Chapter 15 — Sparks at First Harvest

Sun hammered the valley, swelling wheat heads to gold. On Moonfang’s eastern flats, reapers swung scythes while wagons trundled toward the new communal granary—a stone-walled vault Dylan insisted be finished before the first storm. Ophelia strode beside the foreman, scroll in hand, marking each cart that rumbled through the gate.

“Seventh load,” she called to Griff on the rampart. “North village quota met.”

The lieutenant gave a thumbs-up. “If Hawthorne’s defectors don’t torch the fields, we’ll last winter twice over.”

Ophelia tucked quill behind her ear. “They won’t torch anything today. Most followed our reduced levy offer. Only a splinter cell hides in the pine barrens.”

Griff tilted his head. “And if that cell tries something stupid?”

She glanced at the detachment of mixed Ironclaw-Moonfang riders patrolling the road—she’d dubbed the unit “Silver Line,” and the name was sticking. “We’ll see them coming.”