By dawn, Windmere was ash and smoke.
The goblins had left as swiftly as they came, leaving broken bodies and burning homes in their wake. The survivors gathered in the square, stunned and hollow.
Aric could not look at them. The stranger's warning echoed in his mind. This was no random raid—the leader's eyes had been searching for him.
Mira approached, soot streaking her cheeks. "They'll come again. You saw the way they hunted. We can't stay here."
"And go where?" Aric asked.
Before she could answer, the stranger appeared again, staff in hand. His cloak was torn, his good eye fierce. "You go with me," he said. "To the capital. To those who still remember the old wars. The Fang has awakened, and the Shattered Crown stirs in its grave. The boy cannot stay in Windmere."
Aric felt the weight of every gaze turn upon him.
For the first time, he understood: his life in the fields was gone. The storm had chosen him, and there was no turning back.