Nevan
Briarton sat in a shallow valley three miles south of Wellspring, a cluster of thatched-roof cottages arranged around a stone well and a market square that served as the village's heart. Smoke rose from chimneys in thin grey columns, and a handful of early risers were already at work. A blacksmith stoking his forge, a baker kneading his dough, two boys chasing a dog through the mud.
It looked peaceful. But I'd learned long ago that villages looked most peaceful in the hours after something terrible had happened, as though the act of carrying on was itself a form of resistance.
The village head, a broad-shouldered man named Aldous Marsh, met us at the edge of the square. He was in his fifties, weather-beaten and blunt, with the calloused hands of a man who still worked his own land despite the title. He'd served as village head for twelve years, and in that time, I'd never seen him look frightened.
He looked frightened now.
