Familiar (15/?)
Roads began to populate their path just after noon. First one—a narrow, rutted thing bordered by hedgerows—then another, wider and more worn, with travelers heading in the same direction. That was the first sign.
Then came the smoke.
Not woodsmoke, but the sharp, layered tang of a settlement: coal, animals, metal. The kind of scent that clung to everything and didn’t belong to the forest. By mid-afternoon, they were passing signs carved into posts, the occasional milestone with faded letters, and an increasing number of people.
Dana had tucked her hair beneath her hood and pulled her cloak tighter as they passed a man selling dried apples from a cart and two women pushing a wheelbarrow full of wool. She hadn’t needed to say anything to Fox. He’d already vanished into the underbrush.











