Part I – The Outskirts
Dawn bled slowly over the fields outside Westernlight, staining the mist a soft gold. Wheat heads bowed under the weight of dew, whispering as the wind moved through them. From the far ridge the city's outer wall caught the first light—an immense curve of stone and brass that threw back the sunrise in a hundred muted flashes. To the people who lived beyond it, the wall was both promise and insult: safety they could see but not touch.
Luk woke before the roosters. The thatch above his bed dripped from last night's fog, and the smell of damp hay filled the room. Anna still slept beside the hearth, curled around the family's rag-eared cat. She always slept through the morning noise: the grinding of the mill wheel, the clank of the neighbor's pails, the first calls of traders heading toward the city gate.
He rose quietly, slipped on his patched boots, and stepped outside. The air was cool, thick with the scent of wet soil and smoke from cooking fires. Across the lane, old Taben was already hauling water from the well; he nodded without speaking. Out here, people saved words for when they mattered.
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Luk carried two buckets to the river path. The wooden bridge groaned beneath him, swollen from rain. Beyond the reeds he could see the glint of the city towers—Westernlight proper, wrapped in its own mist like a dream. He always watched it longer than he meant to. Sometimes he imagined living inside those walls, where streets were paved and people never worried about goblins or failing crops. Then he'd remember the tax collectors who rode out once each month and the way his father's hands shook counting coins, and the dream soured.
Behind him came the small splash of bare feet. Anna, hair tangled, eyes half-closed, carried a pail twice her size. "You left without me."
"You were drooling in your sleep," Luk said, taking the bucket before she dropped it.
"I was dreaming," she mumbled. "About flying."
"Then keep dreaming next time. Water doesn't carry itself."
Anna wrinkled her nose but smiled. The world looked different when she smiled; it was harder to notice how thin their roof was, how the fields beyond the fence grew patchy where blight had touched them.
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They reached the river bend where the stones formed a shallow shelf. Luk knelt to fill the pails, and Anna crouched beside him, poking the mud with a stick. Something glimmered there—a small, flat stone etched with a faint spiral.
"Look," she said. "It's pretty."
"Just a rock."
"It looks like scales."
Luk flicked the pebble into the current. "Then it belongs to the river."
Anna made a face but said nothing. The pebble vanished, spinning in the water until it was gone. The moment passed, ordinary as breathing, though later Luk would remember the way the river's surface shivered when it touched the stone—as if something beneath had stirred.
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They walked back through the village lanes, passing the butcher's stall and the crooked fence where geese hissed at anyone who came too close. The village was waking: doors creaking open, children chasing each other between carts, women hanging herbs to dry. Someone had a flute, and a tune drifted through the air—thin, happy, unaware.
At the far edge of the square, men from the guild tax office argued with the miller. Their coats bore the Lionroar crest—a stylized sun split by a sword. The crest once meant protection; now it meant collections. Luk's father stood near the barn, watching the argument from a distance, his shoulders tight.
"Stay with your mother," he called as they approached. "Don't go near the wall today."
"Why?" Luk asked.
"Rumors," his father said. "Traders from the south talk of skirmishes. Delun's men are patrolling extra. Might just be talk."
Anna tugged his sleeve. "Are the ogres coming?"
"No," he said quickly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No ogres. Just stories to keep soldiers busy."
But later, when he thought they weren't looking, Luk saw him cross himself in the old way—hand pressed over heart, then throat, then sky. A prayer from before the church had new words for the gods.
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They spent the morning in the fields. The sun climbed; the air thickened with heat. By noon, the road from the east shimmered with dust, and a train of wagons wound toward the gate carrying barrels of salt fish and woven cloth. Luk watched them pass, envying the ease with which the city guards waved them through. The guards never looked at villagers unless they caused trouble.
Anna kicked at a clump of dirt. "Do you think they've ever seen a goblin?"
"Traders? Probably not."
"What do you think they look like?"
"Ugly," he said. "Like someone boiled a man and forgot to take him out of the pot."
She giggled, but the sound died quickly. Far off, a lone crow circled, cawing once before disappearing into the clouds. The air felt heavier, though the sky was clear.
Luk turned toward the horizon. The wind carried the faintest smell of smoke—not from hearths, but sharper, wild. He couldn't see flames, only a haze, but his stomach tightened anyway. He opened his mouth to call to his father.
Then, faint but distinct, a bell rang from the city walls—one long note, then another. Not the midday toll. A warning.
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The first bell hung in the air longer than it should have, its note bending slightly at the end as if the wind itself didn't know which direction to carry it. A second bell answered, deeper and farther off. By the third, everyone in the fields had stopped moving.
Luk's father straightened slowly, scythe motionless in his hand. The sound rolled over the valley again, louder this time. Crows burst from the hedges in a black wave, cutting across the sun.
"Go inside," his father said, too quickly. "Both of you."
"What is it?" Anna's voice was small.
"City drill," he lied. "They run them when border scouts send messages." But even as he spoke, another sound joined the bells—a hollow thunder, irregular, like hooves hammering stone.