The paragraph fell like weather.
Not rain, not hail—clauses, heavy as stones, tumbling from the sky in a grammar-storm. The first line slammed into the fields and flattened a long row of barley into a controlled, polite sentence. Footprints vanished. Wagon ruts closed into a smooth margin. The earth forgot it had ever been rough.
“Hold the names!” Sal shouted, hoarse. “Hold them—now!”
The villagers seized their scraps and bark-shards, mouths fumbling around their own syllables. The oath sparkled at the edges of their teeth, thin fire that didn’t burn so much as underline.
Mireya braced her staff against the ground. “Breathe crooked,” she barked. “If you speak straight, he’ll line you up and swallow you.”
Another line crashed down. Letters spread in a gleaming ribbon over the grass: Th
