The morning after the storm dawned crisp and clear, as if the strange green sky had never been. But a new sickness had arrived with the daylight. It was found first by the goat herder, a man named Finn. He came running into the main square just as the sun cleared the trees, his face the color of old ash.
"The pen," he gasped, clutching his chest. "The north pen. They're all gone."
A group gathered quickly, Kaelen among them. They followed Finn to a small pasture on the northern edge of the settlement, near where the wild woods began. The scene was not one of wild, twisted violence like the stag. This was a quieter, more intimate horror.
Six goats lay dead in the soft grass. They were not torn apart. There were no claw marks, no signs of a predator's leap over the fence. They looked, at
