Lance Roan's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

The stranger lived. Genevieve washed her hands in the basin while Lance saw to the mare at the carved wooden gate. Dusk had thickened into something heavier. The elk stood at the tree line, head lowered, antlers wide, watching the lane. Then the elk shifted, and Lance turned. A hooded figure stood just outside the gate. Robes black as wet bark. No face beneath the hood, only shadow. Lance stepped between the figure and the cabin. He set his hand on the post. The figure did not speak. It only looked, long and slow, at the door behind him. Then it turned and walked back into the dark. Lance found what it had left pressed into the wood of the gate — a small dark token, etched with arcane lines, glowing faintly. The same shape as the mark on the wounded man's chest. He pried it loose with his knife and held it in his palm. It was cold. Genevieve came out wiping her hands. She looked at the token. She looked at the lane. She did not flinch. "He was here," Lance said. "He'll come back." He closed his fist around the cold metal. "I'm staying." Genevieve met his eyes. "Good," she said. "There's a cot by the hearth." That was all. It was enough.