The rider came into Millhaven at a full gallop, which was unusual. Millhaven wasn’t the kind of town where people galloped. A galloping horse meant something was wrong, and the people in the market square seemed to sense it before they even saw the rider, the way a room goes quiet before bad news arrives.
I was at The Crooked Beam when I heard the hooves. Tom looked up from behind the bar.
"That’s not a local horse."
The rider came down the eastern road, from the direction of the forest, where Ren and Maren had gone ten days ago. The horse was lathered, and the rider, a young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty, wore a dark green messenger’s vest bearing a crest I didn’t recognize. She slid off the saddle, and her legs nearly buckled beneath her.
"Magistrate Dale," she said breathlessly. "I have a message for Magistrate Dale. From Haremdale City."
The magistrate appeared in less than five minutes. He walked down the hill road at his usual measured pace, his cane tapping steadily against the ground, his face revealing nothing. He read the letter right there in the square, in public, which was something I’d never seen him do before.
His expression didn’t change.
"Come with me," he said to Clara.
Then he looked at me.
"You too."
We followed him to his study. He sat behind his desk and placed both hands flat on the tabletop.
"The letter is from my brother. Your uncle, Clara. Councilman Dale, in Haremdale City." He looked at Clara, then at me. "The Thorn Collective has established a visible presence in the capital. They’re no longer operating in the shadows. They’ve claimed responsibility for three attacks on council members who oppose the Vellmore trade initiative. They’ve declared themselves a faction with political ambitions."
Clara’s jaw tightened. "They’re not hiding anymore."
"No. They’re bold now, which means either they’re powerful enough that they no longer need to hide, or they want to be seen." He picked up the letter again. "They’ve publicly claimed to represent the interests of House Vellmore. Lord Vellmore has neither confirmed nor denied the association."
"That’s too bad," a familiar voice said from the doorway.
We all turned.
Maren stood at the entrance, looking as though she’d been dragged through half the forest and left to find her own way home. Dust covered her coat, her dark hair hung loose and tangled around her shoulders, and a fresh cut marked her cheek.
"Maren," Clara said. Her voice cracked just slightly on her sister’s name.
"I’m fine. We’ll get to that later. First, what did I miss?"
Maren crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair opposite the magistrate’s desk. She winced as she sat, though she made no attempt to explain why.
"The Thorn Collective has gone public," the magistrate said. "They’re claiming House Vellmore’s backing."
"Good. That’s useful." Maren leaned forward. "Because it’s wrong."
She reached into her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, its edges worn and yellowed, the kind of document you’d expect to find buried in an old ledger or archive.
"I didn’t actually go to Haremdale City. I went into the forest with Ren to meet an informant. He was a few days late, but he eventually handed me this."
She placed the paper on the desk.
"It’s a trade record from a merchant house in Haremdale City. Sera Voss’s merchant house, to be precise. It shows payments to a group identified only as ’the Collective,’ going back eight months. The payments started before the Vellmore initiative was even proposed."
The magistrate picked up the record and examined it.
"Before the initiative?" Clara asked.
"Before it," Maren confirmed. "From what I’ve gathered, the Thorn Collective didn’t emerge because of the Vellmore initiative. Someone established the Collective first, then used the initiative to give it a reason to operate openly."
The magistrate’s hands settled flat on the desk again, pressing harder against the wood.
"So Lord Vellmore might not be behind the Thorn Collective," Clara said slowly. "Someone could be using his initiative as a cover. The Collective attacks anyone who opposes it, making it look as though Vellmore is behind the attacks. But if the Collective existed before the initiative, then the initiative is the tool, not the reason."
"Who created the Collective, then?" the magistrate asked.
Maren looked at me.
Not at her father. Not at Clara. At me.
"That’s one of the reasons I went into the forest with Ren. I wanted to find out. I didn’t get an answer, but I found something else."
She paused, as though deciding how much to tell us.
"The forest is changing. The creatures, the terrain, even the paths. Ren and I came across things that don’t match anything in the old records. Places that shouldn’t be there, creatures that nobody has documented before. The forest is evolving."
She was describing the narrative without knowing it. The Forest of Unwritten Things was filling itself in, just as Millhaven had. She’d witnessed it firsthand without understanding what she was looking at.
"I also found this."
Maren reached into her coat again and pulled out a scrap of torn paper. She placed it on the desk beside the trade record.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
I picked it up and read the words written across it.
Woe to the world, the threads are unraveling.
What the hell did that mean? Who had written it, and why?
Was it some kind of subliminal message the narrative had planted to warn me against getting involved? Or was it meant for someone else entirely?
"Joseph," Maren said. "You recognize the writing."
"I don’t."
"Then why are you staring at it so intently?"
I looked at her, then at Clara, then at the magistrate. Three people were watching me, waiting for an answer I couldn’t give.
"I don’t know," I repeated.
Maren regarded me as though she knew I was lying but had decided to let me keep the lie for now. I wasn’t sure how to respond without making myself look even more suspicious, so pretending ignorance seemed like the safest option.
Then she did something I hadn’t expected.
She stood, wincing as she moved, and walked around the desk. She passed her father, passed Clara, and stopped in front of me.
"You look terrible," she said. "You look like you haven’t eaten or slept since I left."
"I’ve been training. And healing."
"Training." She said the word as though she were testing its flavour.
Then she reached out and touched the fading bruise on my cheekbone. It had gone from purple to yellow, and her touch was light, almost tentative, as though she were checking whether it was real.
A moment later, she lowered her hand and stepped back.
"You should eat more," she said. "And stop looking like a kicked dog."
Clara’s voice cut through the room.
"Maren."
Her sister turned. Clara stood by the window, her face unreadable. She’d seen Maren touch my face. More importantly, she’d seen the way Maren had looked at me while doing it.
"Can I see the trade record?" Clara asked.
Her voice was even. Too even.
Maren handed it over.
Clara read the document, then read it again. Her eyes moved from the record to Maren, then to me, before returning to the page. She was trying very hard to keep her composure, but I suspected the trade record wasn’t the only thing bothering her.
"I need to talk to Clara," Maren said. "Alone."
The magistrate glanced at me.
I took the hint and left the room, waiting in the hallway while the door closed behind me. I could hear the sisters talking, their voices controlled and careful, full of things neither of them wanted to say outright.
Eventually, the door opened, and the magistrate stepped out.
He looked like a man who’d just been told something that had changed the shape of his world.
"Joseph," he said. "The letters came from Haremdale City. The Thorn Collective is funded by someone in the capital. My daughter is going to Haremdale City."
He delivered each sentence like a separate fact, filing each one away in its own place.
Then he looked directly at me.
"I have letters to write tonight."
He started toward the door but stopped before leaving.
"Joseph. My daughter is going because she believes it’s the right decision. I believe she’s right. But I’m her father, and I’m telling you now: if something happens to her, I will find you, and I will make sure you pay."
He walked away. A moment later, the front door opened and closed, and he was gone.
Why the hell would he come after me if his daughter had made the decision herself? It wasn’t as though I’d asked her to go. As far as I knew, Clara had decided to leave without consulting me at all.
Then again, perhaps the magistrate had noticed something between us that he didn’t entirely approve of. Or perhaps he simply needed someone to blame if things went wrong.
Either way, I wasn’t particularly interested in finding out.
Clara emerged from the study. Her face was composed, the same mask she wore around everyone else, but her eyes told a different story.
"Joseph. We’re leaving for Haremdale City at dawn tomorrow. You, me, and Maren."
She said it flatly, as though the decision had already been made and there was no point discussing it.
"I’ve decided to face this problem head-on. Father’s agreed, so we’re going."
"Okay."
"And Joseph?"
"Yeah?"
She looked straight at me.
"Whatever is happening between you and my sister, handle it before we leave. We’re going to be riding together for four days, and I’m not spending the entire journey watching you two make eyes at each other."
"Nobody’s making eyes at anyone."
"You’re a terrible liar, Joseph. We’ve established this."
She turned and walked upstairs before I could come up with a better defence.
Maren came out a little later, still holding the scrap of paper. She studied me with a complicated expression.
"Are you sure you don’t recognize the handwriting?" she asked. "If you do, you can tell me. I won’t pressure you."
She stepped closer.
"And you should eat more."
Then she went upstairs, leaving me alone in the hallway.
A door opened and closed upstairs. Then another.
The house settled into silence once again.
I returned to my room, sat on the bed, and pulled out the scrap of paper. I read the message again, hoping that staring at it for long enough would somehow make it mean something.
It didn’t.
Then a familiar notification appeared.
[Author’s Archive Update]
Current divergence: 19 percent.
Nineteen percent.
It had jumped by one point while I wasn’t paying attention. The story was accelerating, like a cart rolling downhill with nobody steering it.
Tomorrow, we were riding south. Four days on the road with two women I planned to use for my own benefit.
After all, I could no longer trust women after what my ex had done to me.
And why would I develop feelings for my own creations anyway? Maren wasn’t even someone I’d created deliberately, but to me, she was still just a character in a book I’d written.
Whatever happened between us, I wasn’t going to forget that.
At least, that was what I told myself.