The Hidden Road, The Ancient Way
Prologue
Northumberland, 1897
A horse and cart struggles through thick mist along an old drovers' track. The driver is an elderly man carrying a small wooden box, wrapped in oilskin. He has been warned never to travel after sunset, but duty has left him no choice.
The horse becomes uneasy.
The air grows unnaturally still.
Then, where no road should be, another track appears.
Not newly made.
Ancient.
The stones are worn smooth, as though countless feet have passed over them for thousands of years.
The horse refuses to move.
The old man hears footsteps.
Not approaching.
Walking beside him.
Keeping pace.
Invisible.
He clutches the box tighter.
A voice—not loud, not threatening—speaks from the mist.
"You've brought it back."
The old man whispers,
"It was never mine."
The mist parts.
Warm light glows ahead.
A lonely roadside inn stands where no map has ever shown one.
The sign creaks gently in the wind.
Driver's Rest
An elderly man opens the door.
His eyes are kind.
He smiles, as though greeting an old friend.
"We've been waiting."
The old traveller nods and hands him the wooden box.
Arthur rests one hand upon it.
For the first time in years...
...he looks afraid.