I woke with a shiver, the cold settling deep into the cabin’s bones. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers sometime in the night, leaving the air frigid and still. Frost crept along the edges of the small window, pale veins spreading across the glass as weak sunlight filtered in.

  Rolling out of bed, I quickly realized I wasn’t the first awake.

  Lira stood by the window, her hair neatly braided, her cloak already fastened around her shoulders. She looked as though she’d been there for some time, watching the village stir beyond the glass. I crossed the room to join her, and her head turned in my direction as my footsteps creaked across the floor.

  “Good morning,” she said, offering a faint smile.

  “Good morning,” I replied. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  She turned back toward the window, her expression tightening slightly. “I wanted to get an early start. We don’t know what Hardin has planned for us, and I’d rather not be caught unprepared.”

  “We will be,” I said quietly. “We’ve made it through worse.”

  She gave a small nod, though the tension in her posture didn’t ease. After a moment, she lowered her voice. “We should wake the others.”

  “I’ll get Merric,” I said, heading toward the far side of the room.

  He lay sprawled near the hearth, blankets twisted around him. I gave his shoulder a light nudge.

  “Merric,” I said softly.

  He shifted, let out a low grunt, and went still again.

  I tried once more, firmer this time. “Merric.”

  He rolled onto his side and pulled the blankets over his head. “Five more minutes,” he muttered.

  I sighed. My last attempt wasn’t nearly as kind.

  Bracing my hands under the edge of his cot, I heaved—and sent him tumbling onto the floor with a startled curse.

  “Holy hells, it’s cold!” Merric groaned, rubbing the back of his head as he sat up. “You couldn’t have woken me up a little gentler?”

  “Tried that already,” I said, turning away before he could protest further.

  Lira had moved to wake Elaria, who was just sitting up now, blinking sleep from her eyes. One look at her hair told me she hadn’t been awake long.

  “Good morning,” Elaria said, stifling a yawn.

  “Morning,” I replied. “Sleep well?”

  She followed my gaze and froze, her cheeks coloring as she realized the state she was in. She hurriedly ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing down the worst of it.

  “Could you tell?” she asked, smiling sheepishly.

  We both laughed as she stood from her cot, the tension in the room easing—just a little.

  We rekindled the fire and cooked a simple breakfast of eggs and bread, eating quickly and without much conversation. When we finished, we packed our things in silence, each of us aware of the day waiting beyond the door.

  Hardin wouldn’t be kept waiting.

  The door creaked as we stepped outside, the cold air biting through our layers all at once. Frost coated the ground in a thin, uneven sheet, crunching beneath our boots as we moved away from the cabin. The sky above was pale and overcast, the kind of gray that promised nothing but a long, heavy day.

  The village was already awake.

  They didn’t gather as one; instead, they lined the road, stood in doorways, watching from behind half-drawn curtains. Every movement we made drew their attention.

  Their faces held a careful balance. Hope, but not the bright, reckless kind. It was restrained, fragile. Paired with it was something heavier: apprehension. A quiet fear of disappointment, of what would happen if we failed—or worse, if we succeeded.

  No one spoke as we passed.

  We reached the center of the village, where the road widened, the path ahead sloping gently upward toward the manor grounds.

  That was when small footsteps broke the stillness.

  I turned just as a boy slipped free from his mother’s grasp and hurried toward us, boots skidding slightly on the frost-hardened earth. She called after him, panic sharp in her voice, but he didn’t slow.

  He stopped in front of me, chest rising and falling as he thrust something into my hands.

  It was a small wooden figure, roughly carved and smoothed by use. The shape was simple—a person, maybe meant to be a knight or a traveler. The details were uneven, the edges worn down by fingers far smaller than mine.

  “For luck,” he said.

  The words hit harder than I expected.

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  Before I could respond, he grinned—wide and earnest—then turned and ran back to his mother. She pulled him close, one hand cradling the back of his head as she watched us with guarded eyes.

  I closed my fingers around the carving.

  The wood was warm despite the cold, carrying no trace of Essence—only belief. Trust placed where it had no right to be.

  I slipped the figure into my coat, resting my hand over it for a moment longer than necessary. Whatever fear churned in my chest didn’t vanish, but it steadied—anchored by something painfully simple.

  “This is what they’re risking,” Elaria said quietly beside me.

  I nodded. “I know.”

  Lira had already started forward, placing herself at the head of the road. She didn’t look back, but her voice carried clearly.

  “Stay close,” she said. “No matter what happens.”

  Merric rolled his shoulders, jaw set. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The path to the manor was unlike anything else in the village.

  Stone lined the road, fitted too neatly, too carefully, cutting a clean line through land that had long since given up on symmetry. Low walls bordered the path, their surfaces polished smooth, unmarred by time or neglect. Sparse trees stood at measured intervals, their branches trimmed back, their roots contained—nothing wild allowed to grow too far.

  It felt wrong.

  Each step carried us farther from the village’s rough edges and deeper into something controlled, curated, until even the sounds of life faded behind us. Even the crunch of frost beneath our boots seemed muted here.

  The manor rose ahead, dark stone cutting sharply against the pale sky. Its silhouette was severe, angular, watching us long before we reached it.

  By the time we stood before the gates, the village felt impossibly far away.

  Tall iron bars loomed overhead, cold and unyielding, their surface etched with faint sigils dulled by age but no less imposing. Beyond them, the path curved out of sight toward the manor proper, disappearing behind walls that had never been built to welcome.

  We stopped.

  No one spoke.

  The gates stood closed, waiting.

  There was no turning back now.

  The gates opened without ceremony.

  Metal scraped against stone as they swung inward, slow and deliberate, as if whoever waited beyond wanted us to feel every second of it. No guards called out. No welcome was offered. The path beyond lay empty, pristine, and silent.

  Lira moved first. We followed close behind.

  The manor grounds were immaculate in a way the village never could be—stone swept clean of frost, hedges trimmed back to perfect symmetry, lanterns burning despite the daylight. Nothing here showed signs of struggle or scarcity. Whatever hardship weighed on the village below had not climbed the hill.

  The doors to the manor stood open.

  Inside, the warmth was immediate and oppressive, the scent of polished wood and burning oil heavy in the air. Our boots echoed against marble floors as we were led through a long corridor lined with tapestries—scenes of harvests, kneeling figures, men and women bathed in light that spilled from unseen hands.

  At the far end waited Hardin.

  He stood beside a long table, hands folded behind his back, posture relaxed. His clothes were finely cut, dark fabric trimmed in muted gold. He looked more like a court official than a lord presiding over a starving village.

  “Right on time,” Hardin said, his voice smooth as polished stone. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d reconsidered.”

  “We don’t reconsider promises,” Lira replied.

  A faint smile touched his lips. “Admirable. Foolish, perhaps—but admirable.”

  His gaze drifted across us, unhurried. It lingered longest on Merric, then Elaria, before settling on me.

  “You’ve caused quite a stir,” Hardin continued. “The villagers are restless. Emotional. They’ve taken your arrival as a sign.”

  “That wasn’t our intention,” Elaria said.

  “Intentions rarely matter,” Hardin replied lightly. “Only consequences.”

  He stepped around the table, boots clicking softly against the floor. “You’ve asked for an audience. For answers. So let’s speak plainly.”

  He stopped a few paces from us.

  “The levy is only temporary,” he said. “By order of Halcwyn.”

  Merric snorted. “Funny. People don’t usually starve over ‘temporary.’”

  Hardin’s eyes flicked to him, sharp for just a moment. “Careful.”

  Lira didn’t move. “You control the stores. The routes. The guards. If the village is starving, it’s because you allowed it.”

  A pause.

  Then Hardin laughed—quietly, genuinely amused. “Allowed it?” He tilted his head.

  “You give me far too much credit.”

  He gestured toward the banners along the wall. “Halcwyn governs a great deal of land. Resources are allocated where they are deemed most valuable.”

  “And this village isn’t,” I said.

  His gaze snapped back to me.

  “Value,” Hardin replied calmly, “is proven. Not assumed.”

  My fingers brushed the wooden figure inside my coat.

  “You’re making an example of them,” I said.

  “Correction,” Hardin said. “I’m reminding them where they stand.”

  The room seemed to cool despite the warmth of the hearth.

  Elaria stepped forward, voice tight. “Children are hungry. People are sick.”

  “And yet they endure,” Hardin said evenly. “Which tells me the threshold has not been reached.”

  Silence stretched between us.

  Lira’s voice broke it. “End the levy. Release the grain. Today.”

  Hardin studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable.

  Then he smiled.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  He turned and rested his hands against the edge of the table, fingers spreading as if the matter were already settled.

  “You see,” he continued, “the decision was never about grain alone. It’s about compliance.”

  Lira’s jaw tightened. “You’re starving them to force obedience.”

  “I’m reminding them where authority lies,” Hardin replied calmly. “Halcwyn does not reward defiance. It tolerates it—briefly.”

  He straightened and finally looked each of us in the eye.

  “You’ve inserted yourselves into a matter that does not concern you.”

  His voice lowered.

  “You should also understand this: interfering with a noble conducting sanctioned business is a crime.” A pause. “One punishable by death.”

  The words settled into the room.

  At the edges of the hall, movement caught my attention.

  Guards stepped forward from the shadows along the walls, encasing us in a circle.

  Merric’s hand tightened on his hammer.

  Elaria went still.

  Lira didn’t flinch.

  She lifted her chin slightly.

  “My name is Lira Vaelaryn,” she said.

  Hardin’s smile thinned.

  “My family governs Etrielle,” she continued evenly. “Our authority predates Halcwyn’s claim to this region, and our standing is recognized by every major house that still values its treaties.”

  The guards hesitated.

  “You can threaten me,” Lira said. “But if harm comes to us here, it will not be forgotten—or forgiven.”

  For the first time, Hardin paused.

  It was brief. But it was real.

  He exhaled slowly, then lifted one hand. The guards stopped where they were, tension still coiled but no longer advancing.

  “Well,” Hardin said at last, his tone cooling. “That does complicate matters.”

  He turned back to the table.

  “The levy will be reduced,” he said. “Enough to prevent unnecessary deaths.”

  Elaria’s breath caught.

  “Do not mistake this for mercy,” Hardin added. “The village will still feel the cost of its decision.”

  Lira’s expression didn’t soften. “They will live.”

  “Yes,” Hardin agreed. “They will.”

  He gestured toward the door. “You’ve had your audience. Decide carefully how much further you wish to involve yourselves.”

  We turned to leave, the warmth of the manor already feeling false against our backs.

  Behind us, Hardin’s voice followed, quiet and certain.

  “Halcwyn will endure,” he said. “The village will too. Whether they thank you for it… remains to be seen.”

  The doors closed.

  And I understood the shape of the choice he’d placed before us.