Chương 60: Chapter 37: Greenhollow- Part II

I glance toward the narrow window overlooking the village square. Without realizing how much time had passed, the afternoon has surrendered to evening. Long shadows stretch across the square where only a handful of children remain, reluctantly answering their parents' calls to come inside. The blacksmith's forge has gone cold. Merchants are packing away the last of their goods while smoke rises from dozens of chimneys as suppers begin throughout the village.

Somewhere nearby, a bell rings once before falling silent. There is little daylight left. Rowan notices my expression and nods.

"Highcrest sits nearly two miles north of here. You'll want enough light to examine the ground properly."

"I would."

"The farmers will already be putting their animals away." Another sensible observation. Fresh eyes accomplish very little in failing light. Tracks disappear beneath shadows. Disturbed earth becomes difficult to distinguish from ordinary ground. Small details, the sort that often matter most, are easily overlooked. Experience has taught me that beginning an investigation poorly usually means repeating it later. I would rather avoid doing the same work twice.

"I can arrange somewhere for you to stay," Rowan offers.

"I don't wish to impose." He shakes his head before I can continue.

"You aren't. The guild finally answered our request. The least Greenhollow can do is offer a bed for the night." There is little point arguing.

"I'd appreciate it." Rowan rises from his chair with considerably more energy than I would have expected after spending so much time buried in ledgers. Age has silvered his hair but apparently failed to diminish his sense of responsibility.

"Come along." The meeting hall has grown noticeably quieter by the time we step outside. Evening has settled comfortably across Greenhollow while the village prepares for another night. Doors stand open just long enough for families to carry in baskets of vegetables or bundles of firewood before closing once more. Lamps appear one by one behind shuttered windows, replacing the fading sunlight with a warm amber glow that spills onto the streets.

Somewhere farther down the square, laughter drifts from a nearby house before disappearing almost as quickly as it began. Ordinary life continues, even beneath the weight of uncertainty. We walk only a short distance before Rowan turns toward a modest cottage standing opposite the cooper's workshop. A neatly tended herb garden occupies the narrow strip of ground beside the house while climbing beans wind their way around simple wooden poles near the doorway.

Someone has taken obvious pride in the place without ever allowing comfort to become extravagance. Rowan knocks twice. The door opens almost immediately. A woman perhaps a few years younger than Rowan looks between the two of us before smiling warmly.

"I wondered when you'd finally bring the guild around."

"So, word travels quickly." She laughs softly.

"In Greenhollow? Faster than wagons." Rowan gestures toward me.

"This is Kaelen." She inclines her head.

"Samantha Heard." I return the greeting.

"The spare room is yours for the night," she says before I have an opportunity to object.

"My husband insisted the moment Rowan mentioned filling the contract."

"I appreciate the hospitality."

"Nonsense." She steps aside, inviting us inside.

"You look like you have spent the day walking. Sit before Chester decides you've gone hungry on purpose." A broad-shouldered man looks up from the table. Flour dusts one sleeve despite the carpenter's tools resting beside his chair. He snorts.

"Wouldn't be the first adventurer to mistake stubbornness for good planning." I nod, "I've been accused of that before."

"So," he says with an easy smile.

"The guild finally sent someone."

"It appears they did." He offers his hand.

"Chester Heard."

"Kaelen." His grip is firm without becoming a contest.

"Sit," he says simply.

"You've had a longer walk today than any of us. Please join us for supper." The invitation catches me slightly off guard. Somewhere along the road, I had grown accustomed to expecting payment before kindness. The cottage itself reflects the same quiet practicality as the rest of the village. Everything has its place. Shelves line one wall holding jars of preserves prepared for the coming winter while a sturdy oak table occupies the center of the room.

The scent of fresh vegetable stew fills the air, joined by warm bread cooling upon the windowsill. I glance toward Rowan. The headman merely smiles.

"I'll leave you to it. Sunrise comes early around here." Before leaving, he pauses at the doorway.

"Meet me after breakfast." I nod as he continues.

"We'll go to Highcrest together." The evening passes more quietly than I expected. Samantha proves incapable of allowing anyone to leave her table hungry while Chester insists that every village somehow produces better bread than its neighbors. Conversation drifts easily from harvests to carpentry, from preserving vegetables through winter to the challenges of repairing fences after spring storms.

By the time I retire for the night, it becomes difficult to imagine that fear has settled over the same village only a few streets away. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Morning arrives with the smell of fresh bread and porridge waiting downstairs. Breakfast proves no more elaborate than supper, yet no less welcome after two days upon the road.

Chester has already left for his workshop by the time I finish eating, while Samantha insists upon pressing another small loaf into my satchel despite my assurances that I carry sufficient rations. Some arguments, I have learned, are impossible to win. Rowan is waiting outside exactly as promised. The headman raises a hand in greeting as I step onto the road, the morning air still carrying the coolness left behind by the night.

"Ready?" I settle the satchel more comfortably across my shoulder.

"I am." He nods once before turning toward the northern road.

"Then let's pay Highcrest a visit." The village gradually disappears behind us as the last cottages give way to open farmland once more. Unlike the broad fields surrounding Fallowspire, the land north of Greenhollow feels harder won. Every acre has been carved patiently from the surrounding woodland, leaving irregular fields bordered by dry-stone walls and weathered timber fences that twist around ancient trees rather than forcing them aside.

Even the road narrows into little more than a well-used cart track, its surface marked by generations of wagon wheels carrying timber, grain and livestock between the scattered farms and the village behind us. For a while, neither of us speaks. There is little need. Rowan walks with the relaxed confidence of someone who has travelled this road for most of his life. His pace remains steady despite his age, the walking stick serving more as habit than necessity.

Every so often he raises it to indicate another farmhouse standing somewhere beyond the fields.

"The Millers." A modest stone cottage sits upon a low rise overlooking several sheep pastures enclosed by carefully repaired fences. Fresh timber stands out against older weathered posts where portions have recently been replaced.

"They lost three sheep."

"Two weeks ago?" Rowan glances sideways before nodding.

"You've been paying attention."

"I try." He smiles faintly.

"The Millers considered selling the rest of the flock after that. Their eldest son talked them out of it." We continue walking. A flock of geese scatters noisily from the roadside as we approach, protesting our presence before waddling indignantly toward a nearby pond. Rowan points again.

"The Ashcrofts own the orchard." Neat rows of apple trees stretch across the gentle slope beyond a waist-high stone wall. Several ladders lean against the trunks while woven baskets sit abandoned beneath the branches, waiting for the coming harvest.

"Their attack came five nights after the Millers'."

"They lost livestock as well?" He shakes his head.

"Two working dogs." That gives me pause.

"Guard dogs?"

"Good ones." Interesting. Predators usually avoid capable dogs unless forced by hunger or overwhelming numbers. Losing both suggests neither. I file the thought away without comment. The road bends gently around another field where a pair of oxen pull a wooden plough through dark earth. The farmer pauses only long enough to raise a hand toward Rowan before returning to his work. The farther north we travel, the fewer farms appear between stretches of woodland.

The trees themselves seem older here, their branches spreading wider above thick undergrowth left largely undisturbed except where narrow game trails disappear into the shadows beneath the canopy. Somewhere within those woods, a woodpecker drums steadily against hollow bark while the breeze carries the scent of pine mixed with damp earth. Rowan slows beside a weathered milestone almost hidden beneath climbing ivy.

"Highcrest." I follow his gaze. The farmhouse stands upon a broad rise overlooking the surrounding fields, its position offering an unobstructed view of nearly every pasture stretching toward the village behind us. Several large barns occupy the eastern side of the property while a windmill turns lazily upon the crest of the hill, its weathered sails creaking softly whenever the breeze catches them.

The outer fence has been repaired in several places, though the newer timber remains pale against the older wood surrounding it. Even from this distance, I can tell which section was rebuilt most recently. Rowan notices me studying it.

"That's where it happened." I nod slowly. The investigation has officially moved beyond ledgers and conversations. From this point onward. The ground will have its own story to tell. Rowan leads the way through the open gate without raising his voice. He doesn't need to. A man repairing a section of fence looks up almost immediately, setting his hammer upon one of the posts before wiping his hands against a worn leather apron.

Years of working the land have left his shoulders broad and his face deeply weathered by wind and sun. His eyes move from Rowan to me before settling briefly upon the leather wallet fastened to my belt.

"So," he says quietly, "the guild finally sent someone."

"They did," Rowan replies.

"This is Kaelen." The farmer steps forward, offering a calloused hand.

"Harold Highcrest." I return the handshake.

"Kaelen." His grip is firm, though I notice his attention drifting repeatedly toward the northern tree line beyond the fields. Not fear exactly, more like habit. The sort developed after looking in the same direction every evening for several weeks.

"I'm sorry it took this long," I say. Harold shakes his head.

"No sense blaming the man who answered." A reasonable attitude. He gestures toward the farmhouse.

"My wife has tea on if you'd like-""Later." The answer leaves my mouth before I have time to soften it.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather begin where it happened." Rather than taking offence, Harold simply nods.

"I figured you might." He leads us around the side of the barn toward the northern pasture. The repaired section of fence I noticed from the road appears even newer up close. Fresh pine posts stand out sharply against the older weathered timber surrounding them, the earth beneath still darker where the holes had recently been dug. Harold stops several paces away.

"We haven't touched anything beyond fixing the fence."

"Good." I kneel without another word. The soil remains dry enough to preserve impressions despite the passing days. Most have blurred beneath wind and weather, while others belong unmistakably to cattle moving through the pasture after the attack. I let my eyes move slowly across the ground instead of searching for anything specific. People often miss tracks because they hunt for footprints. Tracks are far more than footprints; broken grass; scattered stones; disturbed earth; bent stems.

Every step, leaves behind a conversation with the ground. The question is whether anyone still knows how to listen. I move another few paces. Something catches my attention. A shallow groove cuts through the earth beside the fence before disappearing beneath fresh grass. I brush away a thin layer of loose soil with the back of my fingers. The mark continues.

"What was taken?"

"One cow." I nod without looking up.

"It didn't walk away." Harold blinks.

"No."

"The carcass was dragged." His eyebrows rise.

"How did you-" I point toward the groove.

"The weight." I follow it another few yards before it vanishes where the ground becomes harder beneath a patch of exposed stone. The drag mark alone tells me surprisingly little. The impressions surrounding it tell considerably more. I study the earth in silence, there, faint, almost lost beneath later footprints. A narrow impression no longer than the palm of my hand. Then another, then a third. I shift slightly, changing the angle of the morning light across the ground.

More appear, feet; small; broad; long-toed; humanoid. I remain crouched for several moments without speaking. Rowan eventually breaks the silence.

"What is it?" I do not answer immediately. Instead, I brush aside another handful of loose earth before following the trail several more feet beyond the broken fence. The pattern repeats itself. Small feet, many of them, travelling together. My first thought arrives almost automatically.

"Goblins." The word hangs quietly in the morning air. It fits. Livestock stolen rather than simply killed. Repeated raids under cover of darkness. The signs point in that direction. Yet... Something refuses to settle. I continue studying the impressions without moving. One footprint lies partly across another. The depth is wrong. The stride feels unusual. Not enough to dismiss the conclusion. But enough that I find myself looking at the tracks a second time instead of the first.

Experience has taught me to trust that feeling. The ground rarely lies. Neither, unfortunately does instinct.