Morning came.

Reid woke to find the elk still curled beside him, rising with him like a shadow. Taron had slept through everything, snoring gently under his blanket. When he finally stirred, he blinked at the sight.

"What's that?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"My accountant," Reid said.

Taron looked confused. "Is that an elk? You already have one?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Elks are not a common sight in place like Grinholt. Who has that king of money that it would need a guarding beast like that!"

Reid turned to his elk who had turned at the same time to look at him. Then, their gaze shifted to the almost-empty pouch and they both nodded. 

They would have to turn around the situation soon enough. 

They packed quickly and mounted up. The road curved ahead, flanked by golden fields and the occasional copse of trees. The sun hung low, casting long shadows as they rode further ahead. In the distance, the towers of Aldor gleamed like spears of polished stone that pierced the sky.

Reid rode with his hand near his belt, fingers grazing the pouch. His elk, now no larger than a squirrel, perched on his shoulder like an dark gargoyle—alert, silent, and far too tense.

"You're tense," Reid noted, glancing sidelong at the creature. His voice was calm, but his own muscles had not unclenched since dawn.

The elk didn't answer. It seldom did with words. But its wide, black eyes were fixed behind them—on the road that curved back toward Grinholt.

Watching.

"You felt that too, huh?" Reid murmured.

The elk's tiny claws dug slightly into his shoulder, not enough to pierce—but enough to confirm.

Yes.

Taron, riding a few paces ahead, turned around in his saddle, a question on his lips but he never uttered it.

He knew the answer. They were indeed being followed but what was tailing them was definitely not human.

Reid had felt it since they left—the weight of a gaze that never blinked. A presence heavy and slow, slithering behind them at a pace that always kept it just out of sight. A wrongness. 

Suddenly, the elk stiffened—and vanished.

One blink, and it was gone.

Reid sighed. "Great."

Taron looked back again, brow furrowed. "Did your... companion just disappear?"

"Seems so." Reid rolled his shoulders. "Don't worry. He does that."

But worry crept up all the same.

They rode the next mile in silence, both aware now that something followed but pretending not to know. When they crested a small hill, Aldor finally came into full view.

It looked like a city carved from ambition. Stone walls thirty feet tall circled the sprawling settlement. Atop each wall, sentries marched with spears and crimson cloaks, bright against the sky. Massive gates—twice as tall as any man—stood open just wide enough for a steady trickle of traffic to pass through.

Merchants on creaking wagons queued behind other travelers: mercenaries in patched leathers, pilgrims in dyed robes, farmers towing carts. The line moved slowly. At the front, a dozen guards stood like statues beside a thick, iron gatehouse.

And beside them—coin-chests.

Lots of them.

Reid whistled. "Looks like they're charging everyone."

Taron scanned the crowd. "Not everyone. Just the ones who can't afford to look above it."

The guards said little to anyone. Their eyes didn't judge. Didn't question. They didn't care who entered—only what they paid.

One man protested the toll ahead of them. "I've paid already, just last month! I'm a craftsman, not some drifter!"

A mailed fist answered, quick and sharp to the stomach. The man wheezed and dropped. No questions asked. Another stepped up, tossed a coin, and was waved through without so much as a glance.

Reid smirked. "Efficient."

"It's Aldor," Taron said. "You either pay your way in, or someone pays to throw you out."

As they neared the front, Reid caught sight of his elk again, reappearing on the wall above the gate. It was crouched low, still squirrel-sized, tail flicking, ears laid back. It peered down at Reid, then past him, toward the road behind.

Reid's gaze followed instinctively, and this time he saw something.