Elishe stood near the main square, where the wares of the traders had spread across the cobblestones. Here the scent of sweetgrass and black mustard rose from the market, mingling with the sharp, warm fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla. A thread of gray had woven itself into his dark hair, but there was still a powerful physique beneath his loose woolen tunic, and his lean face revealed all of his fifty summers.

Though he had a warm smile for the passersby, his eyes always darted around the square, and there was a tension in his stance, as if a part of the shepherd was waiting for something to go terribly wrong. It was years since Bazartizans had dared cross the mountains to raid this small town, but Elishe still moved with the vigilance of a man who knew what it meant to fear the horizon.

He had lost a child to the Bazartizans, when they had raided the village nearly two decades before. The memory of that day still hung in the air whenever he stepped out in the mornings and the sweetgrass tickled his nose. It was as if he could always smell the acrid smoke again, see the raiders ride through the trees, and hear the cries and confusion. Elishe was one of the lucky ones to not have lost more than a child that day—but even so, that was one tragedy too many.