The market is waking. Traders haggle, voices rising over the dull clatter of carts and crates.


    A scrawny boy rushes past, slapping posters onto walls. Missing livestock. Missing child. I glance at them, but Vren barely slows. He doesn’t need to read the signs to know something is wrong.


    They all know it. I see it.


    Greyhaven is the last breath of civilization before the Demon Frontier, the thin line between the Kingdom of Men and the realm of things best left in the dark. Everyone knows it, but no one says it outright.


    Not while the sun is up, anyway.


    Scholar’s Hollow sits at the far end of the street, its a squat  building of old stone that lays between two much newer buildings. The sign above the door has long since faded, but the heavy oak door is propped half-open, letting out the scent of tobacco, papers and candle wax.


    Bookshelves lean against each other in precarious stacks, the narrow aisles cluttered with scrolls and loose sheaves of paper. It’s a mess, but not the kind left by neglect, this is a library ruled by a man who values knowledge over order.


    That man sits hunched over a desk at the back, scratching at a ledger with newly wetted pen. He’s thin, almost skeletal, with sharp, bristling hair that sticks at odd angles. His fingers tap the page, an absent rhythm, before flipping to the next.


    Vren clears his throat.


    Harlan Doranne doesn’t look up. “You’re blocking my light,” he says.


    His voice is clipped, monotone. “Step aside, or shut the door. The draft stirs dust, and dust ruins ink.”


    I move out of the way, arms crossed.


    Harlan’s eyes flick up, scanning me, then Vren. “You and half the town. Bestiary? Lineage records? Local curses? Family trees? Birth records? Or more conspiracies about the Prince being murdered?”


    “About a Spidrae,” I say. “North of town.


    Harlan snorts, flipping another page. “They’ve been gone for years.”


    I don’t move. “They’re not.”


    His fingers still. He finally lifts his head, adjusting the smudged lenses of his spectacles. He actually looks.


    “Just the one,” I say. “But I don’t think it’ll stay that way.”


    Harlan exhales, loud and exasperated. “Wonderful.”


    I pull back my sleeve, just enough for him to glimpse the faint black lines beneath my skin.


    Then, abruptly, he stands. “Stay there.”


    He shuffles off, movements quick, precise, pulling books from various stacks with an almost frantic energy.


    I exchange a glance with Vren, who just shrugs.


    Harlan returns with three books, dropping them onto the nearest table. Dust puffs up. He gestures at one with a sharp jab of his finger.


    "That one has records of regional anomalies.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    I reach for the one on local anomalies.


    "Can I take this?"


    Harlan’s head snaps up. His scowl deepens. “No. You can sit down and read it here. This isn’t a supply post where you take what you please. If you want knowledge, you earn it by using your eyes, and writing down what you can''t remember, not running off like a barbarian with one of my books to brutalize.”


    I sit.


    I open it carefully, skimming the index. The handwriting varies, some entries centuries old, others newer. I scan for anything mentioning spiders, webs, disappearances.


    One passage stands out.


    "In the year 1342, some 40 years after establishment, a farmer’s land was overtaken by crawling shadows, figures moving at the edges of lantern light. His livestock vanished, their bones found days later, picked clean. A huntsman investigated but never returned.


    I frown. “There’s a pattern here. Just not one obvious.”


    Harlan huffs. “Patterns are easy to find if you want them to be real.”


    I glance at him. “And you don’t think they are?”


    “I think I don’t know yet,” he says flatly.


    I keep at it, finding other scattered reports, an old merchant road closed off due to “shifting shadows,” an entire hamlet abandoned overnight. None mention Spidrae or monsters directly, but the dates are spread decades apart, and the locations all skirt the same region.


    Something stirs every so often.


    The mark on my arm itches.


    Harlan watches me scratch at it. “You should be careful,” he mutters.


    “Of what?”


    He hesitates. Then: “If something''s watching, you don''t want it to notice that you’re watching back.”


    I close the book, pushing it toward him.


    Harlan leans against his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “There’s an old site, north of the fields you were at. The Salin Hills. No one’s lived there in generations.


    I nod. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”


    He exhales. “Fine. Just don’t bring anything back with you.”


    Vren stands first, stretching. “You know, for a man who claims not to believe in patterns, you seem awfully invested in keeping track of them.”


    Harlan waves him off.


    I don’t humor him with a reply. I just step toward the door.


    Before I leave, I pause. “If I find something worth knowing, I’ll return.”


    Harlan doesn’t look up from his notes.


    Outside, the air is colder.


    I reach into my coat, pulling free my flask. I unscrew the cap and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through me, thick and lingering.


    Vren sticks out a hand. “May I?”


    I look at him.


    “No.”


    I take another sip and tuck it away and start walking.


    The frontier isn’t waiting.


    Neither am I.