Chapter 62. The Pact Lives On

The village lay hidden, absent from any traveler’s map, its form never shaped by imperial design or lofty ambition. No stone walls ringed its perimeter; there were neither watchtowers bristling against the skyline nor gatekeepers stationed at toll posts. The road did not follow straight lines of cobblestone or ironbound paving; instead, the forest simply withdrew—its oaks and beeches bending overhead in a respectful hush until their trunks thinned and revealed what had quietly taken root: a circle of timber homes nestled against the foot of a gentle ridge, their steep roofs cloaked in emerald moss, chimneys exhaling lazy blue-gray spirals of smoke into the pale morning air.

They called it Tallowmere, though no one could recall the reason: perhaps it had once been a curse whispered in the dark; perhaps the name of a beast driven from the glade long before the first plank was laid. Or perhaps it had no meaning at all, merely a syllable spoken until it fit the place. Here, names