Eldergrove, nestled near a key trade route, had always been a lively, bustling village. Its cobbled streets were filled with merchants haggling over spices, traders displaying their wares, and children running between the busy stalls. The rhythmic pulse of commerce thrived throughout the village, and the marketplace was a vibrant mosaic of sounds and sights. But on this particular morning, the usual liveliness seemed muted. The morning fog clung to the streets, shrouding the village in a soft, eerie stillness. The chill in the air whispered of approaching winter, and the village folk moved with purpose, trying to finish their tasks before the true cold set in. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the smell of burning wood and hearty morning stews. It was an ordinary day, as ordinary as any other, yet there was a sense of restlessness lingering in the air.

Jack had risen early, as he often did. There was comfort in the quiet of dawn, a stillness that spoke to the hunter in him. His senses were sharp, his eyes scanning the forest edge as he returned from a successful morning hunt. A pair of hares hung from his belt, their fur streaked with early frost. It was another reminder that the seasons were shifting, and with it, the rhythm of life in Eldergrove. Jack had come to rely on that rhythm — the predictability of his days, the familiar faces, the village routines. It was all he needed.

But that sense of familiarity was interrupted by the sight of a lone figure trudging down the dirt path leading into the village. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he approached, noting the stranger’s brown cloak, which was stained and frayed at the edges, as though it had seen far too many nights under the open sky. The man’s hair was tousled and brown, his beard thick and slightly unkept, framing a face that seemed weary from the road. Dark brown eyes peered out from beneath a hood, scanning the village with a look that could have been curiosity, or perhaps calculation.

Jack stepped aside as the man drew nearer, but not before their eyes briefly met. There was a fleeting moment where Jack felt a strange sense of unease, but he quickly dismissed it. Travelers were not uncommon; Eldergrove was positioned near a trade route, and while most who passed through were merchants or pilgrims, a weary traveler was not an unusual sight.

“Morning,” Jack said, nodding as the man neared.

“Morning,” the stranger replied, his voice low and even, with just the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine day for a hunt.”

Jack’s grip tightened on the hares at his side. “It is,” he said simply, offering no more. He wasn’t much for small talk, especially with strangers. He let his eyes linger on the man for a moment longer, then turned to continue on his way.

“Wait,” the man said, stepping closer. “I’m new here. Can you tell me if there’s an inn nearby?”

Jack hesitated, but only for a moment. “There’s The Wounded Stag,” he said, gesturing toward the cluster of buildings ahead. “Just follow this road, and you’ll find it.”

“Thank you,” the stranger said. “My name’s Justin, by the way.” He extended a hand, rough and calloused, to Jack.

“Jack,” came the curt reply, as he shook the offered hand. There was nothing particularly unusual about the man’s grip, nor his demeanor, yet Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this stranger than met the eye. It was an instinct, a quiet voice at the back of his mind, but there was no reason to dwell on it. Eldergrove was no stranger to visitors, and Jack had learned long ago not to make assumptions based on first impressions.

As they parted ways, Jack couldn’t help but glance back over his shoulder. He watched as Justin continued down the road, his cloak billowing slightly with each step, heading toward the inn. For a brief moment, the fog seemed to thicken around the man, obscuring his figure, and then he was gone, swallowed by the morning mist. Jack shook his head, berating himself for being paranoid. It was just another traveler, after all.

By midday, word of the new arrival had spread through the village. The tavern buzzed with gossip, as it always did when someone new arrived. There were whispers about who he might be, where he came from, and why he had chosen to stop in Eldergrove. Some said he was a merchant, others speculated that he was a scholar seeking refuge from the chaos that brewed in distant lands. Whatever the case, Justin’s presence had stirred the curiosity of the villagers.

Jack found himself back at the tavern that evening, as he often did after a day of hunting. He liked to sit by the fire, where the warmth would seep into his bones and the noise of conversation provided a comforting backdrop. But tonight, he found himself glancing across the room more often than usual, to where Justin sat at a corner table, nursing a drink. The man’s dark eyes were alert, watching, as though absorbing everything around him. He seemed at ease, yet there was a certain distance in his demeanor, a subtle air of detachment that Jack couldn’t quite place.

“What do you think of him?” came a voice from beside Jack. It was Bryn, the blacksmith, a burly man with hands like hammers. “The new guy.”

Jack shrugged. “He’s just passing through, I suppose.”

Bryn snorted. “Maybe. Or maybe not. Haven’t seen someone like him in a while. He doesn’t look like a merchant, that’s for sure.”

“Could be anything,” Jack said, but his mind wandered back to that morning, to the brief exchange they’d had. He had been taught to trust his instincts, to listen to the subtle hints that others might overlook. And something about Justin didn’t quite fit.

“Well, if he’s trouble, we’ll find out soon enough,” Bryn said with a laugh, downing his drink.

Jack nodded, but he wasn’t so sure. Trouble didn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it crept in quietly, slipping past the gates and taking root before anyone realized it was there.

As the evening wore on, Justin made his way to the bar, striking up a conversation with the innkeeper. He spoke easily, with a calm confidence that seemed to put those around him at ease. Before long, he was laughing along with the others, blending seamlessly into the crowd. If there was anything strange about him, it was lost in the warmth and camaraderie of the tavern.

Jack watched all this unfold, a quiet observer at the edge of the room. He had seen men come and go, faces that blurred into the background of village life, but there was something about Justin that set him apart. It was as though he was both a part of the scene and yet removed from it, as if he belonged yet didn’t belong. It was a paradox that gnawed at Jack, even as he tried to brush it off as nothing more than idle suspicion.

When Justin finally rose to leave, he caught Jack’s eye once more and nodded. “Goodnight, Jack,” he said, as if they were old friends.

“Goodnight,” Jack replied, though the word felt strange on his tongue. 

He watched as Justin stepped out into the night, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving the tavern to its familiar hum of voices. But for Jack, the evening had been anything but ordinary. There was a disturbance, a small ripple in the usual current, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it would grow. 

As he sat by the dying embers of the fire, Jack’s mind turned back to Eamon’s warnings, the vague sense of something looming on the horizon. Perhaps it was nothing. But as a hunter, he had learned to trust the patterns, to see the signs even when they were faint. And something told him that the arrival of this stranger, this Justin, was a sign of something more. What that was, he could not say. Not yet.

For now, Eldergrove remained peaceful, nestled under the blanket of night. But the quiet would not last forever. Change had a way of slipping in unnoticed, like a whisper on the wind, until it became a storm. And as Jack sat alone, staring into the dark, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm was already here, waiting to be seen.