The village of Brenmoor sat quietly on the edge of the southern plains, its people rising with the dawn as they always had. Children fetched water from the stream, blacksmiths hammered iron, farmers led oxen to the fields. The early frost clung to rooftops, but the villagers thought little of it. Autumn often bit sharp in the north.
Yet that morning, the air felt heavier. The birds did not sing. The dogs refused to leave their kennels, ears pinned and tails tucked. Old Mira, the healer, clutched her shawl tighter and whispered to her neighbors that the wind carried the wrong kind of silence.
By noon, the sky had dimmed unnaturally. Snowflakes drifted down though the season was weeks too young for such weather. At first, children laughed, chasing the flakes with outstretched hands. But la
