Feeh's Story - The Shattering of the Ford

Feeh tears into the wreckage beside the lead wagon, chewing through spilt grain, smoked meat, and torn sacks as the ford churns under her feet. The broken wall and splintered shields lie half-buried in mud around her.

Her hand closes on something hard in the muck. She hauls free the glowing blade, and its pulse snaps into a steady, frantic rhythm, brightening with each beat like a distant heart.

The Bell-Ringer huddles by the wagon wheel, white-faced, staring past the blade toward the jagged peaks. The light seems to answer them, flicking in a pattern that points straight toward some hidden stronghold in the mountains.

The captain presses back against the shattered wagon, too trapped to charge, too afraid to come closer. Around Feeh, the fallen guards and broken provisions become one rich, ugly feast in the mud.

The blade pulses again, brighter now, as if the ford itself is sending up smoke. High in the distance, beyond the rain-softened peaks, something unseen seems to notice.

Feeh snaps the blade across her knee and both hands, and the glowing length gives with a sharp crack. Light bursts through the mud in a spray of sparks, then gutters into two writhing pieces.

The frantic rhythm dies at once. The beacon’s pulse breaks, stumbling out of step as if its heart has been cut in half.

Beyond the mist, a line of dark shapes shifts on a far ridge, too distant for faces but close enough to answer the last flare of light. The captain’s shout cracks raw across the ford, and even he hears how small it sounds.

One half of the blade still twitches in Feeh’s grip, dimming fast, while the other sinks into the churned mud beside the wagon wheel. The mountain air goes tense and watchful.