Page 37 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

The tavern keeper looked her over once, taking in the cloak, the satchel, the ink-stained fingers, the silver hair mostly hidden beneath her hood. His gaze lingered no longer than was necessary to decide whether she could pay.

“A room costs two silvers,” he said. “A meal is one.”

“No interrogation fee?” Aelira’s voice was flat, betraying little amusement beyond the faint arch of an eyebrow.

He blinked, uncertain whether he’d heard a joke or a complaint. The coins landed on the counter with a muted clink. “Room upstairs. Third door. Window sticks if you open it too far.”

“A tragedy narrowly avoided.” She said.

He looked at her a moment longer, suspicion dulled by fatigue. If he sensed mockery, he was too tired to chase it.

Her room overlooked the square. A fortunate coincidence, or perhaps only the reward for arriving before darker weather and worse company. The window offered an unobstructed view of the village below, and after unpacking the few belongings she allowed others to see, Aelira settled into the chair beside it with a notebook resting across her lap.

To anyone observing, she appeared occupied with research. The illusion pleased her. In truth, she spent the next several hours watching. Observation was not unlike listening to music in a language one did not fully know. At first, only noise. Then rhythm. Then repetition. Then, eventually, meaning.

Briar Hollow revealed itself slowly.

As dusk settled across the valley, people began disappearing indoors earlier than they should have. The baker closed her shutters before sunset though the road still held travelers. A farmer hurried his children home with a hand firm on each small shoulder. Two men crossing the square stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked toward the northern forest at the same time, their faces briefly emptied of expression before they blinked and continued walking as though nothing had happened.

Aelira wrote that down.

A woman dwelt at the well with her bucket only half-filled, staring down into the dark circle of water long enough that another villager touched her arm. The woman startled, laughed too loudly, and carried the bucket away with water sloshing down her skirt.

Aelira wrote that down too.

Near the chapel steps, a child stood alone with one palm pressed flat against the earth. Not playing. Not fallen. Listening. His mother called his name twice before he answered.

By the time darkness fully arrived, scarcely anyone remained outside. Lanterns glowed behind curtained windows. Doors locked. The village seemed to curl inward upon itself like an animal trying to make its body smaller.

Aelira closed the notebook. Something was wrong here. Not openly dangerous yet. Not with teeth bared and knife drawn. This wrongness was slower than that. It moved beneath the visible world with the patient intimacy of an illness learning the body it intended to claim.

She slept poorly, if at all.

The unfamiliar bed was not responsible. Nor was the road, the rain, or the fact that the room smelled faintly of old smoke and lavender someone had used too optimistically in an effort to disguise damp. Her mind simply refused to settle.

The village mostly occupied her thoughts. So did the pull northward, the old letter burned to ash in her tower, the third lock trembling beneath mountains, and the strange, suspended quiet in Briar Hollow.

Also, unfortunately, the roots.

She had noticed them before sunset, though only in passing at first. Pale, thin tendrils pushing through cracks near several foundations. Too pale for ordinary roots. They had looked less like things growing from nearby trees and more like veins exposed beneath skin. Roots obeyed patterns. They sought water, pressure, darkness, nourishment. They followed the logic of survival with more honesty than most governments. These roots did not.

They surfaced where no tree stood close enough to explain them. They crossed beneath stonework they should have avoided.

They curved toward doorways, wells, thresholds, and old places where people gathered. Their pattern was too deliberate to dismiss and too quiet to accuse.

Sleep came eventually, but it did not stay.

Aelira woke in darkness to the sound of barking.

At first, she lay still, eyes open, listening as every dog in the village seemed to find its voice at once. The sound rose from every direction, echoing through the streets, from behind cottages, near the fields, down by the stream. Not ordinary barking. Not territorial, not playful, not the bored announcement of dogs who believed nighttime existed for their opinions.

Distressed. The distinction mattered. Animals understood changes humans often argued with until it was too late. They felt storms before clouds gathered. Earthquakes before stone shifted. Predators before the first branch broke. And now every dog in Briar Hollow sounded afraid.

Aelira crossed to the window and opened it. Frigid air rushed in, clean and sharp against her face. Below, the square lay beneath a thin veil of mist. Nothing moved. No figures crossed between houses. No wolf prowled the street. No thief fled a door. The barking continued, frantic and rising, until the sound became almost unbearable.

Then it froze—all at once. As if a hand had closed around the village and squeezed the sound dead. The silence afterward was far worse.

Aelira remained at the window for several minutes, staring into the darkness with one hand resting lightly against the blade hidden beneath her sleeve. Her skin prickled. Somewhere below, beneath the inn’s old wooden bones, something gave a faint, soft creak.