RIDING WITH THE BEAST
It began with something small, the kind of quiet hardship that would have gone unseen or brushed aside entirely in the days of the keepers. A farmer from the southern valleys came to Black Rock’s courtyard one grey, drizzling afternoon, his shoulders hunched against the damp, carrying the split pieces of an iron plow wrapped in rough oil‑stained sacking. He had walked three days to get here, he said, his boots caked in thick, clinging mud and his face lined with deep worry that had nothing to do with the rain or the long walk. He had been to the nearest forge three times running, but the smith had turned him away each time, claiming he had orders to finish work only for those who could pay extra grain or coin, or who still carried the old keepers’ sealed marks of fav
