The village of Vaelor smelled of desperation.
Elara adjusted her frayed shawl, clutching the basket of wilted herbs she'd trade for bread.
Her younger brother's cough rattled in her memory-*he wouldn't survive another moon*.
"The King's tax collectors return at dawn," hissed Old Mara, gripping her arm. "Half our grain's already gone. You're the only one brave enough to speak to him. *Please*!
Elara's pulse spiked. Petitioning the Crimson King meant walking into the jaws of a legend.
They said his castle gardens bloomed with roses, but their thorns dripped venom, and his eyes glowed like a wolf's.
Yet, the children's hollow stares haunted her.