Six months had passed since Serah and Marcus had settled into their quiet life in Beaufield. The days had rolled by softly, the seasons shifting from late spring into the golden arms of summer. Their little home had become a sanctuary—wooden walls scented with herbs, a small garden blooming with flowers, and laughter echoing often enough that even the village children had grown fond of visiting.
That evening, as the sun began to sink behind the emerald hills, Beaufield was bathed in a warm, honey-colored glow. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys of nearby cottages, the air rich with the smell of bread, roasted meat, and the faint sweetness of pine. Crickets had begun their early song, mingling with the laughter of children chasing each other through the dusty paths outside.
