Chapter Fifteen: Nestowe’s Shadows
The road narrowed to little more than cart ruts through the withered fields. Frost still clung to the furrows, though the air was damp with thaw. Ellien’s boots were soaked, her breath clouding as they trudged past leaning fences and orchards stripped bare.
She had thought the lowlands would feel alive after the glacier’s endless ice. Instead they felt worse — a place that remembered being alive but was no longer certain how.
Maen walked steadily, eyes scanning the horizon. Her hand never strayed far from her knife.
“Not long now,” she said. “Nestowe should be ahead by nightfall, if the bridge still stands.”
Ellien nodded, though her stomach clenched. Each step felt heavier, as though the road itself resisted.
They passed the ruins of a farmhouse at midday. Its walls were blackened with fire, though the ground around it bore no scorch. Inside, the remains of animals lay curled in perfect circles, their bones white, untouched by scavengers.
Maen frowned. “Spiral again.”
Ellien bent to trace one of the circles with a finger. The ash inside shifted like sand, almost warm. She jerked back.
“They’ve been here,” she whispered.
“The Ash Man?”
Ellien shook her head. “Something older.”
By late afternoon, the land sloped toward a broad river. The bridge still stood, stone arches scarred but unbroken. On the far side, Nestowe waited: a small town huddled behind its own half-fallen wall, smoke drifting weakly from a few chimneys.
As they approached, Ellien felt her Sight prickle. Shapes flitted at the edges of vision — not quite Dead, not quite alive. Children playing in silence. Women carrying water jars that melted away as she blinked.
“Ghosts,” Maen muttered.
“Echoes,” Ellien corrected, though the word did little to comfort her.
Nestowe’s gate was open. Two guards slumped at their posts, heads nodding. At first Ellien thought them asleep.
Then she saw their skin: pale as wax, eyes rolled back, lips murmuring words in a rhythm that did not belong to the Charter.
Spirals, again.
Maen cursed softly. “This town is wrong.”
Still, they went inside.
The streets were nearly empty. A few figures moved about their business, but they avoided the strangers’ eyes, drifting from shadow to shadow. Every door was marked with the Charter — but many signs were cracked, lines broken, some warped into spirals instead.
Ellien’s skin prickled. She had felt fear before, but this was worse: indifference. The town itself seemed to accept the corruption as natural.
At the square, they found the well. Its water was black, still, and cold. Beside it stood a man in neat robes, his smile too wide.
“Travelers,” he said warmly. “You’ve come at a fortunate time. Nestowe always welcomes the Clayr.”
Ellien froze. She hadn’t told him what she was.
Maen’s hand went to her knife. “And who are you?”
The man bowed. “Mereth. Steward of Nestowe. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Ellien’s Sight flared. For a heartbeat, Mereth’s form split: his smile remained, but beneath it coiled ash, spiral upon spiral, wrapping him like chains. She tasted blood in her mouth, though she hadn’t bitten her tongue.
Maen stepped closer, her knife gleaming. “We weren’t expected.”
Mereth only smiled wider. “Oh, but you were. The cairn dreams, and the dream spreads. Soon it will wake, and all who walk in light will join its shadow.”
Ellien staggered back. The words weren’t just sound. They pressed against her mind, heavy and inevitable.
Doggedly, she forced herself to draw a Charter mark in the air — the simplest ward, the circle of binding. The air sparked, and for a heartbeat Mereth’s shadow screamed.
When it cleared, he stood unchanged, hands folded politely.
“Forgive me,” he said smoothly. “Nestowe is tired. Rest the night, and we will speak further.”
That night, Ellien lay awake in the stranger’s guesthouse, her hand clenched on the edge of her blanket. She had felt the Ash Man before, in dreams and echoes, but never so near, so carefully hidden.
Mereth was not the Ash Man himself.
But he was a servant.
And Nestowe was already his.