The road narrowed as we approached Sunferne, weaving between barren fields of grain. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the path like cracks in old stone. A cold wind rolled in from the west, sliding beneath my cloak and raising a shiver along my spine.

  The closer we drew, the stranger everything became. No children running along the fences. No wagons hauling grain. Not even the usual chatter of farmers ending their day.

  The road to Halcwyn had always been spoken of as gentle country, but nothing here felt gentle at all.

  Merric slowed beside me, gaze sweeping the empty yards.

  “Place looks like someone sucked the life clean out of it.”

  Looking around, I see what he meant.

  Homes sagged under their own weight, shutters sat crooked. Wagons and tools lay abandoned where they’d been dropped. Clothes hung frozen stiff on laundry lines, unmoving in the winter breeze.

  Elaria moved closer, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Something is very wrong here.”

  Lira didn’t answer, but her pace sharpened. Her eyes followed every detail—the boarded windows, the thin soot spiraling from chimneys, the way villagers slipped behind curtains rather than meet our eyes. Threads curled faintly from her fingers, anger simmering low and quiet.

  As we crossed the old wooden bridge into the village proper, faint shouting rose from deeper within. Dozens of voices, sharp and overlapping, carried on the wind.

  My stomach tightened.

  We followed the noise to the town square.

  A crowd of villagers had gathered, packed shoulder to shoulder, faces drawn with hunger and fury. Opposite them stood a dozen of the lord’s men, hands on their hilts, eyes flicking nervously between the mob and the grainhouse behind them.

  As we drew closer, the shouts could be made into words.

  “What do you expect us to eat?” a woman cried.

  “You’ve taken two-thirds already!”

  “My children haven’t eaten in days!”

  The villagers surged forward, and the guards’ tension thickened visibly.

  One barked, “Back off! We have orders. Anyone interfering with collection will be detained by the authority of Lord Har—”

  “Hardin can choke on his own grain!” an old man roared.

  The crowd surged another step forward.

  Merric muttered, “This is bad.”

  We stopped at the edge of the square. Dozens of heads turned toward us—some hopeful, some desperate, some simply too exhausted to care.

  A heavyset villager with a torn sleeve shouldered to the front. His face burned red with fury, breath steaming in the cold.

  “You take our grain, then our seed stock—what do you expect us to plant next season? Dirt?”

  The lead guard stepped forward, jaw clenched.

  “This area is under emergency levy for redistribution. Anyone who interferes—”

  “You’re stealing from us!”

  Before he could respond, the villager swung. His punch landed squarely on the guard’s helmet with a hollow clang.

  The crowd froze.

  The guard staggered, then ripped his sword from its sheath in one fluid, furious motion.

  “That’s enough!”

  He raised the blade and brought it down toward the old man.

  My body moved before the thought even formed.

  I stepped between them, steel flashing as I drew my sword. The guard’s strike slammed into my blade with a violent clang, sparks scattering across the frozen dirt.

  The guard blinked in shock.

  “You’re… Guild.”

  “Correct,” I said sharply. “And as of now, that grain behind you stays with the villagers.”

  A ripple swept through the crowd—hope, disbelief, relief.

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  The guard recovered quickly, rage twisting his face.

  “This land belongs to Lord Hardin. There is no business for you here, Guild rat.”

  Merric stepped up beside me.

  “Striking down an unarmed villager? Sure looks like Guild business to me.”

  “You don’t understand the situation,” the guard hissed.

  Lira’s voice sliced cleanly through the noise.

  “Then explain it. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like mismanagement, negligence, and unlawful seizure of livelihood.”

  The guard bristled.

  “We’re acting under orders of Lord Hardin—”

  “Lord Hardin,” Lira repeated, stepping forward, “answers directly to Halcwyn’s ruling house. And House Armath is very clear on the limits of a lesser lord’s authority.”

  Her tone shifted, heavy with the weight of a name she rarely invoked.

  “If word reaches Armath that his vassals are starving villagers and attacking the defenseless, your master will lose far more than grain.”

  Fear flickered across the guard’s face.

  “This… isn’t over,” he snapped.

  “No,” Lira said. “It isn’t.”

  The guards exchanged uneasy glances, then one by one sheathed their swords and backed away. Soon they were retreating down the road, leaving the grainhouse unguarded.

  When they were gone, the silence that followed was thick. Murmurs of relief, fear, and gratitude swept through the crowd.

  Merric exhaled.

  “Well… that could’ve been worse.”

  I watched the guards disappear around the bend.

  “I doubt they give up that easily.”

  Lira nodded once, eyes still narrowed.

  “Vaelyn is right. This is only the start.”

  The villagers moved toward us slowly at first, as if unsure the guards might circle back. A few whispered among themselves, eyes flicking between the grainhouse, the empty road, and us. Hunger marked their faces like a second shadow, carved deep into their cheeks and eyes.

  A woman stepped forward, clutching a thin boy at her side—his ribs sharp beneath his shirt.

  “Thank you,” she said, voice trembling. “If you hadn’t stepped in… they would’ve killed Thom. Or taken the last of what we had.”

  The boy stared up at me, wide-eyed, as if I were something other than a tired Arcanist.

  “Are you gonna stop them?” he asked.

  The question hit harder than the guard’s blade.

  Etrielle came back in a rush—the boy I left behind, the guilt I buried, the promise I swore I’d keep next time.

  I swallowed.

  “We’ll do what we can,” I said quietly.

  Merric stepped forward, jaw tight.

  “What exactly has Hardin been doing? Start from the beginning.”

  A ripple went through the crowd before an older man answered. His beard was patchy, his posture bent.

  “First it was a winter levy. Just an extra tenth of our harvest.”

  He shook his head.

  “Then he doubled it—took most of our winter storage.”

  A gaunt woman with cracked hands added,

  “They took seedgrain. Said Halcwyn needed it more than we did.”

  “We can’t plant next season,” someone whispered behind her.

  “And if we complain,” the old man continued, “Hardin’s guards beat us, or lock us up for ‘interfering with the lord’s orders.’”

  Elaria’s breath caught.

  “And the Guild? They never intervened?”

  “The Guild hasn’t set foot here in weeks,” the woman said. “Some are saying Hardin sent them off on false contracts; others say they were threatened.” She looked at Lira. “So much gossip, we don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  Lira’s eyes darkened.

  “Of course he would keep the Guild out of sight.”

  A child tugged on Elaria’s sleeve. A small girl—no more than six.

  “Miss… do you have any food?”

  Elaria knelt and opened her pack. She pulled out a wrapped loaf of bread and a small jar of preserved berries.

  “Here,” she said gently. “Share this with your family.”

  The girl’s eyes shimmered before she ran off, clutching the food like treasure.

  Merric’s voice followed, thick with anger.

  “He’s starving them. For what? Profit? Influence? Does Hardin really need that much grain?”

  “No.” Lira’s tone was flat, clinical. “No lord needs this much. Someone above him is demanding it. A levy this large does not happen without a greater plan.”

  She hesitated.

  “Whoever gave that order sits in Halcwyn.”

  My hands curled into fists.

  “Why? What’s the point of pushing your own people this far?”

  “Power,” Lira said. “Control. Leverage for the capital. Whatever the reason, Hardin won’t stop until someone forces his hand.”

  The villagers watched us with quiet desperation, their breath visible in the cold. Even the strongest among them looked worn to the bone.

  “Will you help us?” the woman asked again, her voice cracking. “If Hardin keeps taking, we won’t survive winter.”

  I wouldn’t walk away again.

  My heartbeat echoed louder than the voices around me.

  “Yes,” I said before doubt could surface. “We can’t leave you like this.”

  Elaria exhaled in relief. Merric nodded sharply.

  But Lira’s gaze flicked to mine—sharp, unreadable. She weighed danger, politics, consequences.

  Finally, she turned to the villagers.

  “We’ll speak with Lord Hardin first thing tomorrow. Until then… don’t provoke his men. Don’t approach the manor alone.”

  Several villagers nodded.

  The older man gestured to a small cluster of houses.

  “We can offer you a roof for the night. It isn’t much, but—”

  “Thank you,” Elaria said softly. “We’d be grateful.”

  The crowd dispersed, murmuring prayers of thanks. But the hollow feeling in the air didn’t fade.

  This village wasn’t saved. Not yet.

  As we followed the old man toward his home, something cold tightened deep in my chest—like a hand closing over my heart.

  The rogue’s voice whispered again.

  Sight decides everything.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Sunferne proved it.

  The villagers led us toward a short row of cottages on the western side of Sunferne. The homes looked worn down by too many winters. Thin smoke drifted from their chimneys. One cottage stood dark, its door nudged open.

  “That one’s empty,” the older man said. “Family moved south before winter hit. You can stay here tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Elaria said.

  Inside, the cottage was cramped but not unpleasant. A cold hearth rested in the corner. Two cots sat against the far wall. Dust coated the shelves, yet the place didn’t feel abandoned.

  Merric got the fire going.

  “It’ll work,” he said.

  We gathered near the hearth.

  “Tomorrow’s going to be lovely,” Merric muttered.

  “Hardin won’t appreciate what we did,” Elaria said.

  “He knows what he’s doing,” Lira said quietly from the window.

  “So,” Merric said, “what’s the actual plan?”

  “At dawn we go to his manor,” Lira said. “The grain stays. The levy ends.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “Then he’s admitting to more than greed.”

  “We’re not letting him starve these people again,” I said.

  “You reacted fast earlier,” Lira noted.

  “I didn’t think,” I said.

  “Good,” Merric muttered.

  “This time we don’t walk away,” I said.

  No one disagreed.

  “We should sleep,” Lira said.

  The room softened—breathing, fire, wind.

  I stayed by the hearth, embers flaring and shrinking.

  Hardin’s hoarded grain.

  The villagers’ hollow stares.

  Elaria feeding that little girl.

  Sight decides everything.

  If that’s true…

  Then tomorrow, Hardin’s going to see something he can’t ignore.

  When the fire dimmed, I lay down. Sleep didn’t come—only the ceiling, and a long wait for morning.