The sound of hooves, wheels, and a creaking axle put Alric on alert. He turned toward the noise, peering through the trees, struggling to make out its shape. At first it was only a dark mass between the trunks—blocky, large, moving with slow inevitability.

  Then it rounded the bend and came fully into view, and Alric couldn’t help but be awed.

  Two heavy horses pulled the wagon at an unhurried pace, their harnesses thick with use and darkened by sweat and age. The wagon itself was built more like a moving crate than a carriage: high-sided, broad, and reinforced with iron bands at every corner.

  Canvas was stretched over a bowed wooden frame, tied down with rope and weighted stones, forming a shallow roof that sagged slightly under its own age. Bundles and sacks hung from leather straps along the sides, swaying gently with each turn of the wheels. Some were wrapped in oilcloth, others in rough burlap, all secured with the kind of care that suggested hard-earned habits.

  The bench at the front was narrow and plain, little more than a plank bolted in place. The man driving sat alone upon it, reins in hand, and eyed Alric with suspicion. He clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, bringing the horses to a stop. His gaze passed over Alric, lingering briefly at his hips, before sweeping the trees to either side.

  “Hail, stranger. What brings you out here?” he asked, still scanning the treeline.

  “Uh, good morning! I’m, uh…” Alric paused, suddenly struck by how suspicious he must look. “Just on my way in. Seeing where the road goes, you know?”

  He finished the thought with a sinking feeling, realising he now sounded more like a vagrant than anything else. It also struck him, a heartbeat too late, that the man was speaking English.

  “Eh? Good morning? Ya a nob?” the man said, squinting at him. Then something clicked, and he let out a short chuckle. “Beg your pardon, friend. Can’t be too careful these days.” He jerked his chin toward the road behind him. “But no bandit’s working this close to the city. You on your way into Avengard?”

  The question sounded casual, but his posture didn’t fully relax. One hand still held the reins tight, ready to move if needed.

  Alric studied the man more closely.

  He was older, perhaps late forties or early fifties, with weathered skin and a face lined by sun and wind rather than age alone. His hair, once dark, had begun to grey at the temples and was pulled back with a simple tie to keep it out of his eyes. A short, uneven beard framed his jaw, streaked with the same salt-and-pepper tones.

  His clothes were practical and well-worn: a thick wool coat patched at the elbows, sturdy boots dusted with road grime, and a leather belt heavy with use rather than decoration. Nothing about him was flashy, but everything looked maintained, repaired when needed rather than replaced. He had the look of a man who lived on the road, not because he had to, but because he knew it.

  “Uh, yes?” Alric said, straightening slightly. “Headed to… Erengard?”

  He delivered the name with more confidence than he felt, dimly aware he’d likely just said it wrong.

  The wagon driver laughed. It was a full, belly-deep sound, the kind that came from someone who didn’t get many excuses to laugh. “Avengard, friend,” he said, still chuckling. “But aye. If you don’t pull a weapon on me, I ken give ya a ride.”

  Alric smiled in return, deciding to lean into the humour if it got him off his feet and onto the wagon. He spread his arms and gave a small, awkward turn on the spot, making a show of his empty hands and unarmed hips. That earned him another laugh.

  “Alright then,” the man said, still amused. “Go on, before my horse decides she wants to have a jig with you as well.” He shifted along the bench, making space.

  Alric stepped closer and paused, assessing the height of the bench. He took a moment to work out where to put his weight.

  “Ya stand on the wheel spoke to get up, friend,” the driver said, pointing down. “Don’t worry, it’ll hold ya.”

  Alric nodded, tested the spoke with his boot, then pulled himself up, fingers searching for a grip before he settled onto the narrow bench. There was little space to spare. He angled his shoulders forward to fit.

  With a practiced motion, the driver clicked his tongue and flicked the reins. The horses leaned into their harnesses, and the wagon rolled on.

  The movement was steady. The wheels found a rhythm quickly, the road firm enough that the jolts evened out after the first few moments. Garrick adjusted without looking, shifting his weight with each turn. Alric copied the motion after the second bend.

  “Never seen someone study a wagon seat so careful,” Garrick said. “If ya ever buy one, get a horse with a decent arse. Ya’ll be lookin’ at it plenty.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Alric let out a short breath. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Name’s Garrick,” the man added. “Merchant by profession.” He jerked a thumb back toward the wagon.

  “Alric. Brewer,” Alric said.

  “Eh?” Garrick glanced sideways. “Own a tavern?”

  “No. I make the beer.”

  Garrick considered that. “For taverns.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Hm.” Garrick nodded once. “Bit young for it.” He looked back to the road. “So which is it, then. Merchant, or craftsman?”

  Alric thought for a moment. “Both, I think.”

  Garrick’s brow creased briefly. He seemed to file the answer away, then moved on.

  “Where ya from?”

  “Small village, west,” Alric said. “Out of the way.”

  Garrick accepted that without comment. “Road raised me,” he said. He tapped the wagon’s handle. “This one was me pa’s. Spent half my life listenin’ to him complain about his knees. Mine do the same now.”

  The conversation drifted after that. Garrick spoke more when the topic touched routes, prices, or tolls. Less when it didn’t. The wagon kept its pace.

  After a while, the motion stopped being novel. Alric shifted when the road dipped, braced when the wheels struck a rut. Garrick barely adjusted at all.

  The trees thinned as they rounded a bend. Fields opened out on either side of the road, low fences marking long strips of worked land.

  Alric took in the layout. Open ground. Livestock kept close. Nothing fenced for show.

  Then the smell caught up with the view.

  Manure, wet hay, churned soil. The air carried it without apology. Alric breathed through it once, then adjusted.

  “City folk usually complain louder,” Garrick said.

  Alric shook his head. “Just different.”

  Garrick seemed satisfied with that.

  Alric watched the road stretch ahead, straight and well worn, his attention settling into the distance.

  No deadlines. No instructions. Just forward motion.

  It felt irresponsibly close to a holiday.

  The shape on the horizon resolved slowly as they approached. Stone walls, long and continuous, reaching out to either side of the road. Close up, the surface showed its age. Cracks filled rather than smoothed. Repairs layered over older work.

  The road widened as traffic increased. Wagons queued off to one side.

  “Well,” Garrick said, guiding the horses toward the line, “this is as far as I go. Pedestrian gate’s over there.”

  Alric nodded, more relieved than he expected as he stood and climbed down from the bench. They shook hands, Garrick wishing him luck before gathering the reins again.

  Alric found himself still buoyant as he trudged toward the pedestrian queue. The line ran just off the road toward the gate, a slow, orderly shuffle of people and packs. As he walked, he studied the entrance more closely. Two tall stone arches, each fitted with a heavy iron portcullis scarred by age and use. The stonework was uneven, repaired rather than replaced. Built to last, not to look whole.

  He took his place in line.

  The silence struck him immediately. After the easy companionship of the road, it felt heavy. People stood with their packs at their feet, eyes moving constantly, watching one another without speaking. No one faced the gate for long. Alric noticed more people filtering out through the gate than waiting to enter. Movement favoured exit.

  A voice rang out from ahead of the line.

  “Three copper for entry. Have ’em ready.”

  That jogged Alric’s memory. He needed the coin pouch from his item box. Entry cost was fixed. Delay would not be tolerated.

  He held out his hand and concentrated. A familiar weight settled into his palm, as solid as anything else in the world. He opened the pouch and took out a copper coin, turning it between his fingers. It was worn thin with age, its markings smoothed nearly flat, a small hole punched through its centre for stringing. Coins this worn circulated hard. Either there was little new minting, or coin moved constantly.

  Someone tugged sharply at his arm, forcing him a step sideways.

  “Move,” she snapped, already looking past him.

  Alric barely had time to register the interruption before he saw what she had been watching.

  Something large was coming up the road behind him.

  It was a massive, six-legged creature with the long body of a crocodile and the bulk of a draft animal. Its hide was layered with thick, ridged scales the colour of old stone and mud. Each step pressed shallow impressions into the packed earth. Chains and ornate harnessing were fitted across its body with careful precision, metal shifting softly with each movement. Draped over its back was rich cloth, deep red, embroidered with gold thread, cut and hung like armour rather than decoration. Its head was broad and angular, jaw heavy with blunt, interlocking teeth visible even when its mouth was closed. One eye turned lazily toward the queue, bright enough to register attention.

  Behind it rolled a carriage finished in polished wood and gilded trim, curtains drawn tight across its windows.

  The creature did not slow as it reached the gate. Guards stepped aside without comment. Chains clinked once as it passed through.

  Alric noted the absence of reaction. No raised voices. No complaints. The line did not compress or break. This passage had precedent.

  “You stupid or something?”

  The voice came from his left. Alric turned to find the woman who had pulled him aside earlier. Around them, a few people glanced over, then looked away.

  “Sorry,” Alric said.

  She turned back toward the gate. The queue resumed its previous spacing. Attention dispersed.

  The line crept forward, slow but steady, until Alric reached the front. He glanced toward a smaller arch set into the wall beside the main gate. Narrower, darker, fitted with a simple desk and a coin slot. Throughput mattered more than ceremony.

  “Any weapons?” the armoured man asked.

  His leather armour was worn and repaired in several places. A polearm rested against the wall within easy reach. Two other guards worked nearby, moving coins and tokens without urgency.

  Alric shook his head. “No weapons.”

  “Step back two paces.”

  Alric complied. The guard looked him over, pausing briefly at his boots before lifting his gaze again. Assessment order was practical.

  “Nice boots,” the guard said. “Two copper here, and one here.”

  Alric separated the coins. Two dropped into the stone slot. The third went into the guard’s open hand. The exchange completed without comment. He was handed a small wooden disk, its surface scuffed smooth, a dark burn mark stamped into one side. Identification, not keepsake.

  “You’re free to enter the city,” the guard said. “Don’t cause trouble.”

  Alric nodded and stepped toward Avengard. Entry granted, conditionally.

  As Alric stepped past the desk and toward the archway, a prickle crept up the back of his neck. He became aware of eyes on him, subtle and unhurried. Faces turned away as he glanced toward them, attention slipping aside with practiced ease. No one openly watched him, yet the sense of being measured lingered all the same. Whatever passed through these gates was noticed.

  He resisted the urge to look back.