Page 45 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

Everyone spoke at once. The baker insisted the trouble had begun after the first frost. The miller blamed smugglers with the stubborn conviction of a man who had been waiting years for smugglers to become relevant. One farmer argued that badgers were somehow responsible, though his certainty outpaced his logic by a heroic distance. A woman near the hearth spoke of lights moving between the northern trees. The priest kept repeating that the chapel foundation had been blessed after the war, as if blessing stone once guaranteed its continued cooperation.

Seren listened until listening stopped being useful—Then she raised one hand and the room went silent.

Years of command had trained people to stop talking when she looked sufficiently irritated. “No one is helping me by trying to win the prize for earliest panic,” she said.

Roran made a quiet sound behind her that might have been a cough and might have been amusement. Seren ignored him. She looked first to the elder. “You said the dreams came first. Start there. Who had them, when did they begin, and what changed after?”

The elder swallowed, then nodded. Fear could not be killed by order, but it could be given a shape. Seren had no illusions left about saving everyone, but she could still do this: gather the pieces, listen for what frightened people had learned to speak around, and stand between the living and whatever was coming for as long as her body allowed.

It was not comfort. It was not hope. But it was work, and work had always known what to do with her hands. “One person at a time,” she said. “What happened first?”

Several villagers exchanged glances. The healer answered. “The dreams.”

Seren turned toward her. The woman sat halfway down the table, sleeves rolled despite the cold, dark hair pinned back in a practical knot. She looked tired, but not fragile. The satchel near her chair smelled faintly of lavender, bitterroot, and ironwort.

“Elowen,” the elder supplied. “Our healer.”

Seren nodded. “Tell me.”

Elowen inhaled slowly. “They started with the children. At first we thought it was ordinary fear. Nightmares. Neighboring villages vanishing. Then more children began describing the same place. A forest larger than any forest near here. Ancient trees. A path leading north. Roots under the ground.” She hesitated. “And a voice.”

An old woman near the hearth made a sharp sound. Several villagers stiffened. “It is not a voice,” the woman said.

Elowen’s shoulders tightened. “Veyra—”

“It is not.” Veyra fixed her fierce, old eyes on Seren. “Children call it a voice because children are forgiven for lacking better words. Adults should know when language has failed them.”

Seren leaned back slightly. “What would you call it?”

Veyra stared into the fire. “Singing.”

No one laughed.

“In the dreams?” Seren asked.

“In the roots.” Veyra looked toward the floor. “Something is singing beneath them.”

Roran shifted near the door but wisely said nothing. Seren studied the room. Fear answered Veyra’s statement, but not disbelief. Some villagers looked away because they were embarrassed by the old woman’s certainty. Others looked away because they shared it and did not want to.

“What does it sing?” Seren asked.

Veyra’s mouth moved once before words came. “North.”

Silence settled heavily over them. The sentence from Eastmere rose in Seren’s mind like icy water through a crack.

The heir must return.

She pushed it aside. One impossible thing at a time. “The children walk?” she asked Elowen.

“Some. Four this week were found outside their homes. One nearly reached the northern road before his father caught him. Another woke beside the well with both hands in the water.”

“Were they awake?”

“No,” Elowen said softly. “Not in any way that mattered.”

“Any adults?” A pause. There. A glance toward the elder. A woman’s hand closing around her husband’s sleeve.

“Yes,” Elowen said at last. “People lose time. They stop what they are doing and stare toward the forest. Sometimes they do not remember it. Sometimes they go to their cellars and come back with mud on their hands.”