McGeough did not wander far that night, for winter winds were creeping down from the northern forests, dragging a thin frost across the road. A dim tavern lantern winked some distance ahead, swaying against the dark like a weary sentinel. He made for it with slow steps, drawing his cloak close about him. Children who had followed him earlier had long since returned to their homes, though he fancied he could still hear their laughter echoing faintly behind him.

The tavern bore the name The Old Wash, a place where peddlers and farmhands gathered after dusk. Its windows glowed golden, steam curling from the chimney in rich plumes. When McGeough pushed the door open, heat washed over him, thick with the smell of stewed turnips and black-pepper broth.

The common room was bustling. A pair of farmers argued over a broken plow. A traveling lute-player hummed a half-forgotten song while tuning his strings. A group of novice Explorers shared nervous whispers about “the early signs” and “maybe the Cycle starting sooner this time.” In the corner, a pot of winterroot stew simmered over the hearth, and an old woman stirred it with the gravity of a priestess tending a sacred flame.

When McGeough entered, a few heads turned.
Not in recognition.
In instinct.

He nodded politely, trying to slip unnoticed to an empty bench, but a gaggle of children darted toward him.

“Story! Story!” cried one.
“Tell us the one about the bridge that sings!” shouted another.
“We heard you know where the Wander-Wolves sleep!” added a third, tugging at his sleeve with sticky fingers.

McGeough raised a gloved hand gently.

“Only travelers with clean hands may hear a tale,” he murmured.

The children gasped in a chorus and bolted toward the washbasin, splashing wildly, forcing a tired mother nearby to sigh into her hardbread.

McGeough smiled behind his mask.
He had bought himself a few breaths of quiet.

Next Episode, this Friday!