Chapter 11 — Watch

  (Crimson — First Person)

  Blade spoke to the owner while I waited by the road.

  I didn’t hear most of it. Just the low cadence of Blade’s voice, the way the man gestured toward the fields, the brief nod they exchanged before parting. No tension. No bargaining. Whatever was said, it ended cleanly.

  Then we walked.

  The fence came into view as we crested the low rise.

  I saw it immediately.

  Not the boards--those were obvious. Two rails bowed inward, one post snapped near the base and leaning just enough to invite escape. But it wasn’t the wood that held my attention.

  It was the ground.

  A shallow depression curved beside the fence line, grass pressed flatter there than anywhere else, soil packed smooth in a way that didn’t match hooves or weather. The shape wasn’t sharp anymore. Rain had softened the edges. Time had settled it.

  Still.

  My breath slowed.

  Ashburrower.

  Not recent. I knew that too. But knowing didn’t loosen the tightness in my chest.

  Could it-

  Blade didn’t hesitate. He walked straight to the fence, set his pack down, and braced the broken post upright. He squinted along the line, eyes narrowing.

  “Stand there,” he said, tilting his chin toward the field.

  I moved immediately.

  I stepped back to where the ground dipped and the fence line bent, planted my feet, and lifted my gaze without thinking.

  Watch position.

  Blade adjusted the post, shifting it a fraction. His eyes flicked between me and the rail, measuring. After a moment, he nodded to himself and went back to work.

  I stayed where I was.

  If he wanted eyes on the ground, I’d give him eyes on the ground.

  I listened.

  No vibration hummed through the earth. No subtle tremor under my boots. The air was quiet—ordinary quiet—and that made me uneasy.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Ashwood had been like this once. Calm ground. Simple work. Silence that listened back.

  Then the earth had shifted under my feet without warning.

  My gaze returned to the depression beside the fence.

  If it surfaced here before, it could again.

  Blade worked methodically, digging the base deeper and packing the soil tight. His sword rested against the fence within reach, but unattended. That bothered me more than I liked.

  I tested the ground with my heel the way I’d seen him do before.

  Stable.

  Minutes passed.

  A bird shifted in the branches somewhere behind me. Not close. Not far.

  Wood creaked as Blade hauled rope taut. The fence groaned, then settled back into place. The sound made my shoulders tense anyway.

  Nothing moved.

  The readiness didn’t ease.

  My jaw ached from holding it. My chest felt tight—not panic, just vigilance with nowhere to go.

  This was fine. This was what I was supposed to do. Stay alert. Be useful. Don’t relax just because things look normal.

  Especially when they look normal.

  Finally, I spoke.

  “Ground’s stable,” I said. Low. Controlled. “No vibration.”

  Blade didn’t look up. “Mm.”

  “There’s an old depression near the fence,” I added. “Could be from a burrower. It’s not fresh.”

  Blade paused.

  Not like I’d interrupted him. Like he was switching tasks.

  “If it passed through here before,” I continued, careful now, “it might still use the route. Or it could’ve learned it.”

  Blade straightened and turned.

  He followed my gaze to the flattened grass.

  Then he nodded once.

  “That was an ashburrower,” he said.

  My chest tightened. “I knew it.”

  “Months ago,” he added. “Before the frost.”

  I blinked.

  He walked over, crouched, and pressed his palm to the soil—not listening, not sensing. Just confirming.

  “It surfaced here,” he said. “Didn’t nest. Passed through.”

  “And the fence?” I asked. “The break lines angle inward.”

  He considered it.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Initial damage was impact.”

  The tension flared again—then eased when he continued.

  “Wood weathered after. Rot set in. Storm finished it.”

  I let out a slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  “And if there were more?” I asked. “If something was still under—”

  “You’d feel it,” Blade said. “Before you saw anything.”

  I nodded, committing the information to memory.

  A beat passed.

  Then, quieter now, I asked, “So we’re just here… to fix a fence?”

  Blade met my eyes.

  “Yes.”

  No judgment. No reassurance. Just fact.

  I hesitated. “Then I didn’t need to—”

  “All you had to do was ask,” he said.

  He didn’t sound tired.He didn’t sound amused.He sounded certain.

  Blade tugged the rope once more and tested the post. It held.

  “You can move,” he added, already gathering his tools. “I just needed a straight line.”

  The realization landed softly.

  I stepped forward without comment.

  Blade slung his pack over his shoulder and started down the road.

  I lingered a moment longer, looking at the fence—upright now, solid, ordinary.

  Nothing waited beneath it. Nothing listened back.

  I exhaled, the breath uneven despite myself, and followed him.

  The ground stayed quiet.

  And the road went on.