The hall was quieter than the night before, though laughter still lingered in its stones. Kelara set her cup down first, eyes turning from the map to the table.

  “We can’t pretend forever. Supper doesn’t chase war away. We need to act.”

  Petric nodded. “Agreed. The Vale to the south is stirring, and the cellars here won’t stretch with twice the mouths. We’ll divide.”

  Jerric leaned forward, restless fire in his voice. “Then let me go west. To Everveil. I’ll kick down her door myself if I have to.”

  Petric’s gaze sharpened. “No. Not Everveil. You don’t go near Virella’s woods, not her castle, not her patrols. Morric Vale only. Watch their knights, see what they claim, but do not engage.”

  Jerric straightened. “Yes, Father.”

  Petric’s eyes flicked to the archer across the table. “Bradan, go with him. Two sets of eyes see further than one.”

  Bradan grinned, clapping Jerric’s shoulder. “Try not to get us killed, and we’ll call it a win.”

  Petric turned to the others. “Nell, Jorlan, Gung—you’re with me. We go to Franklin Square. Supplies, and word of the world. Lysa, Kelara—keep the hearth steady until we’re back.”

  Nell snorted, lifting his tankard. “Back to the Square already? After the mess we cleared last week, I doubt they’ll charge us full price.”

  Jorlan’s brow arched. “Or they’ll charge us double, to rebuild what the bandits smashed.”

  — — —

  By midmorning the Square was alive. Merchants barked prices across the green, wheels rattled over the cobbles, gulls wheeled overhead. Sacks of barley and baskets of fruit spilled their scents into the air, but every stall carried the edge of hunger—thin stock, sharp prices.

  A merchant slammed a crate shut as Petric approached. “Grain’s dear this week,” he said flatly. “Bandits tore through two nights past. Stock scattered, wagons burned. Prices go up when half the storehouse goes to ash.”

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  Petric set coin down anyway. “Then rebuild fast. The kingdom can’t afford to starve.”

  The merchant squinted, studying him. “You’re the one who stood in the square, aren’t you? Blade in hand, drove them off?”

  Nell grinned before Petric could answer. “Aye, that was us. You’re welcome.” He slapped the crate as if sealing the deal. “But don’t think saving your hides means free grain. The lion pays his share.”

  Petric only gave a curt nod, moving on through the crowd with sword at his side and coin ready in his hand. “We buy fair,” he reminded the others. “We take nothing. That’s how the lion stands.”

  Nell was already shouldering into a cluster of stalls, tankard in hand. “Oi! You call that a melon? I’ve seen helmets rounder!” The merchant sputtered while Nell laughed and slapped coin down anyway, overpaying just to watch the man’s face.

  Jorlan drifted toward a bench where three old men hunched in the shade, their voices low. He leaned on his sword like a staff and listened. One traced the air with his hands, miming a boy chasing a duck; another swore the bird quacked once before both vanished into the trees. Their words carried no punchline—only the flat weight of fear, like men telling a ghost story they half believed themselves.

  When Jorlan returned, his expression gave little away. “They speak of the woods,” he said. “A boy chasing a duck. Both vanished. They call it swallowed.”

  “Drunk talk,” Nell scoffed, rolling his eyes.

  Gung stepped from the shadow of a stall, voice calm but certain. "Different tongues don’t shape the same fear unless there’s truth beneath it. If the woods are taking children, it’s not the ale.”

  The three of them stood in uneasy silence until Petric rejoined them, grain secured. He caught the look on their faces and frowned. “Whatever it is, we’ll hear it again. Rumors travel faster than truth.”

  — — —

  The southern road narrowed to a hunter’s track, trees crowding close. Jerric walked his horse to silence its hooves; Bradan stayed at his shoulder, bow ready.

  “You’re quiet,” Bradan said after a while.

  “Thinking.”

  “Dangerous habit. Your father has enough of that for both of you.”

  Jerric snorted despite himself. “You sound like Nell.”

  “Better hair,” Bradan said, grinning.

  They moved on. Voices caught them at a bend—men in mail, swords easy at their hips. Through the brush they watched knights in crimson cloaks halt a farmer’s cart.

  “This road is under the jurisdiction of the crown,” one knight declared. “Pass only by leave.”

  “The crown?” the farmer protested. “Whose?”

  The knight’s hand rested on his hilt. The farmer fell silent.

  Bradan’s breath was low. “They’re staking claim.”

  Jerric’s jaw tightened. “Father will want to hear it.”

  They waited until the cart rattled away and the patrol moved on, then turned north. Twilight draped the trees when it came—the sound sharp, close. A dog’s bark. Once. Twice. Cut off.

  Bradan muttered, “Strays.”

  “No,” Jerric said, staring into the dark. “That wasn’t a stray.”

  The silence that followed felt heavier than the bark itself.