Dust clung to Henry's boots like guilt to a priest. It got into everything—his trousers, his mouth, his bloody eyes—and he was fairly certain his left sock had turned to sandpaper two hours ago. The old mare plodded beside him, tail flicking lazily at flies that didn't seem the least bit discouraged.

"Christ, Pebbles. You've been eating something dead, haven't you?"

The horse, unsurprisingly, offered no rebuttal.

They'd been walking since mid-morning, no village in sight, no tradesmen around—just woods, river, and the occasional cluster of goat turds that made Henry wonder if he should've followed in his father's footsteps and became a blacksmith. Or a baker... or a monk. Monks didn't get blisters the size of boiled eggs.

He adjusted the sword at his hip—not that he expected trouble, but he'd learned the hard way that trouble didn't care whether you were expecting it or not. The road curled alongside the river and the light was starting to go that rich, syrupy amber that made everything look peaceful and mildly haunted. Gold on the water, gold in the leaves. Pretty, if you weren't squinting through your own sweat.

He hummed to himself. Off-key, tuneless, and likely invented on the spot. Something about ale, probably.

And then— Snap.

The sound wasn't loud, just a twig cracking in the trees up ahead, left side. Could've been a roe. Could've been a boar. Could've been some shitting highwayman with a knife and a grudge. Could've been a tree deciding it'd had enough of standing.

Henry stopped humming and one hand went to his belt, fingers brushing the hilt. Drawing too early made you look like an arse. Timing was everything, and unfortunately Henry didn't have much of a knack for it.

He glanced sideways, peering into the green.

"Well," he muttered, more to himself than anything. "Either I’m about to get eaten by wolves, or I'm about to embarrass myself in front of a squirrel."

The treeline rustled again.