Hunger doesn’t roar.
It negotiates.
⸻
The first cold snap hits earlier than it should, sliding down from the north like a quiet accusation. It doesn’t bring a blizzard, not yet. Just sharp air that turns breath into visible proof that winter is real, and it doesn’t care who signed what.
Zane stands in the yard outside the storehouses, the heir bundled against his chest in a thick wrap that smells like cedar and clean wool. The child is awake, calm, watching frost collect along fence rails as if it’s the most interesting art the world has ever made.
Jason approaches with a slate in his hands and misery on his face.
“Three towns,” he says, voice low. “All along the southern chain.”
Zane doesn’t look away from the horizon.
“Signed?”
Jason shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says. “But th
