THE DREAM YET TO BE DREAMED

Rain fell over Greymoor for three days. On the fourth day, the river north of the village overflowed, carrying away the wooden fences that belonged to the farmers. Two goats were found dead near the bridge, while the road to the neighboring village had turned into mud deep enough to reach a man's ankles. Several villagers spent the morning hauling pieces of wood from between the river stones. No one was surprised. Rain like that came almost every year. What worried the people was their dwindling supply of grain. The harvest that year had been poor. Some families had already begun cutting back on their meals, and those who owned no land of their own were forced to seek additional work. For some, that meant walking to neighboring villages to offer their labor. For others, there was little to do but wait for the weather to improve. In Greymoor, waiting was something people had grown accustomed to. They waited for the rain to stop. They waited for the next harvest. They waited for merchants who sometimes took weeks to return. Every now and then, they also waited for news from the outside world, though such news rarely brought anything of use. The king still ruled Arkenfall, according to a merchant who had stopped by several weeks earlier. In the south, he claimed, roads were being repaired and a new fortress had been built. He had told the villagers all this while finishing a bowl of hot soup at the village's small inn. No one in Greymoor had asked him to elaborate. The fortress was too far away. Those roads were not theirs. And whatever the king was doing in the south would do nothing to replenish their dwindling food supplies. On the morning of the fourth day, the sky finally cleared. The villagers went out to inspect their fields and repair the damage. One farmer had lost part of his fence. The roof of the Miller family's house was leaking. Near the village well, two women were arguing over the rising price of flour. By midday, some of the children had returned to the streets, avoiding the puddles that remained. An old man sat outside his house, repairing a broken hoe handle. In the distance, the sound of hammers striking wood mingled with the calls of farmers asking one another for help. Life was slowly returning to normal. In a modest house on the outskirts of the village, a young man was counting what little money he had left. A few silver and copper coins lay scattered across the wooden table. It was not much, especially now that the price of grain had risen and the innkeeper had increased the cost of his meals. He gathered the coins, tucked them back into a leather pouch, then stood and reached for the coat hanging beside the door. If he wanted to eat properly for the next few days, he would have to find work soon. Outside, the sunlight was beginning to warm the muddy roads. A few villagers greeted him as he passed their houses. He returned their greetings without stopping, just as he did on most mornings. He passed fields where patches of water still covered the soil, then followed the road toward the village center. There, several merchants were arranging their goods, hoping that those who still had a little money to spare might be willing to buy. Not far away, a farmer was complaining about his harvest to anyone willing to listen. There was nothing remarkable about that day. No strange signs in the sky, no important news brought by a rider, and no reason for the people of Greymoor to believe that their lives were about to change. To them, it was simply another day to get through. At least, that was what they thought.