Windsor's POV
Golden sunlight bathed the mountain village as another day of campaigning stretched ahead of us. The northern settlement looked weathered against the rocky landscape, its stone buildings telling stories of harsh winters and harder lives.
I clutched campaign flyers in one hand while my other pulled my coat tighter against the mountain chill. Standing beside Zion in the village square, I watched him extend pamphlets to passing locals with that steady confidence I'd grown to admire.
Their reactions varied like the mountain weather. Some grabbed the papers without acknowledgment, stuffing them deep into coat pockets. Others barely glanced before walking away. The worst were those who stared with open hostility, suspicion written across weathered faces.
These border communities had every right to be wary.
