Eminia

FOOTSTEPS IN THE DARK

The lantern flickered in Rowan’s hand, throwing shaky shadows across the walls.

Outside, the footsteps crunched slowly through the dry soil, inching closer to the farmhouse.

Eminia’s breath caught.

“Stay behind me,” Rowan whispered, his voice low but steady.

She nodded, heart beating wildly. The silence between each step felt endless, squeezing her chest tighter and tighter.

Then—

Knuckles tapped the door.

Slow.

Heavy.

Measured.

Not someone seeking help.

Someone sending a message.

Rowan placed the lantern on the floor and stepped toward the door with quiet precision.

“Who’s there?” he called.

No answer.

The knock came again, harder this time.

Eminia flinched.

Rowan grabbed the iron bar from beside the door—the one her father used to use for repairs, now repurposed as protection.

When he opened the door just an inch, a folded piece of paper slid through the gap and fell to the wooden floor.

Then quick footsteps retreated into the night—running now, not walking.

Whoever it was didn’t want to face Rowan directly.

He opened the door wider but saw only darkness.

“They’re gone,” he muttered.

Eminia picked up the paper with trembling fingers.

Inside, one sentence was written in sharp ink:

You have 48 hours. Leave, or the land burns.

Her knees nearly buckled.

Rowan took her hand gently.

“We’ll get through this,” he said. “I promised your father I’d protect you—and I will.”

Eminia swallowed hard, closing the note with shaking hands.

The clock was ticking.

PART 2

The next morning created no sense of safety. The sun rose pale over the hills, but the valley felt colder than ever.

Eminia and Rowan gathered the villagers who had been watching over the farm. They showed them the note.

Some villagers paled.

Some grew angry.

Some suggested calling the authorities, but they all knew how slowly the system worked in the countryside.

“We can’t rely on officials who take weeks to respond,” Rowan said. “We protect the farm ourselves.”

Eminia agreed.

For once, she didn’t feel small or helpless.

She felt responsible.

Villagers began organizing shifts.

Three men stayed at the entrance.

Two women patrolled the fields with lanterns after sunset.

Older folks who couldn’t stand long hours stayed inside sorting documents, preparing supporting evidence for Eminia’s claim.

Everyone was helping.

But Eminia also saw their fear.

Harlan Pierce was no ordinary land buyer.

He was powerful, ruthless, connected.

And someone in the valley was helping him.

The threatening letters…

The fire…

The knock at night…

None of it could be done by one person alone.

Someone nearby was betraying them.

That thought weighed heavily on her.

If only she knew who.