The first law of the Covenant was a fragile shield, but a shield nonetheless. It held through three turning of the moon, tested by a handful of brawls, a stolen pig, and one tense, tearful weregild payment for a man killed in a drunken argument. The exile that followed was a somber spectacle, a stark reminder that their new peace had teeth. Yet, the community held. Londinium, or as the people now called it, Caer Lunden, was no longer just a ruin. It was a settlement, its heartbeat the rhythmic sound of hammer and saw, its breath the smoke from a hundred shared hearths.
But a chain is only as strong as its most strained link. The test came not from within the walls, but from the memory-laden woods to the west.
A hunting party returned at a dead run, their faces pale beneath the grime. The
