The longhouse pressed heavy with heat and voices. Smoke curled from iron bowls carried by the priests of Sorrow. They swung the bowls on chains, and the blue smoke clung to the beams until the rafters looked bruised. The warriors sat in a tight circle, chest plates strapped on, fists already raw from beating vows into their skin. The healers carried jars of herbs and water and sat apart, eyes sharp, lips thin. The foreman stood with his board of papers clutched like a shield.
The clans formed three circles on the packed dirt floor. Between them lay a strip of bare earth no one crossed. That space had been carved by fights older than Ari's memory, and even now it held the weight of grudges like invisible walls. People muttered to each other but did not step closer.
Ari sat with her mother and brother on the far edge. Her father stood with the cutters near the foreman. He looked taller under the smoke, though his shoulders sagged from the day's work. Ari fixed her eyes on him. As long as he stood steady, the room felt less dangerous.
The priest of Sorrow lifted his bowl high. The blue smoke drifted down. "We are marked," he intoned. "The Empire's shadow falls. It is the grief of our ancestors made new." His voice was thick with ritual, words shaped to sound old even when they were new.
The warrior captain slammed his fist against his plate. Blood smeared the dented iron. "Grief does not stop bullets. We meet steel with steel." His men thudded their fists in answer, a rhythm that made Ari's teeth ache.
The healer leader raised her hand. "Steel makes wounds. Wounds make orphans. We cannot feed more orphans." She shook the jar she held, the herbs rattling like bones. "We treat what we can. But medicine is short. If war comes, we will lose twice - once to the rifles and once to the fever."
The foreman scribbled on his board and lifted it. "Papers keep us alive longer than pride. The Empire respects claims written clear. We send word that the mine belongs to us, that it feeds families, not armies. They will honor the ink."
Shouts answered him. "Paper burns!" someone yelled. "Empire reads and laughs!" another cried. The room swelled with noise until it shook dust from the beams.
Ari felt the shard hum against her ribs. She pressed her palm to her chest, hoping no one saw. It beat harder when voices grew sharp, softer when they dropped. It did not care for the words, only the rhythm. Her brother leaned against her side and whispered, "It doesn't like them shouting."
"Neither do I," Ari said. Her voice came out low, almost drowned by the roar.
Her mother touched her knee. "Listen. Even bad words matter. They show who hides fear and who makes a weapon of it." Ari nodded, though she wasn't sure she understood.
The warrior captain stepped forward until his boots touched the line of bare earth. "We have fought the Empire before. They bleed like any man."
The priest swung his bowl and let more smoke pour out. "And still we bury sons in ground that grows nothing."
The healer slammed her jar onto the floor. "And we bury daughters who never lifted steel. Tell me who buries them when the mothers die too?"
The foreman raised his board again. "We cannot fight and win. We can write and stall. Stalling buys time. Time buys survival."
The warriors shouted him down. The healers shouted back. The priests sang grief into the smoke. The noise pressed against Ari's skull until her breath went shallow. She looked for her father. He had not moved. His face was set like stone. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the clamor without rising.
"Paper will not hold back rifles," he said. "But neither will bare fists. We need both. Claims to slow them. Arms to meet them if claims fail. If we split, we fall. If we stand, maybe we last the season."
Some nodded. More argued. Unity was always spoken but never kept. Ari's chest hurt. The shard thrummed harder, picking out her father's words and holding them like a steady note. She wondered if it could tell he was honest.
Kael sat at the door with his spear across his knees. His eyes flicked between the crowd and the threshold. He checked the latch twice. His mouth was tight, but when Ari looked at him, he flushed and looked down. For a breath, the noise in the hall blurred. She felt heat in her chest that had nothing to do with the shard. She looked away fast, ashamed of the softness inside her when fear was filling every corner.
The argument built again, layer on layer, until Ari thought the roof would split. Then the door banged open. Cold air swept in. A runner stumbled over the threshold, mud caked on his chest and legs. He nearly fell but caught himself on the post. His voice cracked as he shouted, but it carried clear enough to cut the noise.
"Cutters in the sky at noon. I saw them. I swear it."
The room froze. The priest held his bowl still. The warriors dropped their fists. The healer's jar slipped and cracked on the floor, herbs spilling like dry leaves. The foreman's chalk broke in his hand.
Silence held for a heartbeat, then shattered. Shouts filled the hall again. Some cursed the runner for fearmongering. Some demanded weapons now. Some whispered prayers. Ari clutched her brother to her side. The shard beat hot under her ribs, harder than her own heart, as if it knew the truth already.
Her father looked at her through the smoke. He didn't smile. He only nodded once, the kind of nod that meant prepare. Ari's throat closed. She held her brother tighter and tried to breathe steady, but the shard pulsed and pulsed, whispering that the sky itself was about to fall.