Beyond the Safe Road

Chapter 6 – Beyond the Safe Road

Morning came the same way it always did in Greyhollow.

Mist hung low as Zio pushed open the workshop door. Cold air followed him in, the smell of damp earth giving way to iron and dry wood. The forge had not been lit. His footsteps were the only sound on the packed dirt floor.

Trod was already there.

He stood before the storage rack, one hand hanging at his side. Several metal bars were shifted aside, slowly, deliberately. He stopped at one section and stared at the empty space that had been left open for too long.

“This one’s gone,” he said.

Zio stepped closer and recognized the shape. The metal was darker, heavier than what they usually worked with.

“We still have others,” Zio said.

“We do,” Trod replied. “Not for long.”

He closed the rack and tapped it once before turning away.

“Ravenhold,” he said. “There are still traders who sell this kind.”

Zio nodded.

Nothing else was said. Zio moved to the cart, checked the ropes, made sure everything sat straight before the road did it for him.

Greyhollow was not fully awake when the wheels began to turn.

The workshop was left behind, unchanged.

The road out of Greyhollow looked the same as it always had.

The ground was firm beneath the wheels, old tracks pressed deep into the dirt. Two carts could pass without slowing. The morning air was still cold. The horse’s breath showed for a moment.

Trod walked ahead, one hand holding the reins. His pace stayed steady, unaffected by rises or dips.

Zio sat on the side of the cart with his back against a wooden crate. Every small jolt ran through the frame and left its mark in his bones.

They moved without filling the space with words.

When Trod spoke, it was only to guide the cart. A brief tug on the reins. A word to slow. Zio answered by shifting his weight or correcting the line. After that, the road moved as it always did.

By midday, the land around them began to change. Open fields broke into brush, then thinned again where scattered trees took hold. The sounds changed with it. Bird calls grew fewer. Insects filled the quiet.

They stopped only to water the horse and eat. Dry bread. A mouthful of water from a leather flask. There was no reason to stay longer.

The first night passed quietly.

They pulled off the road far enough to leave it clear. A small fire was lit, just enough to keep the cold from settling too deep. Trod sat with his back against a tree, eyes half closed. Zio checked his arrows one by one, his thumb running along the shafts. He set one aside when he felt a slight bend.

The fire crackled low. The horse grazed nearby.

Morning came before the sun climbed high.

They packed up and moved on.

On the second day, the road carried them deeper into the forest.

The trees stood closer together, their canopies overlapping, though light still reached the ground. The path stayed clear. Worn. Familiar enough that there was no reason to slow.

Zio noticed it first, without knowing what he was noticing.

Marks along the roadside were scattered. Not wheel tracks. Not footprints. More like animal traces that never settled in one direction. Something crossed, doubled back, then stopped. The ground was pressed down where nothing should have lingered.

He said nothing.

Not long after, Trod eased the horse. He stepped down and crouched near the edge of the road, brushing aside dry leaves with two fingers.

“This is odd,” he said.

His voice did not change.

Zio joined him. The soil was disturbed, but shallow, as if whatever had passed through had not carried the weight it should have. A low branch nearby had snapped, not cleanly, not by wind, and too high for anything small.

Nothing in the forest reacted.

There was no sudden movement. No burst of wings. The birds were still there, fewer now. A breeze passed through the leaves.

Trod straightened. His gaze moved from the trees to the road ahead.

“We keep going.”

Zio nodded. He adjusted the bow on his back without thinking. The cart rolled forward again, the wheels creaking softly.

The road was known. Used. Marked safe often enough that no one thought twice.

A sound came from the distance.

Not a roar. Something heavier, dragging itself through brush. Leaves shifted. Branches snapped one by one, steady, unhurried.

Trod stopped without a word. His hand was already on the axe handle before Zio noticed the movement.

The undergrowth at the side of the road split apart. A creature emerged, its hide dark and wet looking, like stone after rain. Its eyes did not dart or flare.

Zio took a short breath.

The creature stopped at the edge of the path. For a brief moment, something dim pulsed beneath the thick plates of its chest. The glow surfaced, then sank again beneath muscle and motion.

Trod did not wait.

He stepped forward, stance low, axe lifted partway. The creature lunged, sudden and heavy, closing the distance faster than expected. The ground jolted as its weight drove forward.

Zio moved before he was told.

He drew an arrow and aimed low, releasing as the creature turned. The shaft struck the front leg. It did not sink deep, but it caught. The motion faltered.

Trod came in from the side. The axe bit into the shoulder. Dense hide resisted the cut, but blood followed, dark and slow.

The creature spun, its tail sweeping wide. Zio stepped back, nearly lost his footing, then shifted the cart just enough to keep it from tipping.

There was no shouting. No magic.

Only space held, a moment judged, and one movement that arrived a fraction late.

Trod took the opening.

The axe fell again, harder. Beneath the creature’s chest, the dull glow shuddered, then dimmed.

It made a short sound. Not a cry. Its body twisted away, tore through the brush, and vanished between the trees, leaving broken branches behind.

The forest fell silent.

Zio stood there, his breath sharp and uneven before he noticed it.

Trod remained where he was, the axe still held halfway, his eyes tracking the direction the creature had taken. Only when the last sound of breaking brush faded did he lower the blade.

Zio stayed still. He scanned the trees, the ground, the space behind the cart. Leaves settled back into place, slow and ordinary.

Dark blood stained the edge of the road. Zio did not step closer.

Trod exhaled once and rolled his shoulder, testing the pull in it. A shallow cut showed on his arm.

The cart had shifted. One of the bindings had come loose. Zio retied it, pulling the rope tight until the knot bit into itself. A faint tremor ran through his hands.

Several sacks were torn, the outer layer scratched through. Trod looked at them longer than he looked at his own arm.

“That shouldn’t be on this route,” he said.

Zio nodded. He did not know what was supposed to be on this road.

Trod wiped the axe head with a cloth and slid it back into place. The motion was practiced.

They stood for a moment longer, listening as the forest found its rhythm again.

Then the cart was set straight, and they moved on.

They did not linger.

The road stayed the same. Packed earth. Familiar turns. The spacing of the trees as it always had been. But the way they moved through it had changed.

Trod spoke less than before. At each fork, he slowed, even when the choice was clear. Sounds from the undergrowth made them pause, just long enough to listen.

Zio noticed details he would have passed before.

Late in the afternoon, they passed a small caravan coming the other way. Two horses. A light cart. No guards.

There was no greeting beyond a nod.

One of the men asked if the road ahead was safe.

Trod answered simply. “Safe so far.”

The caravan continued on. As it went, the space between their horses narrowed.

That night, the fire was kept low. Zio checked the bindings again before sleeping, ran a hand along the wheel rims, then sat with his back against the cart.

The sky looked the same. The stars were steady. Nothing felt out of place.

Trod set their route before dawn and did not linger over it.

The road ahead was still long.

On the tenth morning, the road began to slope downward.

The trees thinned first, letting light fall wider across the ground. The earth grew harder beneath the wheels, marked by use rather than age. Tracks no longer overlapped at random.

Ahead, through thinning mist, a straight line broke the horizon. Trod followed Zio’s gaze without comment.

As they drew closer, the shape pulled free of the morning haze. Stone walls, long and low, enclosing something far larger than Greyhollow. Watchtowers stood at measured intervals, not imposing.

Sound reached them first. Iron rims striking stone. Voices carried from a distance. The dull rhythm of work, multiplied beyond any single shop or street.

Then the gate came into view. Open.

Traffic flowed through without pause. Merchants, guards, travelers. No rush. No ceremony. The city moved.

Zio slowed without meaning to. The road did not wait.

Trod tapped the side of the cart once. A signal to keep going.

Ravenhold stood ahead. Not welcoming. Not refusing.

They entered with the rest.