The morning it happened started like any other.
Alaric woke to Marla poking his cheek. "Up. The wheat won't cut itself."
"Mmm… five more breaths," he mumbled.
"You can have five after the harvest," she said. "Move."
He dragged himself up, dressed, splashed his face with cool water from the basin. Outside, the air already smelled like dry grass and sun‑warmed earth. It would be a hot day.
He helped Tomas check the tools, counted the sacks they'd need, and was halfway through a serious argument with a very uncooperative chicken when Joren ran up the lane, panting.
"Alaric!" Joren skidded to a halt. "Your dad, where's your dad?"
"In the back," Alaric said. "Why? What happened?"
"Berthold wants all the men at the edge of the village," Joren said. "Said there's dust on the north road again. Big dust."
Tomas had already stepped out of the house, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Big dust?"
"Like carts?" Marla asked sharply.
"Like… more," Joren said, some of his excitement leaking away. "Dad said it might be a merchant caravan. Or…" He swallowed. "Or not."
Tomas's face closed up. "Stay here with your mother," he told Alaric. "I'll take a look."
"I'm coming," Marla said immediately.
"No, you're—"
"If it's nothing, I'll come back and finish yelling at the chickens," she said. "If it's something, I'm not waiting to hear about it second‑hand."
Tomas opened his mouth, then closed it again. "…Fine. Stay behind me."
They walked down the lane toward the north edge of Shuru, where the road came in from the hills. Other villagers were already gathered, Berthold, Harn, a handful of men with old spears and hunting bows that suddenly looked very thin.
Alaric hovered a few steps behind his parents. No one told him to go back. He wasn't going to volunteer.
He shaded his eyes with a hand.
The dust wasn't a little cloud this time.
It was a long smear stretching along the road, growing thicker as it came closer. The faint clink of metal drifted on the wind.
"Too much for a caravan," Harn muttered.
"Could be refugees," someone said hopefully.
"With that pace?" Berthold shook his head. "Look at it. That's marching."
Alaric's throat went dry.
Marching. Soldiers.
Beside him, Marla's fingers dug into Tomas's sleeve.
"Maybe they'll just pass by," she whispered. "Maybe...."
"Maybe," Tomas said, but his voice didn't believe it.
As the shapes in the dust grew clearer, Alaric could make out rows. Lines of men. Sunlight flashing on breastplates and spearheads.
Banners snapped in the wind above them.
He squinted.
White cloth. A rearing horse. And, cutting through it, the black line of a spear.
His stomach lurched.
White horse. Black spear.
Gavin's voice echoed in his mind: If you see white horse banners with a black spear on them, run. Or hide very well.
No one ran.
There wasn't really anywhere to run to.
Berthold swallowed hard, then stepped forward. "We should… greet them," he said, as if that made it safer. "If we're calm, if we explain..."
"Explain what?" Harn asked. "That we're poor and not worth bothering with?"
"That we don't have much left for them to take," Marla whispered. "Maybe that's true enough."
Tomas's jaw worked. Then he turned his head just enough to meet Alaric's eyes.
"Alaric," he said quietly. "Go home. Pack your small bag. The one your mother uses for market. Put in your warm clothes. The knife I showed you. Anything you can carry."
Alaric's heart hammered. "Dad..."
"Do it," Tomas said. "And listen to your mother after that. No matter what you hear. Understand?"
Alaric swallowed and nodded.
"Good." Tomas managed a small, crooked smile. "We're just talking to passing soldiers, all right? Nothing to be scared of yet."
The lie was so gentle it almost worked.
Alaric turned and ran, small stones from the road biting into his bare feet.
The dust on the horizon kept getting thicker behind him.