The last thing Alaric heard before he turned to run was his father's voice.
"Marla, go with him!"
Then the road and the men and the white‑horse banners vanished behind his back as he sprinted for the house, lungs burning.
"Get the bag," she said, voice too calm. "Top shelf by the door. Quickly."
Alaric scrambled to obey. The linen bag they used for market days was a little bigger than his chest. He dragged it down, already thinking.
Warm clothes. Knife. The carved wooden toy his father had made. The magic primer book—no, that was at the tavern, on Harn's shelf. No time.
"Shirt, trousers, socks," Marla said briskly, tossing rolled bundles at him. "Stuff them in. Don't fold, just cram."
"Are we… are we running?" Alaric asked, hands shaking as he shoved fabric into the bag.
"Not yet." Marla's mouth was a tight line. "But we won't be the only fools with empty hands if it comes to that."
She reached under the bed and pulled out a small wooden box. From it she took a short knife in a worn sheath and held it out.
"Your father showed you how to hold this," she said. "Blade stays in until you have to use it. Last resort, you hear me? You are not a hero. You are my son."
Alaric nodded hard. "Yes."
He slid the knife into the bag, nestling it between clothes.
"Food." Marla's eyes swept the room. "Dried meat. The biscuits."
She moved to the shelf, hands flying. Alaric had never seen her look so… fast. Not rushed, exactly. More like every movement was chosen.
"Carry it yourself," she said, thrusting the bag at him once it was half-filled. "No matter what happens, you don't let go unless you have to swim."
"Swim…?"
"Figure of speech," she muttered. "Stay inside. Don't open the door for anyone unless it's me or your father. Understand?"
"Dad said to listen to you," Alaric said.
"Good. For once he's right." She managed a tiny smile, then it vanished. "I'll be back."
She stepped toward the door, then hesitated, turned, and pulled him into a tight hug.
"Whatever happens," she whispered into his hair, "remember you're not alone. Not while I'm breathing."
He clung to her for a second that was far too short.
Then she was gone, the door thudding shut behind her.
Alaric stood in the middle of the little house, bag strap biting into his shoulder, heart pounding.
Stay inside. Don't open the door. He could do that. Probably.
He set the bag by the wall and dragged a stool under the small window.
From there, he could see the road.
The dust cloud had grown. The front of the column was already near the village edge. Metal flashed—helmets, breastplates, spearheads. Line upon line of men stomped in unison, the thud of their boots rolling like distant thunder.
At their head, several mounted figures rode under the white horse and black spear banner.
Buckland.
Alaric's mouth went dry.
He pressed his forehead to the glass.
Please just pass. Please just pass.
They didn't.
The front ranks slowed. Orders were barked, too faint to make out. The column began to fan out, lines peeling off toward the fields, the well, the tavern.
Shuru was no longer just a dot. It was a stop.