The village green was thinning as dusk crept down from the ridge. Shadows lengthened, chasing the last warmth from the cobbles. Outside the tavern, laughter spilled like cheap ale—loud, brittle, and edged with the sharpness of men who drank too much to remember the cold waiting at home.

Ellyn passed with her usual quiet step, a worn sack slung over one shoulder, a weathered crook in hand. Her skirts were damp at the hem, flecked with meadow-mud and burrs, and her boots left soft impressions on the path. A few villagers nodded to her in that careful, half-respectful way they had when they didn’t quite know what to make of someone. She gave no nods back.

She was nearly past the tavern when a voice cut across the evening air.

“Oi, Ellyn!” It was Carrik—one of the butcher’s sons, broad in the shoulders and hollow in the head. He leaned against the tavern’s doorframe, a mug in one hand, a smirk in the other. “You lose a lamb, or are you just here to graze?”

Laughter followed from those near him, rough and thoughtless. But not from the man beside him. He stood a pace off, arms folded across his chest, half-shadowed by the overhang. Older now—taller, leaner. The set of his shoulders had changed since boyhood, as had the look in his eyes. He said nothing, but Ellyn felt him watching her.