Dawn's weak light struggles through the grime on the window. My clothes are pasted to my skin. I peel myself from them and pull on a dry set of clothes from the trunk at the foot of the bed.

  The chaos in my head quiets, leaving a single, sharp point. A question.

  Who in this fear-gripped village has the courage to be part of a resistance?

  Find the heart of the rebellion, or

  One face surfaces from the paranoia of the night before. Derrick.

  My arrival froze them all. Only Derrick's rag continued its slow, steady circle on the bar top.

  I pause, a bootlace half-tied. Every secret traded over ale, every rumour, is a thread that leads back to the man at its centre.

  Derrick stands sentinel behind the bar, his frame hunched over the counter. His head snaps up as I approach, eyes narrowing as they lock onto mine. The rag in his hand freezes mid-swipe.

  I approach the bar and take a stool. Derrick acknowledges with a grunt. He turns away, movements stiff as he busies himself behind the bar. A bowl appears before me, steam rising from its contents. The smell of porridge, thick and bland, fills my nostrils. He pushes a spoon towards me, metal scraping against wood with a harsh sound.

  Derrick's hands land flat on the bar. "Anything else?"

  I hold his stare. "Depends. What else is on offer here?"

  His voice is low, meant only for me. "I know a man putting on a show when I see one. You can drop the act. Tell me what you really want in my town."

  I lean forward. "The fox runs when the moon is full."

  For a long moment, nothing. No line on his face moves.

  Then, I see it. The slow release of a breath he must have held for years.

  His shoulders drop an inch.

  His grip on the rag loosens, the knuckles no longer stretched thin. It slips from his fingers, landing on the counter with a soft, wet sound.

  The man who had been a fortress moments ago is gone, leaving only a collection of tired bones held up by the bar.

  Derrick leans in, voice low. "Cellar. One hour. Three knocks, pause, two more." He snatches up a nearby mug, polishing it with intense focus. Our conversation is over.

  The path is true. The Echo of Alistair strengthens.

  It remains Steady, but its flame, once a hesitant breath, is now a fragile warmth.

  |||

  I sit back. The porridge before me has gone cold, but I force myself to eat, needing the excuse to linger.

  The hour passes. I slip away from the bar and approach the cellar door. My knuckles connect with the wood: tap-tap-tap, silence, tap-tap.

  The door creaks open. Derrick emerges from the shadows. With a brief jerk of his head, he motions me inside. The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us in the cool, earthy dark.

  Win the gatekeeper's trust, or

  Derrick slumps against a stack of crates, his arms hanging limp at his sides. "So Blackthorn's finally reaching out." He doesn't look at me, his attention finding a damp patch on the far wall. "Wasn’t sure you lot were real."

  He pushes himself upright, the movement slow. "I keep what's left of Greyhollow's Resistance alive. Sit on the Council, too."

  "I was just a boy when it started." He runs a hand over a damp stone wall, fingers tracing the line of a crack as if it were a scar on his own skin. "You wouldn't remember a time before the Flesh Tax, would you?"

  I shake my head. "No, it's all I've ever known."

  "But you know the story. How Morvain was dying, the land itself turning to poison. The Collectors offered a pact. Their remediation," he says, spitting out the word, "for our flesh."

  His hand moves to his side, fingers finding the hollow beneath his ribs. A quick, unconscious probe before his arm falls back down.

  "Now look at us. We're slaves to their whims, while Aeloria to the south and Islyr in the north remain untouched. The swamp recedes, year by year. But at what cost?"

  "Why only our villages? There are other towns in Morvain."

  He gives a short laugh. "There were. But forty years of this? Villages don't last long under that kind of strain. We're the last ones standing. Everyone else fled." His voice thickens. "Or worse."

  His mouth pulls tight at the corners. "My daughter, Belladonna. She just turned sixteen. Old enough now." His throat bobs once. Then a hard swallow. "This coming season…" He stops, unable to say more.

  "Who else is with you?" I press, keeping my voice low.

  Derrick shakes his head. "Names stay secret. The less you know, the less you can give them if you're taken. The Resistance is everywhere. You'll know them by their actions, not their faces. Now, focus on your part."

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  "One last thing," he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "Darkwater is off-limits. Step one foot in, and you're as good as dead. Collectors own every inch."

  A memory surfaces. Not of Alistair's death, but of my own near-miss. Of Hugo the merchant, stumbling through that same sludge. I found Alistair's corpse by pure chance. A few steps to the right, and the Collectors would have found me first.

  "Don't tell me." His face goes pale. "You went through the swamp. You didn't. Gods, tell me you didn't."

  The truth is a shard of glass in my throat. "I did. A team. Skilled fighters." I force the words out around it. "I'm the only one who made it out. The Collectors are beyond anything we imagined. Cut through my people like they were nothing."

  The little hope that had returned to Derrick's face dies. "Suicide," he mutters. "What were you thinking?"

  "We thought we were prepared," I manage. "We were wrong."

  "How many lost?"

  "Three."

  Derrick's shoulders slump. "Three more lives claimed by that cursed swamp."

  Then his eyes narrow. "Let me be clear. No one else goes in. Ever. We find another way."

  My eyes find them immediately as I step outside. Near the edge of the square, a mother and her young son huddle together against the wall of the smithy. It's them. The mother and child from the alleyway on my first day. The boy whose bright, sudden laugh was smothered into silence. The eyes that watched me from the shadows before her hand yanked him away.

  I edge closer, my steps slow. The mother's arms tighten around her son like a vine.

  I offer a small, hesitant smile. "Morning."

  The mother's lips press into a thin line, silence her only response.

  The son peeks out from behind his mother's skirts. "Mama, who is that?" He tugs at her skirt.

  Her silence is a wall.

  "I know how I must look," I say, my voice softer than I intended. "But I'm not one of them."

  A distant horn sounds, a low note that steals the final warmth from the autumn air.

  A sudden fear flashes in the mother's eyes. She knows that sound.

  Through the ground, a thrumming starts in the soles of my feet, a rhythm that climbs my legs and settles in my jaw. Hooves. The porridge I ate this morning congeals into a cold, thick sludge in my gut.

  Collectors. They're here.

  Half the villagers scatter, diving for the nearest shelter. The rest freeze in place. A woman drops her basket. Apples scatter across the cobblestones, each one a small, dull thud. No one stoops to pick them up. A shutter slams. A bolt clicks shut. Each sound a reason to stop breathing.

  I see the blood leave the mother's face, the way a tide pulls away from the shore, leaving only sand. She sweeps her son into her arms, clutching him to her chest. She stands still, as if movement might shatter her.

  Run. The command screams through me, but my feet are anchors. I relive the sharp, cold throb as the Collector's sword slides into Alistair's chest. His last thought was of failure.

  They ride into the square, their dark cloaks billowing behind them. Their silver masks gleam in the weak light, expressionless. Five of them, I count.

  The lead Collector dismounts. The sound of his boots on the cobblestones make my teeth ache.

  He does not address the crowd. He speaks to the sky, to the village itself. His voice, distorted by the mask, scrapes out of the silver slit. "Greyhollow. Your countdown begins. Ten days."

  A silver mask separates from the group, turning to face me. He approaches.

  "Impossible." He leans in, his polished silver face inches from mine, reflecting a distorted, terrified version of me. "I left your corpse rotting in the swamp. Explain."

  I force a laugh, but it comes out a half-octave too high. "What are you talking about? How could you have killed me if I'm standing here?"

  His hand twitches towards his weapon.

  The lead Collector's voice breaks the spell. "We have more pressing matters. This anomaly can wait."

  The Collector facing me hesitates, then steps back. A sound like grinding stone escapes the mask. A sneer, perhaps. "This isn't over." He turns and walks away.

  My legs threaten to buckle as the Collector retreats. The air, which had been a solid thing in my throat, finally thins enough to breathe as the final clatter of hooves fades into distance.

  Among the crowd from the tavern, Grace twists her cloak in her hands. "They're not living," she says. "No faces under those masks. Just blank skin. They're spirits, I tell you. Ghosts of all the poor souls the swamp's taken."

  Ward wipes his soot-stained hands on his leather apron. He is the village blacksmith. "Spirits?" he scoffs. "Don't be a fool, woman. They're men. Just men, with fat purses paid to do someone's dirty work."

  Before Grace can retort, Vera grabs her arm. "Both of you, hush," she hisses. "Does it matter what they are? They are the shadow that holds the knife."

  Beside me, the mother's shoulders, which had been tight against her ears, lower. Her stare is a raw, open question. "You're not one of them, are you?"

  "No, I'm not." The words come out firmer than I expected. It's one honest answer I can give.

  She nods. "I'm Evangeline." Her hand rests on her son's shoulder. "This is Pip."

  "Al—" The sound strangles itself.

  "I am…" I open my mouth, but no name comes.

  Who am I, really?

  Pip peeks out from behind his mother's skirt, a thousand questions evident in his bright eyes. "Are you here to help?"

  Evangeline makes a soft shushing sound to Pip, but her eyes stay on me. Her fingers find a loose thread on her sleeve. "I'm sorry. I thought you were one of them."

  I nod. "You weren't the only one. I get it."

  Pip inches forward. "Do you know how to fight the bad men?" he asks, eyes bright.

  Evangeline kneels, pulling Pip close. "Pip, remember? We don't fight them. We just have to be brave."

  She rises, staring at the empty space where the Collectors had been. "My husband and I can't have more children." She says it with the flat, emotionless finality of a doctor delivering a diagnosis. Her hand trembles as she smooths Pip's hair. "How could we bring another life into this?"

  Her voice softens, her words meant only for me. "For some of the year, you can almost forget. You watch him laugh, you see the mud on his knees, and he's just a boy. But then the season turns. Whether it's the first cold winter snap, or the first sweltering summer day, the forgetting stops. You feel the date of the selection in your bones, like a coming sickness."

  She looks at Pip, and her face crumples for just a moment before she forces it back together. "Every day he grows, every day he gets stronger, and every day a part of me screams because of it. A healthy boy will become a viable name for the bag. A perfect offering."

  She looks away, toward the other houses. Her voice softens, the words meant only for me. "You start looking at your neighbours. At their children. The Millers have three children. The Bakers, two. And you start picturing it. The stones in that bag, years from now, their names right beside your son's. You start doing the math in your head. You stop seeing faces and start counting heads."

  Tears spill. "And I know what will happen. I'll lie awake, and I'll pray. And on the day, when they call a name that isn't his..."

  She stops, her hand flying to her mouth as if to physically shove the words back down her own throat. The words that follow are thin and brittle, as if they might turn to dust before they reach me.

  "I'll feel it. That one, terrible second."

  She looks at me, her eyes begging me to understand, to forgive the single, monstrous word before she even says it.

  "Relief."

  My hand flies to my chest. I expect the usual cold throb of Alistair's wound. But the pain isn't there. It is something new. Something that is, terrifyingly, my own. A warm thread pulling at my chest, gentle and insistent. As I watch her clutch her son, it intensifies.

  This can't last. Sooner or later, this village will break. For me, this is a skin I can unpeel and walk away from. For Evangeline and Pip, it is the only skin they will ever have.

  For the first time, the thought of taking another life feels like a violation. Then a cold pulse, slow and sickening, throbs from the web of veins on my back.

  The mother and child are marked. Become their shield, or