Morning crept into Bramble Hollow heavy and reluctant, like even the sun wasn't sure it wanted to rise after what had happened in the sky.
When I sat up in bed, the boards beneath me felt colder than usual. The smell of porridge drifted upstairs, thin and watery, and Mother's humming carried with it a waver I wasn't used to hearing. Normally her voice steadied the morning like the ticking of a clock. Today, it faltered, catching at certain notes as though she had to remind herself to keep going.
Sera had already beaten me out of bed. She darted around barefoot, hair sticking out in every direction like she'd fought a storm in her sleep. Her eyes shone bright with questions she hadn't dared ask last night. She leaned in so close her breath tickled my cheek.
"You saw it too, right?" she whispered. "I didn't just dream it?"
Her voice quivered at the edge between awe and fear.
"You didn't dream it," I said, fumbling with my bootlaces. My fingers were clumsy, distracted. "It was real."
Her grin widened for a heartbeat, then shrank as if she wasn't sure whether to be glad or terrified. She scampered off down the stairs before I could say more, her feet thudding on each step like a drumbeat.
Downstairs, Father sat at the table with his arms folded, shoulders tight, his porridge untouched and cooling. Steam curled upward into his face, and he stared into it like he expected it to write an answer for him.
When his eyes lifted to mine, the message was wordless but clear: don't bring it up in front of your sister.
Mother ladled another bowl and set it down in front of me. She tried to smile, but the effort wavered halfway through. "Eat. A day is still a day," she said softly.
We ate in silence. The porridge tasted like paste, though maybe that was just me. Sera fidgeted with her spoon, restless enough that she nearly tipped her bowl twice. Mother reached out with one hand to steady it, brushing hair from Sera's forehead with the other.
"Eat properly," she said gently. "The day doesn't stop because the sky misbehaved."
The sky misbehaved. That was Mother's way of covering the impossible with plain words, as if giving it a smaller name would shrink it.
The fields looked the same, but they didn't feel the same. The soil seemed restless under my boots, faintly humming, like it remembered the furnace-bright streak that had torn the heavens. Shadows felt longer, sharper, as though the light itself was cautious.
Father worked with more force than usual, each strike of his hoe louder, harder, like he thought he could pound unease into the dirt. I tried to match his rhythm, but my gaze kept straying toward the ridge beyond the forest.
Half the village was buzzing by now. At the well, two women whispered about omens, their voices sharp and clipped. At the smithy, Garrel's fiddle sat silent while he hammered at a blade, muttering about soldiers who'd surely come nosing around. Children in the lane clashed sticks together, yelling about "sky monsters," while their mothers shouted at them to stop tempting fate.
"Keep your head down," Father said suddenly, noticing my stare at the ridge. He didn't raise his voice, but the weight of it stopped me cold. "The world beyond Bramble Hollow doesn't put bread on this table."
I nodded quickly, but the itch in my chest remained.
By midday, Mother handed me a basket. "Firewood, and herbs if you find any. Better to have more than less." She always stocked up after strange nights, as if gathering things could build a wall against whatever was coming.
Sera tried to follow, but Mother caught her collar. "Not today. Your brother can manage."
The path into the forest was one I'd walked hundreds of times, but the silence there had changed. It wasn't the soft hush of birds resting or wind through leaves. It was thicker, heavier, like the forest itself was holding its breath. My footsteps sounded wrong—too loud, like an intruder's.
I told myself to focus on tasks: kindling first, then thicker deadfall, then feverleaf if I found some.
Simple work. Work with answers.
But the forest had other ideas.
I found feverleaf near a broad oak, pale green leaves with that sharp mint scent. As I bent to cut a few stalks, something else caught my eye—a wound in the soil.
A long gouge stretched across the ground, deep and straight, as if something had carved through with fire. It was wide enough for my whole arm.
I crouched, heart pounding. The earth smelled scorched, faintly metallic. When I pressed my fingers to the edge, the dirt crumbled warm.
Warm. Hours after dawn.
My throat tightened.
A twig snapped behind me. I spun, stick raised like a club.
Only Mira stood there, straw hat tilted back, a bundle of herbs in her arms. "Saints, Ren! Planning to knock my head off?"
"You shouldn't sneak up like that," I muttered, lowering the stick.
"I called your name twice," she said, stepping closer. Her eyes followed mine to the gouge. Her smile vanished. "You found one too."
"One?" I asked.
"There's another near the river," she said. "Like something dragged fire through the trees."
She crouched, hand hovering above the soil but not touching. "Not natural."
"No," I agreed. "Not natural."
We stood there, the forest pressing close around us. Even the birds seemed to have quieted.
"You'll tell your father?" she asked finally.
I thought of his silent warning at breakfast, of Mother's trembling voice, of Sera's wide eyes. "Not yet," I said.
Mira studied me a moment, then gave a short nod. "Then we didn't see anything." She dusted off her skirt, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But be careful, Ren. The forest keeps its secrets. And sometimes it asks a high price for keeping them."
She left me with the basket suddenly heavy in my hands.
On my way back, I skirted the edge of the market square. Villagers stood in knots, trading half-whispers.
Old Tomas swore he'd seen wings in the light. Lira the baker claimed her bread rose twice as high this morning—"a blessing," she called it, though her eyes darted nervously toward the ridge. Others muttered about soldiers, about omens, about curses.
Their words clung to me like smoke. I quickened my pace.
Sera was waiting at the lane when I returned, arms crossed, brows furrowed. "What took so long? Did you see anything?"
Her eyes searched mine for truths I couldn't give. I forced a grin and ruffled her hair. "Just trees and mud. Sorry to disappoint."
She pouted, but I caught her gaze flicking toward the ridge. She didn't believe me, not really.
At supper, Father asked if the woods looked ordinary. My nod was quick, too quick. He held my gaze for a long moment, his jaw tight, then returned to his stew. He knew I wasn't telling everything. But he let the silence sit.
That night, sleep came slow. The house groaned, each creak sharp as if the forest itself had followed me home. Mira's words echoed in my head, mixing with the image of scorched soil crumbling warm in my hand.
When I finally drifted, the dream came: furrows carved into the heavens, seeds of light falling, hands coaxing something vast and terrible to grow.
And somewhere far off, a low rumble stirred—like a beast turning in its sleep.
Tomorrow would bring chores, bread, Father's steady voice. But the world had tilted, and no one could set it straight again.
And no matter how I tried, I couldn't stop looking toward the ridge.