The morning air was thick with mist, curling around the crooked wooden homes like restless spirits. The village of Union was still waking, its dirt paths quiet save for the distant cluck of hens and the creak of old timber. Smoke rose lazily from thatched chimneys, carrying the scent of burning oak and yesterday’s stew.

Sarah Fier stood alone near the edge of the woods, her linen dress damp with dew, her eyes tracing the treetops where crows watched in silence. Her hands, stained with soil from early morning foraging, clutched a bundle of herbs — feverfew, angelica, and wild lavender. The forest behind her was dense and dark, older than any scripture spoken in the chapel.

A bell tolled faintly from the heart of the village. The sound echoed over the fields, where the crops barely held against the fading soil. Life here was hard, rooted in fear and whispers — of sin, of the Devil, of the strange.

And Sarah… Sarah had always felt like she belonged to something older than Union.