The smell of wet charcoal was the first thing that greeted Drovian as he limped over the crest of the hill. It was a flat, heavy scent, devoid of the rich, savory aroma of roasting fat and hickory smoke that had defined this ridge for a decade.He stopped, resting his weight on his good right leg. His left leg, stiffened by a deep, jagged scar that ran from hip to calf, throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. He looked down at his left hand, cradled against his ribs in a rough linen sling. The fingers were swollen, wrapped in stiff, yellowed bandages that smelled faintly of cheap vinegar and dried blood."It’s gone," a voice croaked from the shadow of a half-collapsed stone well.Drovian didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't have one. His cleavers were gone, his knives were buried somewhere in the ruins of the capital, and his hands were barely functional. He simply turned his head, his gaze flat and unblinking.Tazven Orlan stepped out from the ruins of the stone well. The young man lo

"There is no roof!" Tazven yelled, gesturing wildly at the open sky, where rain-laden clouds hung low over the valley. "The shop is ash! The inventory, the cooling racks, the drying hooks—everything you spent ten years building is nothing but gray dust and charcoal, Drovian! Why are you acting like this is just a minor plumbing issue?"Drovian didn’t respond immediately. He took a heavy, uneven step forward, his boots crunching against a charred segment of the floorboards that still held the outline of his original storefront. He reached down, his good hand brushing aside a pile of wet, calcified debris to reveal a flat, slate-colored stone—the very threshold he had laid when he first claimed this plot of land."The roof kept the sun off the meat," Drovian said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "The walls kept the wind off the customers. The tools kept the work clean. The structure was never the point, Tazven. The point was the space itself. This ground is where I made my life. It is s

"They’re coming down the north trail," Tazven muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the wet wind. "Three of them. Mounted. Heavy coats, but I saw the sheen of steel under the wool. They aren't travelers, Drovian."Drovian didn't look up from the timber he was scraping. The drawknife in his hands—the only tool he had managed to salvage from the cellar ruins—shaved off a long, curling ribbon of blackened pine, revealing the pale, clean wood beneath. "Hand me the iron wedge.""Drovian, did you hear me?" Tazven hissed, stepping closer and grabbing Drovian’s right wrist. "They aren't tax collectors. They have the look of sellswords who haven't eaten a decent meal in a month. Desperate men are dangerous men. Especially when they’re looking for a ghost."Drovian didn't pull away. He simply rotated his arm, a subtle shift of his wrist that put Tazven’s thumb under immense, sudden leverage. Tazven let go with a sharp intake of breath, nursing his fingers."A dull blade is more dangerous

The three riders crested the rise, their silhouettes jagged against the gray, oppressive sky. They didn't rein in their horses until they were barely ten paces from the foundation of the ruined shop. The lead rider, a man with a face like a slab of cured leather and eyes that darted with the twitchy paranoia of a caged rat, spat into the mud."Found the spot," the rider growled, his gaze raking over the blackened timber and the solitary figure kneeling in the muck. "Told you the intel was solid. The butcher’s back in his sty."Drovian didn’t look up. He was currently setting a rusted hinge into place, his movements methodical and agonizingly slow. The rasp of the file against the metal was the only sound for ten long, heavy seconds.Tazven Orlan stood three paces behind Drovian, his hand hovering over the hilt of his shortsword, his knuckles white. "You’re off the path, travelers. This land is claimed. Keep riding."The lead rider barked a harsh, wheezing laugh. He signaled his men to