ONE
ZORAYA
The needle slips through silk—smooth, practiced. My fingers know the way. Three years of mending Mrs. Corven’s wedding disasters have taught me that much.
“This is unacceptable.” Mrs. Corven jabs a fat finger at the gown draped across my worktable. Fifth time in as many minutes. “My daughter’s wedding is in three days, Zoraya. Three.”
I tie off the thread and snip it clean. “Then maybe your daughter shouldn’t have tried squeezing into a gown two sizes too small.”
Mrs. Corven’s face goes purple. The veins in her neck bulge. “How dare you?—“
“I dare because I’m the only seamstress in Red Hollow who can fix this mess.” I hold up the bodice, examining the seam I’ve just reinforced. The stitches are perfect—tight and even, practically invisible against the cream silk. “You want your precious Melinda to look like a proper bride instead of a sausage? Then sit down, shut up, and let me work.”
She sits. They always do.
The market square buzzes around my little stall—merchants hawking early autumn vegetables, their voices competing forattention. Children shriek as they chase each other between carts, weaving through the crowd. Old men cluster near the baker’s stall, arguing about nothing important. Probably the weather. Always the weather with them.
I love it.
Not the village itself—Red Hollow is a backwater dump where nothing ever happens and everyone knows everyone else’s business. The kind of place where you can’t take a shit without three neighbors commenting on it by supper time. But this stall is mine. This work is mine. The coins I earn go into the jar under my mattress, and one day, there’ll be enough to leave. Maybe head south to the coastal cities where they say seamstresses can make real money, where nobody knows my name or cares about my business.
One day.
I’m halfway through restitching the waistline when the first scream cuts through the market noise.
My hands freeze mid-stitch. Mrs. Corven’s head snaps up, her chins wobbling.
Then the thunder starts.
Not real thunder. Hooves. Dozens of them, pounding the dirt road that leads into the square. The ground shakes beneath my stool, vibrating up through the wooden legs and into my bones. Merchants scramble to grab their wares, stuffing vegetables back into crates. Women snatch up children, clutching them close. The old men’s argument dies mid-sentence, and they scatter.
No. Not today.
The black banners appear over the crowd—death given form. The wolf sigil rendered in silver thread catches the afternoon light, gleaming sharp and predatory.
The Iron Warlord’s collectors.
My stomach plummets.
“Inside.” Mrs. Corven hauls herself up with more speed than I thought she was capable of. Her eyes are wide, showing white all around. “Zoraya, get inside—now?—“
“Too late.” The words taste of ash.
The war boars crash into the market square, scattering carts and trampling vegetables into the mud. Turnips explode under massive hooves. A wheel snaps off someone’s cart with a crack of breaking wood. Each beast is the size of a plow horse, all bristling dark fur and yellowed tusks long as my forearm, with armored orcs mounted on their backs. They form a semicircle, blocking every exit from the square with brutal efficiency.
The villagers press back against the shops and stalls. Some of the braver men put themselves in front of their families, though their hands shake. Most just freeze, rooted. Prey instinct overwhelming everything else.
I stay seated. My sewing awl is still in my right hand, the point sharp enough to punch through leather. I’ve used it for that before—patching the hunters’ gear when they come back from the deep woods.
But I don’t put it down.
Can’t make myself let go.
The largest boar steps forward, its hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones. Its rider swings down with practiced ease, landing with a heavy thud that I sense through the ground. Captain Hadrun Skarn—I recognize him from the last collection a year ago. He’s all scar tissue and muscle, with tusks that curve up past his cheekbones and eyes the color of dirty bronze. His armor is black iron chased with silver, and a great-sword hangs across his back—a promise of violence.
He surveys the square slowly, letting the silence stretch. Letting the fear build.
“People of Red Hollow.” His voice carries across the square, deep and resonant. The kind of voice used to being obeyed. “The Iron Warlord sends his greetings.”
