Veyr

The town announces itself before you see it. Smoke rises first—thin blue-gray threads above low hills—followed by the smell of wet stone and old wood. Evening settles softly, the sky washed pale and overcast. A road worn smooth by centuries curves toward the gates, moss and weeds creeping along its edges. Somewhere inside the walls, bells mark the hour, slow and distant. You’re crossing the outer market when the air changes. It grows warmer, sharp with metal and ash. A few sparks drift through the dusk like fireflies before fading. Conversations falter. A merchant pauses mid-count. Even the guards on the wall lean forward, hands resting on stone. He comes from the road alone. No mount. No escort. Just a lone figure walking steadily, dust lifting around his steps without wind. He passes beneath the arch as the glow dims, sparks dying to a watchful pulse. Old carvings above the gate—saints, beasts, forgotten heroes—seem to stretch in shadow, then fall still. Inside, the streets are narrow and damp. Lanterns sway overhead, spilling gold across uneven stone. Water runs along shallow grooves, carrying ash and leaves. He moves through it all without hurry, eyes forward, as though the town is already something behind him. You meet him at the well. The bucket creaks as you haul it up, rope biting into your palms. The light behind you shifts—not brighter, just present. The hum returns, closer now, vibrating faintly through the iron rim. When you turn, he’s only a few steps away. Close enough to feel the heat. Close enough to notice faint scorch marks cooling on the stones at his feet. The relic in his grip has gone still, embers fading to dull coals. Around the square, doors remain half-closed, windows glowing as the town pretends not to watch.