Notch woke before dawn, the way Viktor always had.

  Factory alarms had murdered his sleep for years; the habit followed him across worlds. The house lay dark and quiet. He slipped from the cot without a sound and padded toward the kitchen.

  A single flame already danced in the hearth.

  “You’re up early, Notch.” Elara’s voice held soft surprise. She stood over the fire in her work dress, hair pinned back, hands already busy. She usually rose with the sun. Today he had beaten her by minutes.

  “I want to make a good impression,” he said, moving to help.

  He hauled water from the barrel, swept ash into a neat pile, folded the washing she’d laid out. The motions came unnervingly smooth for a twelve-year-old’s body; Elara kept glancing up with the same puzzled look she’d worn since yesterday—as if her son had been replaced by a quieter, older stranger wearing his skin.

  She said nothing, only set a pot on the hook. Hopper meat—charred outside, tender within—went in with a handful of herbs and the last of the root vegetables. The scent rose fast: rich, savory, impossible to ignore.

  Sly tasted the steam, tongue flicking, then accepted a small bowl of broth in the corner. She ate with careful precision, as though cooked food were novelty rather than necessity.

  The smell dragged Mira and Garen from their bed. Garen rubbed his eyes, stared at the chunks of meat in his bowl, then fixed Notch with a look that saw too much.

  “You didn’t go hunting this morning,” he said quietly. “So how did we suddenly get this much Hopper?”

  Notch opened his mouth—some half-formed lie ready—when the ground trembled.

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  Carriages. Three of them, iron-shod wheels biting into packed dirt, harness bells ringing sharp as an alarm.

  “They’re here!” Elara hissed.

  Two minutes later the bowls were empty and the Dryk family spilled out the door with every other household in the village.

  The square was controlled chaos: tearful parents, nervous children, three sturdy carriages stamped with the kingdom’s crest. The kids were sorted quickly.

  Poor grades: eight of them, heads down.

  Medium grades: three, trying to look proud.

  High grade: one auburn-haired girl who already carried herself like she belonged somewhere better.

  Notch received one last crushing hug from Mira—Garen had to peel her off—then climbed aboard the poor-grades’ carriage. Sly slid beneath his collar and stayed there, warm and hidden.

  Inside smelled of old wood and axle grease. Benches lined the walls; canvas-flapped windows let in thin blades of morning light. Three adults sat up front—operators, not combat mages. The man in charge stood.

  “Name’s Sir Henry Klaus.” His voice clipped, uniform pressed despite the hour. “We leave for the capital now. Route runs straight through Bandit’s Creak.”

  Silence fell like a blade. Every child knew the name. Everyone had heard the stories.

  Sir Henry lifted a hand. “The road’s been scouted. Precautions are in place. You’re under the kingdom’s protection.”

  A nervous boy near the front raised a trembling hand. “Sir… where are all the mages from yesterday?”

  Sir Henry’s jaw tightened for half a heartbeat. “Eastern border needed them more. We’re what could be spared.”

  No one needed it spelled out: the kingdom was stretched thin.

  The carriages lurched into motion. Conversation started again—thin, forced, anything to keep fear at bay.

  Notch sat in his corner, fingers stroking Sly beneath his shirt, watching familiar fields slide past the window and vanish. A dull knot settled in his chest; he was leaving them, and the thought landed heavier than he'd expected.

  He found his gaze drifting to the faces of other children: pale cheeks, tight mouths, eyes flicking toward adults as if seeking permission to be afraid. An older boy wiped his nose with the back of his hand and tried to laugh. It came out brittle. Notch felt a kinship in the quiet panic; Viktor’s factory-shift endurance hummed beneath it—an old muscle for bearing what must be borne.

  A girl’s voice, small but steady: “Hi.”

  He looked up. Dark braid, curious eyes—the neighbor who fed stray cats.

  “I’m Crystal,” she said, smiling like the world hadn’t already taught her to stop. “That’s your snake, right? She’s beautiful.”

  Sly hissed once, sharp and warning. Notch sent a short, mental behave. After a long, sulky moment the serpent lowered her head and allowed a single careful finger along her scales.

  Crystal’s grin widened. “She’s warm.”

  “She’s special,” Notch answered. He saw the way Crystal’s brow lifted—child curiosity meeting something rare. For a second the carriage felt less like a coffin and more like a tiny island of shared secrets.

  Outside, the sun climbed higher, throwing light across hedgerows and lone oaks. The landscape seemed ordinary—too ordinary for what lay ahead.

  Far ahead, where Bandit’s Creak waited, a thin plume of smoke rose into the morning sky.

  The lead driver went pale.

  Sir Henry leaned out the window, eyes narrowing.

  No one spoke.

  The carriages did not slow.