Sanctuary does not arrive as peace.
It arrives as weight.
By the second dawn after Ironleaf’s retreat, Blackthorne’s outer valleys had swollen into a living city of canvas and firelight. Every slope held tents. Every hollow burned with cooking fires fed by shared rations and quiet desperation. Wolves slept shoulder to shoulder with strangers who had spoken different oaths only weeks ago.
No Moon-blessing sustained them.
Only choice.
And choice, I was learning, demanded a price far heavier than obedience ever did.
The first cost came as hunger.
Blackthorne’s stores had been calculated for war, not refuge. For forces, not families. The granaries emptied faster than anyone expected. The river fisheries strained under the influx. Healers rationed salves meant for soldiers to soothe frig
