The Dragon Kings' Forbidden Witch

Hal set down his polishing cloth and looked at Greaves directly for the first time.

"I can put you in touch with some folks," Hal said carefully. "But I’ll be honest with you, friend. This village is quiet. People here prefer to keep their business to themselves. You might find it hard to get detailed information about operations."

"Why would that be?" Greaves asked, genuinely curious. "Surely business benefits from transparency?"

"Not always." Hal turned back to the bottles on the shelf. "Some folks prefer privacy. It’s how they do things here. You come in asking too many questions, you might find doors closing rather than opening."

Greaves filed this away. It was a warning, delivered casually but with clear intent.

"I understand," Greaves said. "I’ll be respectful of local customs."

"Good," Hal said. "Then we’ll get along fine."

***

Greaves’s room upstairs was small but clean....a narrow bed, a small table, a washstand with a pitcher of water. A single window looked out over the village square, giving him a view of the comings and goings below.

He unpacked his belongings carefully: his wool samples, his cover documents (merchant credentials, letters of introduction, business ledgers), his actual investigation materials (hidden in a false bottom of his satchel...notebooks, mapping tools, instructions from Cedric).

Then he stood at the window and watched the village as evening fell.

The streets, which had been sparsely populated that afternoon, emptied almost entirely as darkness approached. Lights came on in cottage windows. Smoke rose from chimneys as evening meals were prepared.

By the time full darkness had settled, the village square was empty except for the occasional servant or worker hurrying home.

Early to bed, early to rise, Greaves thought. A practical village with practical people.

But there was something else in that early retreat to homes. Something that felt less like practical habit and more like... caution. Like people seeking safety behind locked doors.

***

That evening, Greaves joined a few other patrons in the tavern for dinner.

The meal was simple, a stew of vegetables and some kind of meat (Greaves preferred not to ask what kind), served with dark bread that was actually quite good. The ale continued to flow, though most of the patrons seemed to nurse their cups rather than drink heavily.

There were three other men in the tavern besides Greaves: one elderly man who sat alone in a corner, seemingly content with his own company and his pipe; two younger men who played cards at a table in the back, speaking rarely and only to comment on the game.

Greaves observed them all carefully.

These were working men...laborers, craftspeople, perhaps minor merchants. Their hands were calloused. Their clothing practical rather than decorative. They spoke with the dialect of the region, using certain turns of phrase that marked them as local-born.

When Greaves tried to engage them in casual conversation, asking about the quality of the local ale, commenting on the weather, inquiring about local attractions, he received polite but brief responses before they turned back to their activities.

No one seemed particularly interested in talking to a stranger.

No one seemed particularly interested in offering information about the village.

It was not hostile. Simply... closed.

***

Later that evening, as Greaves was finishing his meal, a woman emerged from the back of the tavern...Hal’s wife, Greaves assumed, though Hal hadn’t introduced them.

She was perhaps a few years younger than Hal, with graying hair pulled back in a simple braid and the weathered face of someone who’d worked hard her entire life. She carried a tray of fresh bread and began placing baskets of it on the tables.

When she reached Greaves’s table, he smiled politely.

"The bread is excellent," he said. "Is it made here in the tavern?"

"My sister makes it," the woman said, not making eye contact. "She has a small bakery two streets over. If you want fresh bread for travel tomorrow, she opens early."

"Thank you for the recommendation," Greaves said. Then, carefully: "I’ve been asking around about wool operations in the area. Your husband mentioned people prefer privacy about their business. Is that common in Ashford?"

The woman’s hands stilled for just a moment as she adjusted a basket.

"This is a quiet village," she said, and there was something final in her tone. "People here understand that sometimes, keeping to yourself is safer than being in other people’s affairs."

"Safer?" Greaves repeated, keeping his tone light. "That’s an interesting choice of words."

The woman’s eyes met his for just a moment, a flash of something that might have been warning, or might have been pity.

Then she looked away and continued her work.

"Enjoy your dinner," she said, and moved to the next table.

***

The next morning, Greaves woke early and made his way to the market square.

The village was different in the early light....less ominous, more simply itself. But the undercurrent of caution was still there, woven into the very fabric of how people moved and interacted.

A few vendors were setting up stalls: an old woman arranging vegetables, a man displaying cloth, a younger woman arranging fresh bread (this must be Hal’s sister, Greaves thought).

The village was beginning its day.

Greaves approached the vegetable seller....an elderly woman with sharp eyes and work-worn hands.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly. "I’m new to the area. Trying to understand what brings people to Ashford. What the main occupations are."

The woman glanced up from her arrangement of carrots, gave him a brief assessment, then returned to her work.

"Farming mostly. Some sheep. Some trade," she said, her tone suggesting the conversation was already over.

"I see. And families? Are there long-established families in the village? Or interesting newcomers who’ve come recently?"

The woman’s movements didn’t pause, but something in her demeanor shifted. It was subtle, barely perceptible, but it was there.

"Nothing interesting about Ashford," she said firmly. "Everyone keeps to themselves. That’s the way of it."

"Of course," Greaves said, sensing the wall. "Well, thank you for your time."

He turned away, but he noticed something: the woman’s hands were trembling slightly as she resumed arranging vegetables. Not from age or cold, but from tension.