The wind had died sometime before dawn, but the silence left behind was louder than it had any right to be. It wasn't the calm of rest — it was the hush of held breath. The kind of quiet that came just before a choice had to be made.
Maverick stood near the forge window, still in his patrol coat. Outside, the sky was the color of iron, and a thin trail of smoke coiled upward from somewhere beyond the west quarter.
Torren worked at the bench behind him, hammering dents from a battered chestplate. The forge was hot, unusually so for the time of day. Elira had stoked it higher than needed. Warmth didn't just comfort anymore — it warned the cold to keep its distance.
"That's not chimney smoke," Maverick said, voice low.
"No," Torren agreed without turning. "Too black. Too sharp."
Elira set down her ladle with a soft clatter. "West quarter's near the old refugee camp."
"I know."
No one said what they were thinking. Fires didn't start themselves. And lately, fires weren't meant for warmth.
By midmorning, the inn yard had drawn a crowd.
Snow and slush mixed in the center square, churned by boots and wheels. Steam rose from a spilled pot of stew, and in the middle of it all stood a boy — thin, wide-eyed, maybe twelve. He clutched a torn satchel and stared at his feet.
Across from him, a man shouted. His red face was framed by a graying beard and a wool coat patched at the elbows.
"That boy took it from my cart!" the man barked. "I saw it — thieving rat!"
Maverick recognized him. Harren. A wheat farmer who'd lost two barns to raiders before the snow came. He was loud even when he was alone.
Alric stepped between them, arms raised.
"That's enough."
"He's not one of ours!" Harren snarled. "They're not even from here — just flooding in, eating our stores!"
The boy didn't say anything. Didn't even lift his head.
Alric's voice dropped. "He's a child."
"He's a mouth," Harren growled. "One of hundreds."
The air cracked with silence.
Then Harren spat near the boy's boots and stormed off, muttering about rations and cowards.
Alric turned to the remaining crowd. "Show's over. Go warm yourselves."
The villagers drifted off, some with glances that lingered too long.
Maverick approached as Alric helped the boy up.
"You let him take that," Maverick said under his breath.
Alric shrugged. "I let him survive it. You've seen how they treat cowards. Now they'll remember his face."
"And hate it."
"Maybe. Or maybe they'll learn his name before the next fire."
By early afternoon, Maverick found himself at the wallhouse where the makeshift barracks had been set up. Two new recruits stood in the courtyard — one of the smith's older boys and a hunter with more scars than teeth. Both held pikes like broomsticks.
Commander Hallen, broad-backed and steel-jawed, paced behind them with a permanent scowl.
"We're not training soldiers," he grumbled to no one in particular. "We're feeding children steel and calling it a strategy."
Maverick watched the hunter shift uncomfortably.
"Maybe if you spoke like a person instead of a hammer, they'd listen."
Hallen stopped mid-step. "I speak the only language that's worked since the governor fled."
Maverick folded his arms. "You still think the Therants ran?"
"I think they saw what was coming. A rebellion, maybe. Maybe something worse."
"They didn't leave a note."
"Neither did the village head."
They stood in silence. The snow fell harder.
The forge was crowded by dusk. The smell of soup and metal hung thick in the air. Rune and Ren sat near the hearth, sorting buttons. Elira moved between them with quiet focus.
Maverick hadn't spoken since returning.
Brune arrived just after the twins were sent to bed. The innkeeper looked wind-chilled and shaken.
"There's something on the back wall of the inn," he said. "Come."
They walked behind the main tavern, into the narrow alley where deliveries were made. On the far stone wall, drawn in dark soot, was a crude tree — bare branches, roots curling unnaturally upward.
"It's not paint," Brune said. "It's oil. Mixed with ash."
Maverick reached out, touched it. Still fresh.
"I saw something like it, years ago. My uncle's barn. Right before the rebels burned it to the ground."
"Same mark?"
"Near enough to remember."
Later that night, Selene knocked once and let herself in.
Snow clung to her scarf, and her eyes were sharper than usual.
"I went back to the Therant estate," she said quietly.
Elira paused from stirring.
"You were warned not to go there," she said without looking.
"I didn't take anything."
Maverick crossed the room. "Then what did you bring?"
Selene reached into her coat and pulled out a folded map.
Maverick opened it on the workbench.
It showed Eldenhold — but not just streets. Hidden paths, tunnels, supply lines. Rebel caches marked with faint ink.
"This was under a floorboard in the study," she said. "They were tracking something. Or someone."
"They left this?"
"Or planted it."
Maverick stared at the symbols.
"They're not scavengers," he said. "They're searchers."
He walked the wall near midnight. The sky was a lid of gray.
Near the bakery, someone moved between the shadows — silent, deliberate.
It was the woman from the garden. Her hood was up, her coat stiff with frost.
She didn't speak. Just watched him as he passed.
He met her eyes for a heartbeat, then turned.
When he looked back, she was gone.
But the prints were there.
Light steps. Military spacing.
He made a note.
The name hadn't come yet.
But he would come to know her soon enough.