"He wants a harvest," Alistair said quietly.
The words carried across the clearing, slicing through the humid, stagnant air.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, his leather gloves creaking—a small, sharp sound in the dead air. He could feel a bead of sweat tracing a slow path down his spine.
"Then we give him one."
A pause.
"But not as cattle."
The crowd shifted.
It wasn't a sudden movement, but a slow, heavy rustle of wool and tired limbs. The smell of them hit him then—sour sweat, old bandages, and the metallic tang of fear.
Alistair watched an old man in the front row. The man's knuckles were white as he gripped a walking stick made of scrap wood. He wasn't looking at a King; he was looking for a reason to breathe.
"We move before the next moon," Alistair continued. His voice steadied—not with the practiced roar of a general, but with the rasp of a man who had already buried too many friends. "If we stay here, we die waiting. If we scatter, we die alone."
