The first frost came not as an enemy, but as a painter. It silvered the rooftops of Aethelburg overnight, traced delicate, crystalline ferns on every windowpane, and stiffened the grass underfoot with a satisfying crunch. The world was hushed, holding its breath. The change in season was a rhythm the community knew in its bones, a turning in the great, slow song of the year.
Preparations that had been underway for weeks now took on a new urgency. The last of the root vegetables were hauled from the earth and packed in sand in the cool, dark cellars. Apples were sorted, the perfect ones wrapped in paper for storage, the bruised ones destined for the press. The air was filled with the sweet, pungent smell of cider and the woodsmoke from countless hearths.
