The first sign was the dust.
Alaric noticed it while he was fetching water from the well. A faint brown smudge on the road to the north, wobbling in the summer heat.
He squinted, bucket rope digging into his hands. "Huh."
"Oi, don't just stand there," Lena said, bumping his shoulder with her own bucket. "If you stare at the road, the water won't carry itself."
"I know." He tore his eyes away and started hauling again. "Look, though. Is someone coming?"
Lena huffed, but she turned too. "Probably a merchant. Or a runaway cow. Come on."
By the time they finished carrying the buckets back toward the fields, the dust had thickened. A single cart came into view, drawn by a tired-looking horse. A man sat on the bench, slumped forward, hat pulled low.
"That's not a merchant," Lena said. "His cart's empty."
"Maybe he sold everything," Alaric suggested.
"Then why's he coming this way? There's nothing further down except us."
…Fair point.
As the cart rolled closer, Alaric saw the man's clothes were stained and torn. Not the neat layers of a peddler, but a mix of travel cloak and something like a uniform, ripped across the chest.
Joren came trotting up from the other side of the road, eyes wide. "Did you see? He's got a sword."
"Stay back," Tomas called from the next field, already moving toward the road. Berthold, the village chief, stepped out from the tavern, wiping his hands on his apron.
The horse stopped almost on its own in front of them. The man on the bench raised his head with obvious effort. His face was pale under dried dirt, jaw rough with stubble. A worn Horsin crest was half-visible on his chest.
"Water," he rasped.
Alaric didn't think. He shoved his bucket forward. "Here!"
"Alaric!" Marla hissed from behind. "Wait, we don't know—"
But the man had already grabbed the bucket with shaking hands. He drank too fast, coughed, then forced himself to slow down.
"Thank… you," he managed.
Up close, Alaric saw that the man's left side was bandaged badly, red seeping through. An ugly, half-clotted wound.
"You're of Horsin army?" Berthold asked cautiously.
The man gave a short laugh that sounded more like a cough. "What's left of it. Third border watch. Or what used to be."
Tomas stepped forward. "What happened?"
The soldier's eyes were bloodshot. They flicked to the children, then to the houses.
"Buckland," he said. The one word made the air feel colder.
"We heard they were gathering troops up north," Berthold said. "You fought them?"
"Fought?" The man shook his head. "We lined up. They rolled over us. We were a line of sticks, they brought axes."
He reached into his cloak with clumsy fingers, pulled out a small waterskin, found it empty, sighed, and let it drop.
"There was… a village," he said. "Deren. On the border road. They took all the grain. Livestock. Even dragged some folk off in ropes."
"Dragged—?" Lena's voice died in her throat.
"Then they burned it anyway," the man went on dully. "Anyone who argued, or begged, or just looked at them wrong…"
His mouth tightened.
Alaric's grip on the bucket handle hurt. He stared.
Took everything. Took people. Then burned what was left.
"Why?" Berthold asked, voice strained.
"'No witnesses,'" the man said flatly. "Northern Army Commander of Buckland's order. Lord Marius Valen. I heard it myself. He doesn't want stories getting around of what they're really doing."
Alaric swallowed.
Northern Army Commander of Buckland. Lord Marius Valen.
Just a title and a name. But suddenly it felt like a face in the dark.
"We should get you inside," Tomas said. "That wound's not going to fix itself."
"The village healer can look at you," Marla added, worry pushing aside her earlier scolding.
The man hesitated. "I don't… want to bring trouble by staying. If they come—"
"If they come, we'll deal with it then," Tomas said. "Right now, you'll die in that cart if you keep going. Shuru's not that heartless."
Berthold grunted. "Use my spare bed in the back. I'll fetch Harn. He's stitched worse."
As they helped the man down from the cart, Alaric caught his eye for a moment.
The soldier gave him a tired half-smile.
"Thanks for the water, kid," he said. "Hold onto that bucket. Might need it."
Alaric nodded without really knowing why his throat felt tight.