The hour passed. The barbarians descended. Torches bloomed like orange flowers against the thatch.
By dawn, the Wolf Clan was gone, leaving only blackened timbers and the well, miraculously intact. The villagers emerged to find ash, silence, and a single sign: the miller’s daughter, alive, untied, sitting by the well with a cut on her cheek and a look of hollow wonder. “She said to tell you,” the girl whispered, “‘Next time, leave the silver on the road. We’ll take that too.’” a village targeted by barbarians
He didn’t finish. Everyone knew.
Until the horns sounded from the north.
That was the worst part. They did not want to conquer the Vale. They wanted it erased—a message painted in cinders for the next valley over. The hour passed
And the villagers? They fled—not as heroes, but as ghosts. Silent, barefoot, clutching infants and heirlooms, they slipped into the cave mouth hidden by briars. Behind them, the Vale burned. The sky turned the color of a bruise. By dawn, the Wolf Clan was gone, leaving