The sun never truly rose in the lower quarters.
It flickered instead, slipping through cracks in broken rooftops and dust-choked alleys, spilling onto the red mud like paint too tired to dry. Smoke from the upper kilns hung heavy, curling low. The air smelled of wet ash, iron, and old sweat.
Asha sat in the doorway of their crooked hut, a bamboo tray balanced on her knees. Her fingers stitched torn fabric, the thread pulling through steady as breath. The cloth had once been part of her robe; now it would patch the back of his shirt.
Inside, he slept curled under the woven blanket, coughing soft and low through dreams. She glanced at him once—like someone checking a candle in the wind—then bent back to her work.
Silence never lasted long here. Sooner or later came footsteps: orders, repairs, messages. Or punishments. Always punishments.
Somewhere far off, a child screamed. A pot cracked. A dog growled at a crow.
She didn't flinch. Just tied the knot, blew on it, and lifted the cloth to the light.
"Better than yesterday," she whispered.
As if answering her, a bell clanged twice from the village square.
Not the hour-call. Different. Urgent.
Her eyes flickered. She rose, careful not to wake him—he didn't have the strength today, not with that cough. And she didn't want him seeing whatever new order this was.
Outside, dust hung thicker than usual.
People moved stiffly, not walking but drifting, as if afraid to be seen thinking.
At the notice post, a sheet of paper flapped in the wind, sealed with the red royal crest.
Asha stepped closer, her heart already sinking.
Her eyes found the words—
and her hands went cold.