The new light in the longhouse did more than illuminate tasks; it illuminated moods. The lifted gloom seemed to lift spirits, and a renewed energy buzzed through Aethelburg. The lessons of the thaw—of flexibility, of listening to the land's deeper needs, of the calculus of belonging—were fresh. They moved with a sense of being not just residents of a place, but active, thoughtful participants in its ongoing creation.
It was in this atmosphere of confident collaboration that the strangers arrived.
They came from the south, a small delegation of five from a settlement known as Stone Creek, a place known more for its pragmatism than its poetry. Their leader was a woman named Jorah, with the sturdy build of a lifelong stoneworker and eyes that missed no detail. They were welcomed with the customary hospitality, offered warm cider and seats by the hearth, but their posture remained tense, their smiles perfunctory.
