It was late in the dying light when the stranger came to Forger's Ford.
A spring rain fell in hushes, turning the dust to pale mud and washing the world in shades of copper and smoke. The lanterns in town were already lit, flickering against the mist like weary stars. The kind of rain that made dogs sleep, that kept knives sheathed, and filled men's silences with thoughts they didn't want to share.
He arrived without fanfare, alone on the main road, boots soaked, cloak heavy with roadfilm. No banner. No badge. Only the worn hilt of a sword beneath his coat and a quiet that seemed too old for someone still breathing.
People noticed, but only with side glances. No one in Forger's Ford liked to meet the eyes of strangers after sunset.
At the bounty board near the constable's post, the stranger stood without moving. The parchment sheets were sodden, curled at the corners, their ink running down in crooked veins. Most had warnings scrawled across them by braver fools-Don't try, Turn back, He's not worth the grave-but one remained untouched. A name, bold and alone.
Kars Drenwick.
Slaver. Bandit. Wanted alive-preferably.
The constable came out with a wool coat tugged over his gut and a pipe clenched between yellowed teeth. He squinted through the rain and grunted.
"Not a good idea, friend. That one's taken three already. Cut a watchman's face in half. They say he eats the tongues of bounty folk." The man smiled at his own joke, but the stranger didn't laugh.
He reached inside his coat and slid on a ring-iron, plain, the kind given to no man by nobility or fate. His gloved hand touched the parchment, just once, before he turned.
The constable cleared his throat, uneasy now. "Name, at least. For the ledger."
The stranger paused, but did not look back.
"No," he said.
Then he walked into the mist, and the town swallowed him whole.
By midnight, Kars Drenwick's gang lay sprawled across the earth outside the grove-eight bodies twisted in silence, their blood washed clean by the rain. No witnesses. No screams. Just the faint scent of steel in the wind.
Kars himself was left breathing, bound in his own irons and leaned gently against the bounty board before dawn.
The constable found him before the sun rose. No message, no signature. Just the job, finished.
The stranger was gone by morning. But in taverns and stables, whispers took root like seeds in damp soil. They said he never spoke, that he wore no mark, no armor, no crest. That he moved like a ghost, killed like judgment, and left behind nothing but completed names.
They never saw him arrive. They never saw him leave.
But one thing was certain.
Something was beginning.