Chapter 2 Seven from Edgebrook

  Edgebrook prepares for winter the way it always has, by taking what the forest will still give before the snows seal it shut.

  Eric’s breath fogs the air as he drives the wedge into the base of the fallen oak. The sound rings sharp and clean, echoing through bare branches. His father follows with the maul, splitting the log in two with a practiced swing. The scent of fresh wood rises, rich and comforting despite the cold.

  “This one’ll burn slow,” his father says. “Good for night fires.”

  Eric nods and bends to roll one half aside. Even frozen, the weight feels familiar. Honest. He has worked the fields since he was big enough to lift a hoe, spring planting, summer harvest, autumn threshing, but winter belongs to wood and survival. No crops grow now. Only preparation.

  Hal hauls an armful of split logs toward the sled, boots crunching over snow-dusted leaves. Bram struggles with a smaller piece, teeth clenched in determination.

  “Careful,” Eric says, steadying the log before it slips from Bram’s grip.

  “I’ve got it,” Bram snaps, then pauses. “Thanks.”

  They work in rhythm for hours. Chop. Split. Stack. The forest is quiet except for iron on wood and the distant creak of trees in the wind. Eric’s muscles burn, but the ache is grounding. Here, he knows exactly who he is.

  A farmhand’s son. Strong back. Steady hands.

  Supplicant.

  The word settles heavier with every passing day.

  By midmorning, snow begins to fall again, soft at first, then thicker, driven sideways by rising wind. Their mother calls them back toward the sled, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.

  “That’s enough,” she says. “We’ll lose the path if this worsens.”

  On the walk home, Eric lags a step behind, eyes drifting toward the dark line of trees beyond their usual cutting grounds. He imagines roads threading through unknown forests, mountains rising beyond them, ruins half-buried beneath centuries of snow and moss.

  “You’re thinking again,” Hal says, not unkindly, but not gently either.

  Eric shrugs. “Just watching the storm.”

  Hal snorts. “Storm’s real. Your stories aren’t.”

  Eric does not answer. He never does.

  That night, after the wood is stacked and the stew eaten, Eric sits near the hearth with a book open across his knees. The cover is cracked, the pages soft with age. He reads by firelight, lips moving silently as he traces the words.

  Long ago, when the world was louder with heroes and the skies still listened, it was said that not every defender marched with an army or wore a crown. Some were left behind when banners burned and battlefields went quiet, sworn to watch long after the last horn sounded. Grandmothers told it in whispers by firelight, and children passed it along in daring voices beneath blankets and stars: Guardians remain when armies fall. Stones remember when men forget. They said the earth itself learned those lessons, that certain rocks and ruins held stories the wind could no longer carry, waiting patiently for the day someone brave, or foolish, enough would stop and listen.

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  “Still clinging to that?” Bram asks from across the room.

  Eric glances up. “They’re old stories.”

  “Fairy tales,” Hal says. “You’ll see soon enough. The Kingstone doesn’t care about myths.”

  Eric’s father says nothing, but his eyes linger on the book a moment longer than necessary before he turns away.

  Later, when the house settles into sleep, Eric stares at the ceiling and listens to the wind howl around the eaves. Tomorrow, the list will be read.

  Tomorrow, there will be no pretending this is just another winter.

  The list is nailed to the old boundary post just after dawn.

  Villagers gather in tight clusters, stamping their feet against the cold. Breath clouds the air. Names are spoken in murmurs before they are read aloud, hope and dread tangled together.

  Eric stands with Emil and Cathryn near the back of the crowd.

  Emil fidgets, rubbing his hands together. “If I end up hauling grain for the rest of my life, I swear I’ll lose my mind.”

  Cathryn gives him a sideways look. “You could do worse.”

  “Name’s up,” someone calls.

  The reeve clears his throat. “This year’s supplicants from Edgebrook…”

  Eric feels his pulse quicken.

  “Eric son of Hale.”

  There it is. Final. Inescapable.

  “Emil, son of Torren.”

  Emil exhales sharply, half relief, half fear.

  “Cathryn Weaver.”

  Cathryn’s jaw tightens, eyes forward.

  “Marrius Silvertree, junior.”

  A ripple moves through the crowd. Lord Silvertree’s heir steps forward, already wearing a fur-lined cloak finer than most families own. Marvin follows, broader and quieter, eyes scanning the gathering like a predator measuring distance.

  “Marvin Silvertree.”

  “Jonel of the Mill.”

  A hunched boy near the front flinches.

  “Mara of the Riverbend.”

  Seven names.

  Seven lives redirected.

  Marrius Jr. turns, eyes sweeping the group until they land on Eric. A smile curls his lips.

  “Well,” he says later, as they gather near the road. “Looks like the farmhand’s tales weren’t enough to keep him home.”

  Eric meets his gaze evenly. “Looks like you’re walking with the rest of us.”

  Marrius laughs. “For now.”

  Marvin steps closer, cracking his knuckles slowly. “Careful, book boy.”

  Cathryn moves to Eric’s side without a word. Emil squares his shoulders.

  Marrius raises a hand. “Easy. Wouldn’t want you injured before the king’s men arrive.”

  The wagons appear before noon, dark wood, iron-rimmed wheels, banners snapping in the wind. The sight draws murmurs from the crowd. Warmth. Shelter. Food.

  The king’s men dismount with practiced efficiency.

  “Supplicants forward,” a sergeant calls.

  They line up. Packs are checked. Names confirmed.

  “Those with arrangements,” the sergeant adds, “step aside.”

  Marrius Jr. and Marvin do not hesitate. A smaller, covered wagon rolls forward. Marrius pauses just long enough to glance back.

  “Try not to freeze,” he says.

  The curtain closes.

  Eric watches the wagon roll away, wheels barely touching the mud.

  The rest of them are handed rough cloaks and pointed south.

  “Foot travel,” the sergeant says. “Move.”

  The storm worsens within the hour.

  Snow turns to sleet, then freezing rain. The road becomes a ribbon of mud and ice. Boots slip. Packs grow heavier with every mile.

  Eric walks steadily, adjusting his stride, lending an arm when Jonel stumbles. He feels the cold seep in, but he does not slow. Field work and winter woodcutting have taught him endurance. Pain is just another thing to carry.

  At a brief halt, Emil huddles beside him. “Still think there’s more to this?”

  Eric looks south, toward the unseen capital, toward roads that lead far beyond it.

  “Yes,” he says quietly. “I do.”

  The king’s men shout for them to move again.

  Seven from Edgebrook step back into the storm, feet in the mud, destiny uncertain, the road long and unforgiving ahead.