The vacuum doesn’t announce itself.
It shows up with a clean smile, a full wagon, and paperwork that smells like soap and certainty.
⸻
Zane hears the convoy before he sees it.
Wheels on packed earth. Harness leather creaking. Voices practiced at sounding unafraid.
The heir is on his hip, warm and squirming, their small hands busy trying to steal the braid of his hair. They’ve been obsessed with textures lately. Rope. Cloth. Bark. Anything that reminds them the world is real.
Zane watches the road from the ridge as the line of wagons rolls up toward Blood Moon’s outer gate.
They’re not military.
That’s the first warning.
No weapons in sight. No armored escort. No banners of conquest.
Just white canvas, neatly tied. Crates stamped with wax seals. Cloth bundles marked with the clean
