The beacon’s silver thread bent low above the lowland fields, pointing like a spear. The villagers could all see it now—an accusing mark across the heavens, impossible to ignore. And on the horizon, the faint black smear of ravens gathered, shifting like ink in a jar.
Fear pressed down heavier than hunger.
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The Weight of Waiting
The village wasn’t built for armies. Muddy furrows ran between cottages with thatched roofs, thin fences leaned like drunks, and the only tower was the half-rotten bell post by the well.
“This won’t hold them,” one farmer muttered.
“No,” Ysra said bluntly. “But you will.”
She barked orders like spear thrusts. “Dig ditches along the north field. Shallow, lined with thorns. Stack wood at the southern wall for burning. Every hand works—old, young, doesn’t ma
