The week after the rains passed, the village returned to its quiet rhythm. Fields dried. Chickens squawked with renewed arrogance. Children chased each other between stone walls with muddy feet and wooden swords.
Ash found a strange sort of peace in it.
He mended the smith's awning with a borrowed hammer. Helped old Mara replant her herb garden after half of it washed away.
Rebuilt a section of the west fence after a stag tore through it during the storm. No one called him "Ash" with reverence. No one asked about spells or stories.
They just offered work.
And bread. So much bread.
Still, the quiet was deceptive.
Because something had shifted.
It began with the animals.
Three sheep went missing from Ardon's pasture. No signs of wolves. No blood. Just wool snagged on a low-hanging branch and a silence too thick for dusk.
Then, the Miller's dog refused to go near the granary.
