The morning after the barn became a grave, the air in Baibars felt different. It carried the same scent of earth and hay, the same distant bleating of goats and crowing of roosters, but beneath it all lingered something foul. A silence. A heaviness.
By noon, the whole village had gathered in the square. Men with calloused hands, women clutching their shawls, and children who should have been playing in the fields now clung to their mothers' skirts, sensing a storm they could not name.
At the center stood the chief—broad-shouldered, grey-bearded, a man who had ruled with equal measures of fear and respect. His name was Kharven, and until yesterday, he had been considered untouchable. But whispers travel faster than the wind, and the whispers were damning: the girl in the barn, broken and lifeless, had been seen in his company the evening before.
Oisla Faverish stood with his father, heart pounding in his chest. His eyes darted from villager to villager, searching their faces for disbelief, for denial, for any sign that someone else might have seen what he had. But no one met his gaze. They were all fixed on the chief.
Kharven raised his voice above the murmur. "These are lies," he thundered, his fists clenched. "Vile lies meant to tear apart this village. You dare accuse your own leader of such filth?"
The crowd murmured louder. Some looked away in shame, others in doubt. A few nodded grimly, as if the truth had been festering too long to ignore.
It was Oisla's father, Dael Faverish, who stepped forward. His voice was steady, but his jaw was tight as steel. "Chief, no one wanted to believe it. But the girl was found in your barn. She had no reason to be there. And too many have seen you take liberties with women who could not refuse you."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The words hung heavy, like a blade unsheathed.
Kharven's face darkened. "Watch your tongue, Dael. You speak to the man who has kept this village safe for decades."
Dael didn't flinch. "A man who protects does not prey on his own. A man who leads does not kill the innocent."
The tension in the air thickened until it was almost a living thing. Villagers shifted, torn between loyalty to their chief and the sick certainty settling in their stomachs.
Oisla swallowed hard, his throat dry. He wanted to speak—to scream what he had seen—but his voice died before it reached his lips. He could still see the girl's eyes, wide and glassy, the shadows in the barn. His stomach churned, and he pressed himself closer to his father's side, as though Dael's presence could shield him from the truth.
The chief's glare swept over the crowd. "You think you can condemn me on rumors? On grief-clouded minds? I am the shield of Baibars. Without me, you would be trampled under the boots of the northern raiders."
But something in his tone betrayed him—too sharp, too defensive. And the villagers, hardened by years of hardship, smelled blood.
An elder woman stepped forward, her hands trembling but her eyes fierce. "Shield of Baibars, you call yourself. But what good is a shield if it turns its edge against its own people?"
The square erupted in voices—angry, frightened, determined. The assembly was no longer an audience. It was a tribunal.
Finally, the council of elders convened in whispers. When they turned back, their decision was carved into their faces. The chief, Kharven, was guilty. His power was broken.
The verdict sent a shudder through the crowd. Some wept, others spat in the dirt. And though no gallows stood in Baibars, his downfall was punishment enough. His name would rot, his house abandoned, his memory cursed.
For Oisla, none of it brought relief. The scene blurred before his eyes, his breath coming fast and shallow. His father's voice, sharp with fury, still echoed in his ears. His own silence pressed on his chest like a stone. He couldn't stay, couldn't breathe—he turned and ran.
He burst into their home, collapsing onto the wooden floor. His chest heaved, his vision swam.
His mother, Leira, hurried to his side, kneeling beside him. "Oisla? What is it, child?"
"I—I can't—" The words tangled in his throat.
His grandmother, old Mara, shuffled over, her wrinkled face etched with concern. She placed a thin, steady hand on his shoulder. "Easy, boy. Breathe. The world won't swallow you whole, not while we're here."
His father entered moments later, weary from the assembly, his jaw still tight. He took one look at his son and sighed, lowering himself onto the floor. "It's been a hard day, hasn't it, lad?"
Oisla nodded weakly, his eyes filling with tears. He couldn't tell them the truth—not yet. But the fear, the guilt, the heaviness, it spilled over.
Leira stroked his hair, her voice soft. "When your father was your age, he thought the world would break him, too. Didn't you, Dael?"
A faint smile tugged at Dael's lips. "Aye. I thought my back would snap under my father's chores, and that I'd never be strong enough to face the world. But look at me now. It doesn't break you, Oisla. It shapes you."
Grandmother Mara chuckled softly. "And when I was his age, I thought love was something that could never be lost. Then I lost it, and found it again, and learned the heart is tougher than the bones."
Their voices wrapped around him like a blanket. They spoke of their pasts—not as heroes, but as people who had stumbled, fallen, and risen again. For a while, the heaviness in his chest loosened. He was still afraid, but less alone.
It was then that the knock came. Sharp. Urgent.
Dael opened the door to find a messenger, his face pale and dust-streaked. "The news spreads," he panted. "The city of Arvent has fallen. The enemy has breached the gates. The raiders are heading toward Baibars."
The room froze.
Leira's hand tightened on Oisla's shoulder. Mara closed her eyes as if bracing for a storm she had always known would come. Dael's jaw clenched, the fire in his eyes hardening into resolve.
Baibars was no longer only a village of grief and betrayal. It was a village under siege.
And for Oisla Faverish, thirteen years old, who had seen too much already—the world was about to change forever.