. His boots crunched over gravel, each step measured. To anyone watching, he was just another traveller arriving late.

The sword at his hip felt wrong. It was stolen and poorly kept, its edge dulled during the fight with the Vorath days earlier. He hadn't had the tools or time to restore it. It would still cut, but only just.

His cloak offered little comfort. It was threadbare and patched, barely holding against the chill. His supplies were almost gone, reduced to a strip of jerky and stale bread taken in Criston. His coin pouch was lighter still, enough for a night's shelter and a meal if he was careful.

He would need rest, equipment, and information before moving on.

Adaranthe lay beyond Bridgedon, another hard march deeper into the kingdom. He wouldn't reach it in his current state.

The gate loomed ahead, guards shifting as they noticed his approach. Gabriel kept his pace steady and his head down, letting the road carry him forward with the rest of the evening traffic.

Each step brought him closer.

Wagons rolled through under watchful eyes as merchants argued tariffs with inspectors, voices sharp with impatience. Travellers on foot queued beside them, hoods drawn low and cloaks pulled tight against the wind.

Gabriel merged into the line without drawing notice. He kept his posture loose, gaze lowered, movements steady. One of the guards glanced his way, then turned as a cart stacked with crates drew his attention. Orders were barked. Canvas was pulled back. Gabriel passed beneath the arch without pause, the stone shadow closing over him as he entered the town.

Bridgedon opened around him. Cobblestone streets branched from the main road, framed by timber buildings that leaned. Hammers rang from nearby smithies. The scent of bread drifted from open bakeries. Tavern windows spilled light into the street, carrying bursts of laughter that faded as quickly as they rose.

Church patrols moved through the crowds in pairs, armour catching torchlight as they watched the flow of people. Their presence was constant, never hurried, never absent.

Trade filled the streets. Silk from distant ports, spice crates bound for the markets, iron from local mines. The town moved on coin.

Gabriel moved with the crowd but avoided the central square, where a stone chapel stood with its doors open to evening prayers. The sound of hymns carried across the street, steady and measured.

He turned away from it and headed toward the outskirts instead, where the buildings thinned into poorer repair and patrols became less frequent.

The streets narrowed as he went. Timber leaned closer overhead, and the noise of the town dulled into something more subdued. An inn near the edge of the district drew his attention. The Rusty Anchor.

Its sign creaked on rusted chains, depicting a ship's anchor beneath curling vines. It looked like a place meant for people passing through, the kind who didn't invite questions.

That suited him.

He pushed inside.

The common room was dim, lit by a hearth fire and a few guttering lamps. Pipe smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the smell of stew simmering over the coals. A handful of patrons occupied the space. A trader with greying hair sat alone with his ale.

Two labourers argued in low voices at a corner table. Near the fire, a woman worked a needle through a torn cloak, her attention fixed on the fabric.

The innkeeper looked up as the door closed. He was broad and thickset, a scar pulling at one cheek, his expression set in permanent irritation. His gaze lingered on Gabriel's cloak, then the sword at his belt.

"Room?" Gabriel asked, keeping his voice low.

"Two silver for the night," the man replied. "Meal included. No trouble, or you're out."

Gabriel nodded once and reached for his coin.

Gabriel counted out the coins, nearly all he had left, and slid them across the scarred wood. The innkeeper grunted as he pocketed them, then tossed a key onto the counter.

"Upstairs. Last door," he said. "Stew's on the hearth. Help yourself."

Gabriel nodded once and moved to a table set apart from the others. He filled a bowl with the thick broth and sat, eating slowly. Potatoes, carrots, and tough cuts of meat. It was filling, and the heat worked its way back into him with each mouthful.

As he ate, voices carried from the next table.

"Church patrols doubled this week," one of the labourers said, leaning closer to his companion. "They're blaming heretics again. Say they're stirring up the beasts. Lost another farmstead last night."

The other man shook his head and drained his mug. "It's not heretics. It's Crawfiends. Flying bastards been circling at dusk. Turned old Harrow's livestock to mush in ablink. Whole pen gone."

"Guards put up a bounty," the first said. "Ten silver for proof of the kill."

"Ten silver's not worth it," the second replied.

He snorted and set his mug down. "I'll stick to hauling crates."

Gabriel kept eating, his expression unchanged, but the words settled quietly in his mind.

Gabriel paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

Crawfiends.

The name carried weight without detail. He'd heard it before, always spoken briefly, usually followed by someone changing the subject. Cliff-dwellers. Fast. The kind of creatures that didn't leave much behind once they were done feeding.

He didn't look toward the speakers. He didn't need to.

Cliffs north of town. Wings. Bodies dragged off before dawn.

Not heavily armoured, if the stories held. Never in numbers. Worse if they caught you unaware. They hunted to kill, not to scare, and whatever they brought down didn't get back up.

If the bounty existed, it would be enough. Coin without kneeling to the Church or drawing their attention. Risky, but contained. The kind of job that ended cleanly one way or the other.

Gabriel finished the stew and set the bowl aside, letting the warmth settle while he sorted what mattered from what didn't.

The innkeeper sent him upstairs without comment. The room was cramped and spare. A narrow bed with a straw mattress, a table that leaned under its own weight, and a single window overlooking the alley below.

He barred the door and sat, fatigue catching up to him. The road had worked its way into his muscles, into the joints he hadn't fully noticed until he stopped moving. He drew the stolen sword and turned it beneath the faint moonlight filtering through the dirty glass.

The edge was chipped. The balance was off.

It would still cut, but not the way it should. Not against something that moved fast and struck from above.

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