Woven Shadows

Chapter 4

It had been a week since I left home. Seven long, sweltering days of trudging through overgrown trails and villages that grew more foreign with every passing mile. The forests, once dense and cloaked in shadow, had given way to open fields that stretched out endlessly under a punishing sky. The late summer sun turned the world into a blistering oven, and the humidity clung to my skin like a wet, suffocating blanket. Every step felt heavier, my movements sluggish and labored in the thick, oppressive heat.

The air was dense with the promise of rain, but the gray sky refused to offer relief. I had long since lost any hope that it would deliver. The open fields made me feel more exposed than free, and without the cover of the trees, the sun beat down relentlessly, turning sweat into grime that coated my skin. I couldn't escape it. The sweat, the dust from the road, the feeling of my clothes sticking to me like a second skin. I was filthy and exhausted, and the longer I walked, the more disgusted I felt with every inch of my body.

A few days ago, I had come across a narrow river—more of a stream, really, but it was the only water I'd seen that wasn't stagnant and crawling with insects. It was a brief, desperately needed reprieve. I stripped down without a second thought and waded into the cool water, letting it wash away the dirt and sweat that had clung to me like a curse. But the bath had been short-lived. I didn't have time to linger, and the river, while refreshing, was little more than a shallow, muddy stretch in the middle of nowhere.

I had only changed my clothes once since then, trading one sweat-soaked, grime-covered set for another, equally disgusting. It didn't matter. Everything I owned had the same damp, gritty feel. My boots were caked with mud, my trousers stiff and uncomfortable from days of wear. The fabric of my cloak, once a source of comfort, now hung loosely over my shoulders, doing little to shield me from the heat. And my scarf, worn high over my nose and mouth, was coated with dust, each breath a reminder of how far I'd traveled.

I felt disgusting. Worse than disgusting. My skin itched with the layers of sweat and dirt, and even the brief moments of washing up in the river hadn't been enough to rid me of it completely. The weather wasn't helping. The sticky, humid air made everything worse—clinging to me like a second layer of grime. It was inescapable and relentless, and no matter how much I tried to shake it off, it stayed with me.

I needed a break. Water. Food. Shelter. Something to wash away this filth, both from my skin and from the rage that still simmered deep inside me. Ahead, a small village came into view—no more than a handful of wooden buildings, their rooftops sagging with age. A dirt road wound through the center, leading to a tavern marked by a faded wooden sign swinging limply in the still air. It wasn't much, but it was something.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and stepped into the village, feeling the eyes of the locals flick over me as I passed. They were used to travelers, I could tell, but they weren't used to someone like me—someone who didn't conform. I was a woman traveling alone, and not at all in the kind of proper clothing most would expect. My cloak was too loose, my trousers too worn, and the scarf across the lower half of my face did little to help my image. I kept my head down, making my way toward the tavern, my mind focused on one thing: finding a place to sit, to breathe, and maybe something to eat.

The tavern door creaked as I pushed it open, and a wave of cool, musty air washed over me. The interior was dim, with only a few lanterns hanging from the low ceiling casting flickering light across the room. The smell of old ale, wood smoke, and the faint staleness of spilled drink filled the air. It was a welcome relief from the oppressive humidity outside, even if the air in here felt thick and unmoving.

The tavern itself was modest—plain wooden walls with the occasional dent or scratch, no windows except for the grimy one near the entrance. A low murmur of conversation hummed from the handful of patrons scattered across the room, most of them sitting in silence, nursing drinks that looked as tired as they did. No one looked up when I entered, which suited me just fine.