The bread was burned.
Evelyn scraped the charred crust from the bottom of the loaf with a flat-blade and scowled as black flakes fluttered like dead petals into the firepit. She'd forgotten the timing—again—and her mother, already distracted with scrolls and notes, hadn't noticed the smoke curling from the oven's throat.
"Ash-bread," her father said, peering over her shoulder and rubbing soot from his palms. "A tradition you may yet perfect."
She gave him a half-hearted glare. "It's the oven's fault."
"Of course. Always blame the kiln, never the keeper."
He smiled as he returned to the workbench where strips of boarhide were being lashed around the base of a wardpost. The scent of pitch and wood dust mingled with the faint tang of burned wheat. Outside, the clang of tools and the rise of village chatter rolled through the open shutters.
It was Tribute Day.
Once a season, the village sent an offering to the border Guild outpost—part tithe, part peacekeeping bribe. In theory, the Guild protected them. In practice, it sent hunters when asked nicely, healers when begged, and scouts only when the danger grew so large even the nobles started losing land.
Evelyn's father had been one of those scouts, once. He never spoke of it. Only carved, always carved, his hands as steady as a Warden's and twice as silent.
She carried the half-ruined loaf outside toward the village square, where her mother stood locked in quiet, sharp conversation with Elder Myrrin and a handful of farmers.
"…we need hides," the elder was saying, his voice tight with age and authority. "The last batch came back shredded. We can't keep outfitting hunters in patched leather."
"And we need grain," snapped a broad-shouldered woman in flax robes. "We can't eat boiled hide, Elder."
"There's no use arguing," another said. "The Guild doesn't care. Send them something. Just make it shine."
The debate teetered between reason and resentment. Evelyn caught her mother's eye and handed over the ash-bread like a silent peace offering. Her mother accepted it without looking, eyes distant.
That's when the shouting started.
It came from near the well, where a loose knot of teenagers had been sparring. Wooden staves clacked, boys hooted, and someone fell hard into a cart of dye-stained canvas.
Torren stood over the merchant's son—Marrek—his stance stiff, fists clenched at his sides. Marrek spat blood and scrambled up, face flushed with more pride than pain.
"You've got fire, outcast," he growled, dusting off his vest. "Shame no Guild'll ever take a bastard like you."
Torren didn't respond.
He looked at Evelyn instead.
That was worse.
Evelyn pushed forward, her voice sharp. "Enough."
Both boys turned toward her. Marrek sneered.
"You planning to scold me with another loaf, Evelyn? Make sure it's not burnt this time."
"I said enough." She stepped between them, planting her boots like roots. Her heart thundered in her ears, and her face felt hot, but she held steady. "This is a festival. Not a sparring ring."
Marrek scoffed but backed away.
Torren looked down, jaw flexing, eyes storm-dark.
He didn't say thank you.
Later, by the firepit again, her father carved in silence until she spoke.
"He was being a goat."
"Most boys are, at that age."
"He provoked Torren."
"And Torren chose to answer." Her father set the knife down, the carving half-done. A crescent-shaped warding rune glimmered faintly under the firelight. "Strength doesn't live in fists, Evie. Not where it matters."
She nodded. Didn't believe it.
Her mother said little all evening. She had retreated to the back room with her scrolls, stacks of cracked vellum and wax-sealed texts from before even her own birth. Ancient songs. Lost dialects. The kind of knowledge Isenhold avoided naming too loudly.
By the time the moon had risen, Evelyn peeked in. Her mother's face was pale, the lamplight casting hollows under her eyes.
She didn't look up.
"These glyphs…" she murmured. "They're meant for remembering. Not invoking. Not… waking."
"What do they say?" Evelyn asked, stepping forward.
Her mother touched a long, spiraling symbol that curved like a tendril of smoke and rooted into an eye-shaped mark.
"A cradle. A flame. And silence."
Evelyn frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
Her mother smiled faintly. "That's the danger. The worst songs are the ones that almost do."
She reached for the sealed journal beneath her cot and gently set it in her lap, one hand resting over its cover like a ward.
"Some songs," she whispered, not quite looking at Evelyn, "should not be remembered."