A cool northern wind swept across Bloodstone before sunrise, carrying the scent of harvested grain and damp earth through the quiet valley. Golden leaves drifted lazily from the towering oaks surrounding the manor, spinning gently before settling upon paths that countless feet had worn smooth through seasons of shared labor. Autumn had always been a season of gathering, a time when the fruits of months of toil were finally brought home.
This year, however, the changing leaves seemed to be gathering far more than mere crops. Throughout the valley, questions, loyalties, and quiet decisions accumulated just as steadily as the harvest piles in the barns. It was an intangible reaping, one that weighed heavily on the minds of those who called the manor home.
