"Wisdom is no shield when the world chooses madness. You can speak truth into a storm, but the wind does not listen.
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Nisheena closed her eyes, feeling the weight of failure settle on her shoulders like a burial shroud. Arzash had been the one voice of reason in this escalating madness, the only leader with enough wisdom and experience to navigate the treacherous currents of family politics. Without him, the Dabru family would fall under the influence of hotheads like Korim, men who saw violence as the first solution to every problem.
All three of them looked at her expectantly, waiting for wisdom she wasn't sure she possessed. For years, she'd been the unofficial voice of the common folk, the one they turned to when the great families' games threatened to crush ordinary lives beneath their weight. Her Inn had been neutral ground, a place where information flowed and reasonable people could find reasonable solutions.
But reason was a luxury they could no longer afford.
"We have to warn the townspeople," she said finally, her voice steady despite the churning in her gut. "Tell them to stay away from both family compounds, to avoid taking sides. Find somewhere safe to shelter until this madness burns itself out."
She turned to look at the doorway leading to the sleeping chamber, where the wanderer's labored breathing could be heard even from here. So many questions she wanted to ask him, so many mysteries surrounding his arrival in their doomed town. But the most important question was one she doubted would receive a satisfactory answer: would he help them if he recovered?
Everything she'd read about the king's blessed spoke of absolute loyalty, divine purpose, unwavering dedication to the crown's interests. They weren't protectors of common folk they were weapons pointed at the kingdom's enemies. If he survived his injuries, would he even care about the fate of a frontier town caught between feuding families?
She doubted it.
"Adnir, Torim," she said, turning back to the boys, "go to the inn and gather as many people as you can. Tell them to meet there in an hour. I'll join you shortly to discuss what we can do to protect ourselves."
The two young men nodded and hurried out into the night, leaving her alone with Kael and his mother. The house felt even smaller now, as if the walls were closing in under the pressure of approaching catastrophe.
Miren had returned to her mending, but her hands shook as she worked the needle, and her eyes kept darting toward the sleeping chamber. The fear was understandable, her son had just painted a target on their family by rescuing the wanderer. If Tarkun discovered their involvement, there would be consequences.
Kael remained standing by the fire, his young face etched with determination that reminded Nisheena of his father. Since Jorik's death, the boy had shouldered responsibilities that would challenge men twice his age. His farm was small but well-managed, his reputation for honest dealing was solid, and his voice carried weight among the other young farmers in the district.
She was worried about the hope she saw in his eyes when he looked toward the wanderer's room. Kael believed, with the fierce certainty of youth, that saving the king's blessed warrior would somehow save them all. That divine favor would protect the innocent and justice would prevail over brutality.
Nisheena had lived too long and seen too much to share such optimism. Heroes existed in stories, not in the real world where good people died for stupid reasons and the wicked prospered through strength and cunning. The wanderer might recover from his injuries, but that didn't mean he would become their salvation.
More likely, he would bring even greater disaster down on their heads.
She rose from her chair and moved to the window again, gazing out at the scattered lights of Baelur's northern district. Somewhere in the darkness, families were making desperate plans. Some would try to flee entirely, loading wagons with precious possessions and heading west toward the capital's distant safety. Others would barricade themselves in cellars and root houses, hoping to wait out the storm.
A few brave souls might try to intervene, to stand between the feuding families and demand peace. They would be the first to die when the killing started.
"Lady Nisheena," Kael said softly, "what do you really think will happen?"
She considered lying, offering false comfort in the face of approaching disaster. But Kael deserved better than empty platitudes. He was risking everything to help his neighbors, the least she could do was give him the truth.
"I think this town is going to burn," she said without turning from the window. "Both families have too much pride and too little wisdom. They'll tear each other apart, and the rest of us will be caught in the middle."
"But surely..."
"There is no 'surely,'" she interrupted gently. "There's only what is, and what is coming. We can try to protect as many people as possible, but we can't stop this war. Too much blood has been spilled, too many words spoken that can't be taken back."
In the sleeping chamber, the wanderer's breathing hitched and caught, then resumed its labored rhythm. Nisheena found herself praying to gods she'd long since stopped believing in praying that he would either die quickly and spare them further complications, or recover fully and prove worthy of the faith Kael had placed in him.
But she suspected the gods weren't listening to prayers from Baelur anymore. If they had been, none of this would be happening.
The weight of wisdom, she reflected, was knowing when you were powerless to change what was coming. All she could do now was try to shepherd as many innocent lives as possible through the storm that was about to break over their cursed town.
Outside, war horns sounded again in the distance, their mournful call echoing across the night like the death songs of ancient kings.