Michael Oakbear crouched behind the herb garden and watched the stone cottage that used to be his mother's. The silver-hilted sword lay flat across his knees. Inside that cottage was every clue he had left. Outside it, somewhere in the trees, were the things that wanted in. He knew how long they'd been waiting. The pile of bleached bones near the threshold had grown for days, stacked neat the way scavengers stack when they're patient. Small claw marks scored the wooden door. He had a killer to find, and he could not hunt while strangers picked his mother's home apart. They came at dusk. Three furry lizards, eyes burning orange, slunk low across the stones on all fours. Michael stood. He did not draw. He walked straight at them with the sword pointed down, the way he'd promised himself he would walk toward people who mattered more. The lead beast lunged. Michael lifted the blade and met it. The fight was short and ugly. He took a gash across his forearm. Two ran. One did not. He stood breathing hard over the body, his mother's sword wet, and understood he could not leave this place undefended again. Inside, he barred the door and lit a single candle. The cottage held her smell still — dried thyme, woodsmoke, old paper. On the table sat a carved birch box he had never seen before, its brass lock fitted snug. His name was scratched into the lid in her hand. He broke the lock with the pommel. Inside lay a folded letter, a small key, and a name. Only one name. The easy one. Michael read it twice, then closed the box and slid the sword through his belt. The cottage was safe for tonight. By morning, he would be gone.