Corwin Grey's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Corwin marks the dark window on their third pass through the poorest quarter. Three nights without light means something. They carry a half-finished charm in their pocket, silver still warm from the last working, and already they're shaping the next one in their mind. The cottage sits at the end of a row, its stonework cracked and ivy climbing wild over the walls. Most places here are worn, but this one looks like it's being slowly swallowed. Corwin stops outside the door and listens. No movement. No sound of breathing or shifting weight. They knock twice, then wait. When no one answers, they test the latch. It gives. Inside, an old woman lies curled on a pallet, blanket pulled tight, eyes open but unseeing. Corwin kneels beside her and slips the half-finished charm into her hand. The silver warms against her palm. Her fingers close around it. Corwin will finish the rest of the charms tonight, but this one needed to be here now. Outside, the broken swing hangs from the twisted tree, one rope frayed through. Corwin pauses there, hand against rough bark. The woman had a grandchild once. They'd seen her pushing the swing last summer, heard her laugh carrying through the quarter. Now the seat dangles crooked, wood split down the middle. Corwin pulls a silver pinwheel from their pack and wedges it into a crack in the tree trunk. The metal petals catch what little light filters through the leaves. It spins once, twice, then settles. A marker. Something bright in a place that's forgotten brightness. When they look back at the cottage, candlelight flickers in the window. The old woman stands there, one hand pressed to the glass, the other clutching the charm. Corwin nods once and turns away. One more window lit. One more person seen. The list in their mind shifts, crosses off a name, adds three more. Their fingers are already reaching for the next piece of silver.