2 days before…
The treeline stood still, its canopy swaying gently in the morning breeze as the sun crept higher. He crouched in its shadow, his gaze fixed on the village beyond. Narrow dirt paths wound between timber-and-thatch cottages, smoke curling lazily from chimneys. The murmur of village life carried on the wind—voices, the creak of a cart, the distant bark of a dog.
He had spent hours watching them. Their mannerisms, their routines, the way they exchanged greetings or parted ways. The people here moved with an easy familiarity, untouched by war, their worries likely no greater than the next harvest or an unruly flock. A place like this might hold what he needed: time, simplicity, and answers.
But his appearance would be... problematic.
He glanced down at himself. The polished black-and-silver armor, the longsword at his hip—everything about him screamed foreign warrior. He would invite more alarm than curiosity. He drew in a breath, quieting his thoughts.
Blending in would be a challenge.
In Yggdrasil, it had been effortless—a few commands, a flicker of code, and he could equip whatever was needed. But here, there was no menu, no interface. The mechanics of this world remained uncertain, its rules yet untested.
He pictured the gear he required. Something practical, suited to the setting. A nobleman's garb from another time—layers of linen and wool beneath a dark steel cuirass, its engravings subdued yet refined. A saber, its curve familiar in his grip, its hilt a balance of elegance and lethality.
Would they even exist here? How would their stats translate into this reality? The thought nagged at him, doubt creeping in.
His fingers traced his thigh—only to find nothing. A faint pull. Not physical, but instinctual.
His breath hitched.
Slowly, he reached out, his fingers pressing into... nothing. Or something. The space twisted, intangible yet solid beneath his grasp. Then, a sensation—cool steel against his palm. He pulled.
His arm reappeared. In his grasp gleamed the cuirass, just as he had envisioned.
Relief tempered his surprise. Without hesitation, he reached again. The vambraces, the greaves, the pauldrons—all exactly as they should be. Lastly, the saber. Its blade caught the light, whispering danger.
He stripped his current armor, setting it aside with practiced efficiency, and donned the new set. The fit was snug but unrestrictive, its weight settling naturally across his frame. The saber rested at his hip, familiar, reassuring.
He adjusted the cuirass, testing its balance. Understated, yet commanding. He would still stand out, but not as a relic from myth.
One last test—his hand moved once more, the void appearing only as his fingers entered it. His old gear vanished, swallowed by the unseen space.
Exhaling, he stood.
The village lay ahead. It was time.
The treeline fell away as he stepped onto the dirt road. Sunlight bathed the village in a golden hue, shadows stretching long over timber cottages and winding footpaths. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of baking bread, damp earth, and fresh hay.
He walked at an unhurried pace, his gaze sweeping the surroundings. The villagers were already at work—men guiding oxen through the fields, women hauling sacks of grain, children darting between homes with careless laughter.
They noticed him in passing. A glance, a pause mid-step, a whisper between neighbors. He met their eyes briefly, offering a nod before moving on. Attention would be inevitable, but better curiosity than suspicion.
To his left, fields of wheat swayed, golden and full, stretching toward twin hills on the horizon. The farmers tending them wore simple but vibrant garments, their clothes a contrast against the vast expanse of gold. Some hauled equipment, others loaded carts. A wagon rumbled by, the driver thick-built and sweat-browed, giving him a brief nod before continuing on.
A good harvest, it seemed.
He had taken only a few more steps when an elder man stepped into his path, his presence deliberate. Straight-backed despite his years, his lined face bore the wear of time without succumbing to it. A walking stick rested lightly in one hand, more companion than necessity.
"Good day, traveler," the elder greeted, voice steady, carrying the cadence of a man used to speaking across open fields. His sharp eyes took him in—his saber, his stance, the cut of his foreign attire. "What news from the county? Or beyond?"
A simple enough question. And yet it caught him off guard.
He met the elder's gaze, his thoughts turning. The words were harmless, but the intent was clear: Who are you, and why are you here?
He weighed his options. A lie was risky—too easily unraveled. A stranger spinning tales in these lands would be met with distrust, called a vagabond at best, a brigand at worst. But the truth? That was no safer.
To speak of another world—no. He would be dismissed as mad, or worse, as a threat.
Simple. Keep it simple. A mix of honesty and pragmatism had always served best.
"No great news," he said evenly. "Only that the roads grow harsher, the nights colder." He glanced toward the cottages. "I need food and shelter. I can pay."
The elder regarded him for a moment, his grip on the walking stick tightening briefly before he nodded. "Fair enough, traveler. You'll want to speak to the headman, then. He'll see you sorted."
He inclined his head in thanks. "I'll do that."
As he moved past, he felt the elder's gaze linger a moment longer before returning to his work. Nearby, a few villagers glanced his way—subtle, but unmistakable.
The thought lingered as he walked: Would gold hold its value here?
His steps slowed slightly, the rhythm of his breathing evening out as a memory surfaced.
A different place. A different life.
North Africa. A town baked in dry heat, the wind carrying the scent of dust and spice through narrow alleys. He sat in the shade of a canvas awning, the weight of his rifle absent for once, replaced by the fragile ceramic of a tea cup. Across from him, an elder spoke in a measured cadence, his hands gesturing as he spoke of grain shipments, shortages, and the promises of men who came and went like shifting sands.
The words were pleasantries, surface-level concerns. But power showed itself in where his gaze lingered—once on the guards, young men hardened too quickly. Enforcers? Or something more? He never spoke of who controlled the supply routes, only of where they led.
It was never about money. Never just about money.
He had watched, listened, noted the way goods moved, the way power settled in quiet hands rather than loud voices. Some men ruled with coin, others with force, but the most dangerous were those who controlled necessity itself—water, food, medicine.
It was never about coin or rank. Control lay in necessity—in being needed.
The weight of that understanding settled over him as the memory faded, the present sharpening back into focus.
The same rules would apply here. They had to.
He exhaled through his nose, a flicker of amusement crossing his mind.
Robin Sage didn't breed the most creative killers for no reason.
Still, the weight of uncertainty pressed against his chest, just as it always did. No matter how many times he'd been in situations like this—unfamiliar terrain, unknown variables—there was always that brief, instinctual tension, the moment before stepping forward when the mind screamed caution. But training silenced hesitation. Fall to your level of training. Always.
He would adapt and overcome.
For now, he needed to listen. To watch. To learn.
He continued toward the heart of the village, his steps measured, his mind already working through his next move.
As he stepped deeper into the Rundling, the village unfolded around him—a quiet rhythm of life undisturbed by his arrival. Men, women, and children moved with practiced ease, each engaged in their daily tasks. The distant ring of the smithy hammering iron punctuated the murmur of conversation, the scent of tilled earth and fresh hay lingering in the air.
He paused, catching the attention of a passing man. "The headsman—where might I find him?"
The villager, a man of middling years with sun-weathered skin, glanced at him briefly before gesturing down the beaten path. "Past a few houses, the half-timbered home," he said simply before continuing on his way.
He followed the direction given, his steps measured as he passed by a man guiding a horse, the animal's breath misting in the cool air. A woman hefted a bag of wheat, disappearing through the doorway of a modest home. The scent of baking bread and damp straw mingled as he moved forward, the path narrowing slightly beneath his boots.
Finally, he reached the foot of the house he sought—at least, he hoped he had understood the instructions correctly.
Before he could knock, the door swung open.
A man-at-arms stood in the doorway.
"How fares our Lord and Lady, ser?"
Inside the man-at-arms, now revealed to be the village headsman, studied him with measured scrutiny, his tone polite yet probing. The weight of the question hung between them, deliberate in its intent.
If he noticed the pointed nature of it, he gave no sign.
He paused, considering his words. Then, with practiced candor, he answered. "I am not in the local lord's retinue. And," a beat passed, his tone even, "I am no knight."
The headsman's brow furrowed ever so slightly. His gaze flickered to the saber at his side, the armor too fine for a mere wanderer. Surprise was there, tempered by caution, yet he remained composed.
"Then that still leaves the question," the headsman said, his voice carefully measured. "Who are you?"
He met the man's gaze, unreadable. "A traveler."
Silence lingered, stretching just long enough to carry weight before the headsman spoke again, arms now crossed.
"Of what kind?"
Before the conversation could turn down that path, he answered smoothly. "Bed and board. The roads have been harsh. I kindly ask to be pointed the way." He offered a small, measured smile, his eyes briefly flicking over the headsman's dress, a thought forming at the back of his mind.
Another pause. The headsman considered him, gaze unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, "There's an inn down the road. They'll provide what you need—for the right coin."
Dismissing him, then. In a hurry. His stance, the tension in his shoulders—his mind was elsewhere, preoccupied with something more pressing.
He cut in with a polite pardon, his tone careful but probing. "If I may ask—what assails you, headsman, that you are in arms?"
A gamble, but one he was willing to take. The lack of proper coin left him with few options.
The door shut with a quiet finality behind them as they stepped onto the street.
Life continued, indifferent to their presence. The distant hammer of the smithy rang in rhythmic beats, blending with the murmur of voices, the occasional creak of a cart. The air carried the scent of tilled earth, of fresh hay, of smoke curling from chimneys where bread baked in unseen hearths.
They walked in silence, the headsman leading, his pace steady but unhurried. The moment of contemplation had passed; his question had been met with careful thought, but no words until now.
The smithy's hammer rang louder as they moved through the village, the rhythmic clang of metal against metal filling the spaces between their steps. Finally, the headsman spoke, his voice even, practiced.
"I am Wolfram," he offered, the name carrying the weight of years and quiet authority. He did not glance back as he spoke, his gaze fixed ahead. "And this—" he gestured subtly as they walked "—is the burden my people carry."
Ahead, figures took shape against the backdrop of morning light. At first, they were only outlines, little more than silhouettes shifting in the open field near the forest's edge. But as they drew closer, details surfaced—bits of gambeson and mail of varying make, chest pieces worn over simple tunics, helms of mismatched design. Two bore crossbows, their arms slung across their backs, while three more held bows, their quivers strapped tight. Others carried polearms, spears resting against the earth, and each, where possible, bore a sidearm—a falchion, a hatchet, a knife at the belt.
Not merely farmers, then. Gentry? Perhaps not all, but enough.
"They were patrols at first," Wolfram continued, his voice low but steady. "Livestock vanished in ones and twos. A wolf, we thought. Then more. Then… eyes in the dark."
His lips pressed into a thin line, a small exhale through his nose.
"Our lot is not unfamiliar with such things. Life on the marches is never peaceful for long. The Baron was sent word—his answer was patience." There was no bitterness in his tone, only the humor of a man long acquainted with the reality of his station. "Platitudes. A letter in return with promises to 'look into it,' but only a caution to remain vigilant."
He huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching.
"The others laughed, too. Or shook their heads."
The amusement faded as his eyes followed the gathered men and women.
"The Baron is not neglectful—far from it," he admitted, his tone shifting, as if warding off misjudgment. "He has done more than most. A voice in the Count's ear for wells, for mills, for roads with patrols to guard them. Even now, mounted men ride the King's Road and the beaten paths alike. But times change. For us all."
They reached the edge of the muster. He saw them clearly now. A group of men—and women—standing together, their weapons at the ready, their faces measured but not without strain.
Wolfram strode forward, his steps unhurried but purposeful. The gathered men stiffened slightly at his approach, their quiet murmurs tapering off as he came to stand beside one of them—a man clad in mail with his visor raised.
Wolfram said, his tone level but expectant. "What did they find?"
The man turned, eyes flicking to the bowman among two others. The archer stiffened, conversation cut short the moment he felt the headsman's expectant gaze.
Feeling eyes upon him, the bowman turned. His sharp eyes flicked between the chief and the visored man before settling on the former. His expression remained composed, but there was an undercurrent of something else—frustration, perhaps, or unease.
With a curt nod, he stepped away from his companions and closed the distance.
"We found little," he admitted, tone clipped. He hesitated, then exhaled through his nose before continuing. "Tracks, but old ones. Scattered remains of a lamb two miles north, bones stripped clean. No blood left at the site." His lips pressed into a thin line. "Could've been wolves, but if it was, they didn't kill it there."
A shift ran through the gathered men, subtle but telling.
"We searched the perimeter for sign of dens or trails leading further," he went on, glancing briefly at the visored man as if for confirmation. "Nothing. Whatever did it took care to cover its movements."
Silence stretched for a beat before his gaze flickered, ever so briefly, toward the unfamiliar figure standing further back.
Wolfram caught the shift and, rather than letting the unspoken question fester, chose to address it outright. He gestured for him to step forward.
"This one has offered his services," the chief explained, his tone measured. "Bed and board, should the hunt be successful. I've agreed to it."
The man in the raised visor looked as though he were about to say something, lips parting slightly—but he thought better of it, closing his mouth before the words could form. He merely listened, waiting.
As Wolfram finished speaking, a pause settled between them. Then, almost as an afterthought, the chief turned his head slightly, glancing toward the stranger at his side.
"Come to think of it," he mused, "I never did ask your name."
The question hung between them. A heartbeat. The hammer of the smith, steady, inevitable.
The stranger hesitated.
A quiet breath, almost a scoff, left him. "No matter." The moment passed, left behind.
The man in the open visor spoke. "Can you track?"
Tracking was second nature—lessons learned from dry ranchlands to humid jungles, from men who read the land like scripture. This world would be no different.
Once, he read terrain like a second language. That skill hadn't left him.
"Yes."
The bowman studied him, then glanced at Wolfram.
The headsman exhaled. "Good."
The hunt was set.