The Zone had settled into something quieter after Atlas and Elara stepped back. No announcements. No ceremonies. Just fewer of their voices in the daily mix.
People still asked them for stories now and then, and every so often a small, deliberate flaw would show up somewhere—an off-center signpost, a recipe with one wrong measurement—signed with nothing but a tiny doodle of a garden shovel. Life kept moving.
Skritch sat in the tax hall on the first day of the new collection week, staring at his ledgers like they had betrayed him. He had decided this season would be different. No games. No clever deductions. Just honest numbers.
"Everyone pays what they actually owe," he muttered to himself. "Simple."
By the third day, half the Zone had overpaid. Not a lot. Just enough to round up or throw in extra for "the fun of it." One farmer dropped off a sack of potatoes with his payment slip. Another left a note: *Feels rebellious. Keep the change.*
