The night began like any other.
The air was thick with the sweet scent of baking — Cordelia’s sourdough loaves cooling on the rack, a small kettle humming softly on the stove. Mason Creek had fallen into its quiet rhythm, the kind that lulled people into believing the world outside the valley couldn’t reach them.
Cordelia stood by the window, watching the silhouettes of the pines sway against the pale moonlight. The faint buzz of cicadas filled the air, and for a moment, everything felt almost peaceful.
Almost.
Then the wind shifted.
The kettle began to whistle, and along with it came something else — a faint, acrid tang that stung her throat. Smoke.
She frowned, looking toward the fields. At first, she thought it was mist rising from the riverbank, but the glow beneath it told anoth
