Tests are usually loud.
They arrive with deadlines, ultimatums, ceremonies meant to prove something to someone watching. This one does not announce itself. It slips in sideways, wearing the face of routine, and only reveals its weight after choices have already been made.
It begins with a request.
A modest one.
A settlement two days east sends a messenger at dawn. He doesn’t look afraid. He doesn’t look desperate. That’s what makes people uneasy.
“We need temporary storage,” he says simply. “Three weeks. Maybe four.”
He explains calmly. Their routes were disrupted by flooding. Their stores are intact but inaccessible. They can’t move everything fast enough without losing half of it to rot or theft.
“We’re not asking to stay,” he adds quickly. “Just the goods.”
The shadow coils, ale
