By sunrise, the crows had returned—but they perched too high, and they watched too much.
Evelyn sat by the hearth, twisting a thread of dried flax around her finger, waiting for her father to speak. He hadn't touched his breakfast. Neither had Torren, who lingered near the door, gear strapped tight across his chest.
A small hunting party had been called at dawn. Three elders, two Guild-trained scouts from the last tribute caravan, and her father. They were heading south, to the edge of the wardline where the last Warden post should have been—where it had been, until four days ago.
"They'll be fine," her mother said, carefully folding an herb poultice. "They've done this before. It's likely a collapsed trail. Or broken sigils."
"No sigils have failed in a generation," Torren said. His voice was quiet, but tense. "Not since Isenhold was founded."
"Which is exactly why it's unlikely to be something worse," her mother replied. "Worrying won't fix the world, boy."
Torren didn't answer. But Evelyn saw his hand rest tighter on the hilt of his bone-handled dagger.
Her father stood. "We'll ride hard and return by dusk. Sooner if we can. Keep your heads low and the hearths burning. And—"
He looked at Evelyn.
"Don't go near the trees."
She nodded.
He kissed her forehead and was gone.
The village shifted after they left.
Men spoke in whispers. Women tightened shawls around their shoulders even though the wind was warm. The blacksmith beat iron too hard, too fast. The butcher forgot to salt the pork. And still the birds sang—louder now, too loud. A clamor of feathers and shrill notes that felt frantic, not festive.
Evelyn found herself walking without thinking. Past the empty market stalls, past the ward-stones at the edge of the clearing, and down to the river path where the water curled in slow, silver ribbons beneath the trees.
She didn't hear the humming this time.
She felt it.
In her chest. Behind her ears. Like a thread winding through her ribs, pulled tight toward the forest beyond the wards.
And then it stopped.
Just as she reached the bank.
She turned—but no one was there.
No footprints. No rustling leaves. Only the low sigh of wind through the branches and the river lapping soft against stone.
That night, the hunters returned.
All but one.
Evelyn was sitting on the porch when she saw them crest the hill. Her father was bloodied—not wounded, but covered in something thick and dark that caked beneath his nails. One of the scouts carried a satchel wrapped in boiled leather and bound with glyph-thread.
Torren met them first. His eyes found the satchel immediately.
"What was it?"
Her father didn't answer at first. He just shook his head, slow and weary, then looked straight at Evelyn.
"You dream again last night?" he asked her.
Evelyn blinked. "What?"
"Don't lie, girl."
She hesitated. "Yes."
"Fire?"
She nodded.
Torren looked between them. "Why does that matter?"
Her father didn't answer. He opened the satchel.
Inside was a Warden's badge. Twisted. Burned. Still faintly glowing with heat.
And beneath it: bone shards, smooth as ivory. One of them hummed faintly in Evelyn's direction.