Rowan Hale steadies the old lantern in their hand, its glow flickering over the dewy grass as they hurry along the lane toward Tomas’s bakery. Footsteps crunch behind, a hurried, uneven gait, then a voice calls out, low and urgent.
“Rowan. Over here.”
Tomas stands in the shadow of the bakery’s stone wall, worry etched deep across his broad face. Elsa Penwarden is already waiting, arms crossed, her shawl pulled tight against the morning chill. The sheep paddock behind them is in disarray, muddy and trampled, the air sharp with the smell of fear and wool. Tomas’s words tumble out:
“They’re spooked again. Two missing, one limping. And, ”
he nods toward Elsa, who frowns, kneeling to inspect a trail of strange, singed grass leading toward the woods. Rowan’s lantern quivers in their grasp as a crow screeches from the ruin’s direction, and the villagers’ eyes settle on them, expectant and uncertain.