Four Days Later. Evening.
The village appeared at sunset.
Small. Ordinary. The kind of place that didn't appear on maps—just a collection of wooden buildings huddled around a central road, smoke rising from chimneys, the distant sound of animals settling for the night.
Grog stood at the edge of the forest, watching.
Counting.
Twenty-three houses. A smithy. A stable. What looked like a tavern at the far end. Fields behind, frozen and empty. People moving between buildings, small figures going about small lives.
Still standing, he thought. Still alive.
In the old timeline, this place burned six months from now. Everyone inside.
He stepped out of the trees.
---
The inn was called The Wanderer's Rest.
Small. Dim. Smelling of old ale and older wood. A fire crackled in the hearth. A few locals sat at tables, nursing drinks, watching him with the careful disinterest of people who'd learned not to stare at strangers.
Grog approached the bar.
The innkeeper was a woman in her fifties, gray-haired and sharp-eyed. She looked him up and down—taking in the axe, the size, the hardness—and didn't flinch.
"Room?"
"Yes."
"Three coppers a night. Food extra."
Grog reached into his pouch. His fingers found coins—not coppers. Silver. He placed one on the bar.
The innkeeper's eyes widened slightly.
"That's—" She picked it up. Examined it. "This is too much. For a week, maybe."
Grog shrugged. "I might stay that long."
She looked at him. At the axe. At the hardness in his face.
Then she nodded slowly. Pocketed the coin.
"End of the hall. Last door. Best room." She gestured at the narrow staircase. "Supper in an hour. I'll have extra brought up."
Grog nodded. Walked toward the stairs.
Behind him, the locals exchanged glances. A man with a silver coin meant questions. Questions meant trouble.
But no one spoke.
---
The room was better than expected.
Larger than the one he'd imagined. A real bed with clean sheets. A washstand with a pitcher of water. A window overlooking the street. A small table with a chair.
Grog moved through it slowly, checking.
Window locked. He unlocked it—just in case. Door solid. Walls thin—he could hear voices below. Good. Information came through walls.
He sat on the bed.
Let out a long breath.
First step done, he thought. Inside. Settled. Now I learn.
---
Supper came as promised.
A girl—maybe fourteen, the innkeeper's daughter—brought it up on a tray. Bread still warm. Stew thick with meat. A small jug of ale. She set it on the table, glanced at him once, and left without a word.
Grog ate slowly.
Listening.
Voices rose through the floor. Locals talking. A dispute about someone's missing cow. Complaints about the weather. Laughter at a joke he couldn't quite catch.
Ordinary.
But beneath the ordinary, he listened for something else. Tension. Fear. The things people didn't say.
Nothing obvious.
Yet.
---
He went downstairs after eating.
Sat in the common room with a cup of ale. Back to the wall. Watching.
The locals watched back. Subtly. The way people did when a stranger walked into their midst.
Grog let them look.
Let them wonder.
Let them come to him if they wanted.
---
An old man approached eventually.
Gray beard. Missing teeth. The kind of weathered face that came from decades of outdoor work. He sat across from Grog without asking.
"Stranger."
"Yes."
"Passing through?"
"Resting. Moving on."
The old man nodded. Took a long drink from his own cup.
"We don't get many strangers here. Too far off the main roads."
"Seems peaceful."
"It is." A pause. "Mostly."
Grog caught the emphasis. Let it hang.
The old man didn't elaborate. Just drank. Watched.
After a while, he stood. Walked away.
Grog filed the conversation away.
Mostly, he thought. Something happened here. Something they don't talk about.
---
He spent the rest of the evening walking.
Through the village. Past the houses. The smithy, closed for the night. The stable, horses warm inside. The well at the center, frozen and silent.
Counting. Noting. Memorizing.
By the time full dark fell, he knew the layout. Knew which houses had light, which were dark. Knew where the dogs were and which ones barked at strangers.
He knew, too, that something was missing.
A tree.
There should be a tree at the north edge. A big one—old oak, maybe, or ash. The kind that marked boundaries, that served as landmarks.
In the old timeline, there'd been a tree.
Now there was just empty space.
---
He went back to the inn.
Sat in his room. Watched the darkness through the window.
Waited.
---
Midnight came.
The inn settled. Voices faded. Footsteps ceased. The ordinary sounds of sleep replacing the ordinary sounds of waking.
Grog rose.
Moved to the window.
The street below was empty. Dark. Perfect.
He slipped out.
Not through the door—through the window. Down the side of the building, using cracks and ledges he'd noted earlier. Landed soft on frozen ground.
Moved.
---
The village slept.
He passed houses without sound, a shadow among shadows. The well. The smithy. The stable. Horses shifted at his passing but didn't call out.
The north edge loomed ahead.
Empty space where a tree should be.
He stopped at the edge.
Listened.
Nothing.
But something was wrong here. He felt it—the same wrongness he'd felt near the Grove. The sense of a place where something had happened. Something that left marks invisible to eyes.
He stepped forward.
The ground changed under his feet. Barely noticeable—a subtle shift, like walking from packed dirt onto something older.
He kept going.
The empty space opened around him. Dark. Silent. Waiting.
At its center—
A stump.
Massive. Ancient. Cut years ago, by the look of it. But not cut clean—hacked, chopped, destroyed with violence.
Grog crouched beside it.
Ran his fingers over the wood.
Still warm.
After years, still warm.
His stone pulsed against his hip.
This place, he thought. This is what they're hiding.
He looked toward the village. Dark. Silent. Pretending to sleep.
What happened here?
He didn't know.
But he'd find out.
He turned back to the stump.
Reached out—