The small rustic village was just starting its day.

  Dawn rested lightly over the clearing. The air was cooler than most mornings, cool enough that breath lingered faintly before fading. Dew clung to the grass and darkened the packed earth between the huts, turning the ground soft underfoot.

  The sun had risen red, staining the low clouds with the color of old embers. Now the red was thinning, bleeding away into pale orange and then into the gentle gold of early morning. Shadows stretched long from the huts and slowly began to pull back as the light strengthened.

  Smoke drifted from a few hearths, slow and low, as fires were coaxed back to life. Doors opened one by one. Figures stepped out quietly, wrapped in worn cloaks or loose shirts, pausing just long enough to look at the sky before beginning the day’s work.

  Water buckets were lifted. Grain sacks were shifted. A dull axe struck wood with a careful rhythm, each blow measured to conserve strength and metal alike. Children moved close to the huts, staying within sight of the adults as they gathered sticks or swept the ground clear of debris.

  No voices rose with the sun.

  Instead, the Hoshin village spoke in small motions. A nod exchanged across the clearing. A hand briefly pressed to a shoulder. A shared look that carried more meaning than words ever could. These were the sounds of morning here, quiet acknowledgments that everyone was still alive, that the night had passed without incident.

  The cool air warmed slowly as the red faded fully from the sky. Another day had begun.

  Breakfast was just being finished up as the light strengthened across the clearing.

  Flat stones near the central fire still held warmth, their surfaces dusted with flour and crumbs. Simple bread had been torn apart and shared, passed hand to hand in silence. A few bowls sat empty beside the coals, scraped clean with fingers and bits of crust. Children lingered close, finishing the last bites before being gently ushered aside.

  Most of the adults were already shifting into the shape of the day ahead. Cloaks were tied back. Sleeves rolled up. Worn belts were tightened to hold small tools and knives polished smooth by use. There was no announcement, no signal to begin. Work simply resumed, as it always did.

  At the edge of the clearing, gathering baskets were being collected by the first group of stone gatherers. They moved with quiet efficiency, selecting baskets with handles mended by twine and leather scraps. Each basket was lifted and set down again, testing for weight.

  The stone gatherers set off first, slipping into the trees along a narrow, familiar path. Their steps were steady and unhurried, their eyes already scanning the ground ahead for loose rock and usable fragments.

  Wood collection would start soon after. A pair of villagers sorted through axes and wedges near a low stump, checking edges and hafts before setting them aside in a neat row. Others stacked coils of rope and lengths of vine, preparing to haul whatever could be cut.

  Ore and food would come later, once the sun climbed higher. The baskets meant for ore were smaller and reinforced, marked with knots tied into the handles so they could be distinguished at a glance. They were set apart, waiting.

  The village settled into its rhythm, each task following the last in an order shaped by long habit. Nothing here was wasted, not time, not effort, not the fragile quiet that kept them alive.

  Mali sat in front of her family’s hut with her legs folded beneath her, the dirt cool through the thin fabric of her clothes. The doll rested in her lap.

  Every so often, Mali lifted her head and glanced toward the central fire, watching for her mother to return with her portion of breakfast. Each time someone passed through the clearing, her shoulders tensed, then relaxed when she could verify they were one of her own people. She looked back down at the doll and pressed its head lightly against her chest.

  Today, Mali had woken later than she usually did. The sun had already been up when her eyes finally opened, her body heavy and unwilling to move. The dreams had come again in the night, the same ones that always did now. Boots in the dirt. Hands pulling. A voice she could not recognize calling her name. She never remembered the end, only the fear that clung to her long after morning arrived.

  Since her father had been killed, the nightmares had returned with a stubborn regularity. Some nights she woke crying. Others she lay still, staring into the dark until exhaustion claimed her again. Her mother would hold her then, whispering comfort into her hair, rocking her until her breathing slowed. It helped, but only for a while.

  There was little else the village could offer.

  The old shaman woman had tried. She burned herbs that thickened the air and pressed cool pastes to Mali’s temples. She murmured old words and gave Mali bitter drinks meant to pull her deeper into sleep. They dulled the edges of the dreams, sometimes, but they never took them away.

  So Mali played quietly in the mornings, waiting for the day to settle into something predictable. She set the doll upright, then laid it down again, arranging its arms just so. When her stomach growled, she ignored it and kept her eyes on the path where her mother would appear.

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  The village moved around her, careful not to disturb her small island of stillness. Children passed without stopping. Adults glanced her way and then looked elsewhere, carrying their baskets and tools toward the edge of the trees.

  Mali hugged the doll closer and waited.

  Tama moved through the village with a slow, deliberate pace, her eyes taking in everything without lingering too long on any one thing. Morning checks had become a habit, something she did without being asked, because no one else wanted to be the one to notice what was wrong.

  She paused near the central fire pit, noting how little ash had been left behind from breakfast. She watched the stone gatherers disappear into the trees and counted them without moving her lips. The number was right.

  As a whole, the village had been meeting the collection quotas. On paper, at least, nothing was failing. Stone was delivered when it was demanded. Wood was stacked where it needed to be. Ore was gathered in small, precious amounts and handed over without protest. The soldiers hardly complained about shortages anymore.

  The problem was that the quotas had been climbing for months.

  Tama remembered when food collection had been simple. Back then, there had been more than enough. Enough to meet the quota and still leave full bowls at night. Enough that children had licked their fingers and laughed while doing it. Enough that no one had gone to sleep with hunger gnawing.

  Now things were different.

  She stopped beside one of the storage huts and rested a hand against the rough wood. The door creaked softly when she pushed it open. Inside, the baskets were arranged with care, but the gaps between them were growing. Grain was measured out carefully, never wasted. Dried roots and berries were portioned with a precision that left no room for error.

  Tama closed the door and moved on.

  The problem was not effort. The villagers worked harder now than they ever had before. The problem was that the line kept moving. Each month, the soldiers returned with new numbers, spoken harshly and enforced with threats that never needed repeating.

  Meet the quota or lose someone.

  So they worked faster and longer, never daring to test the soldiers’ threats.

  Tama tightened her jaw and continued her circuit. The village looked the same as it always had in the morning light, but beneath that sameness was a steady thinning.

  She wondered how much longer they could keep pinching their reserves and pretending things were still fine.

  Suddenly there it was, the sound.

  Hooves thundered out of the trees with a force that shattered the village’s fragile peace. Six Clawborn soldiers rode into the clearing at speed, their horses pushed hard. Dirt and stones sprayed as they hauled the animals to a rearing stop, the horses screaming and striking the air with their forelegs before slamming back down.

  The clearing froze.

  Children were pulled close. Baskets slipped from hands and spilled where they fell. No one ran, ever.

  The leader swung down from his horse before it had fully settled. He hit the ground and stormed forward, his stride long and aggressive, eyes locked on Tama as if she had been standing there waiting for him all along.

  Tama barely had time to think.

  She lifted her hands toward her face on instinct, her body reacting faster than her mind. The movement only marked her.

  The Clawborn leader struck her with an open hand.

  The sound cracked through the clearing, sharp and wet. Tama was lifted off her feet by the force of it and thrown to the ground, her head snapping to the side as she hit the dirt. The world rang. Her vision blurred. She tasted blood.

  No one moved.

  This was a larger party than usual, and the leader was not one the village recognized. His armor was heavier, more reinforced, and across his chest were two sets of three red claw marks, carved and stained, crossing diagonally over one another. Six marks in total. Intersecting. Deliberate.

  The villagers had never seen that before.

  The remaining soldiers dismounted in silence and formed up behind him. Their presence closed the space around Tama where she lay struggling to push herself upright.

  The leader threw his arms upward, claws spread wide, the gesture violent and theatrical.

  “Tribute not enough,” he roared in broken English.

  He brought his arms down hard, as if striking the air itself.

  “More,” he demanded.

  The words echoed in the clearing, heavy and final, punctuated by the sound of horses snorting.

  The villagers remained frozen in terror.

  This was the first time they had been violent when simply announcing a new quota. The Clawborn had shouted before. They had threatened. They had loomed and punished when numbers fell short. But the village had met its tribute. Always. Under the fear now was confusion. They had done what was demanded. They had obeyed.

  Why had it changed?

  The answer stood before them in scarred armor and crossed red marks. This new leader was carving his presence into them, setting a new standard in blood and pain.

  The leader moved again.

  He stalked toward the nearest villagers, his breath harsh and wet as he leaned close to their faces. He hissed a single word.

  “More.”

  He grabbed tunics in his claws, yanking people forward, shoving some hard enough that they fell to the ground. Hands flew up in useless defense. No one resisted. No one spoke. Fear pinned them in place.

  He stopped in front of Tama again.

  She had forced herself upright. One hand clutched the side of her head, her fingers slick with blood. Her knees trembled. She focused on breathing, on staying upright, on not breaking apart in front of everyone.

  The leader loomed close.

  “I Korr-Va,” he said, thumping his chest as he turned away from her.

  The name settled over the village like a curse.

  Korr-Va drew his sword.

  Steel slid free with a sound that cut through the clearing. He walked toward a male villager standing rigid near the edge of the square. Korr-Va pressed the tip of the blade to the man’s throat, just enough to dimple skin.

  “You bring more,” Korr-Va said.

  The villager swallowed. His eyes flicked once toward the ground. He nodded, slow and careful.

  Korr-Va studied him for a long moment. Then he lowered the sword. He turned his back and took a step away.

  Relief rippled weakly through the crowd, fragile and brief.

  Korr-Va turned back.

  In one clean motion, he swung.

  The villager’s head left his shoulders and struck the dirt with a dull, final sound. Blood sprayed across the ground. Someone screamed. Someone else collapsed.

  Korr-Va growled, his voice thick with satisfaction.

  “You bring MORE.”

  The soldiers mounted their horses as one. Hooves churned the dirt. Dust rose in choking clouds as they rode out, leaving as suddenly as they had come.

  When the sound finally faded, the clearing was silent again.

  The villagers stood among the dust and the blood, staring at what remained, knowing without needing to say it that the rules had changed again.

  And that survival would now cost more than they had left to give.