A swift flicker of green lit up the inside of the Sifting Room, casting shadows along the walls and gilding the lines of the furnace for a split-second before plunging everything back into the dull orange glow of the embers in the grate. The lightning was followed closely by a rolling grumble overhead, and then a parade of tiny, splashing feet began marching in quick-time down the metal roof.

More rain.

With a hard look at the ceiling, Rhoa shoveled another scoop of cold ashes from the cooling pile and dumped it into the sifting screen, then paused to warm herself in front of the massive maw of the furnace. It didn't do much. The load of oak logs was nearly gone, and even stirring the coals only brought up a brief flare of red.

It had gotten quite dark in the last hour, the storm creating an early dusk, and after a moment she lit the sconces so she could keep working, making a mental note to add the extra inch of wick and oil to the supply ledger when she was finished. It was warranted. She still had one more load to finish before dinner.

She had just taken up the sifting rake and started pushing it through the ashes when the clatter of hooves and wooden wheels on cobblestone announced that someone had driven into the stable yard beyond the lean-to.

They were light. That didn't bode well. She bit her lip and winced when they didn't back the wagon up to the unloading platform.

A few minutes later, a male voice called, "What? It's lye day already?"

Rhoa glanced up from the sifting trough but didn't stop raking. "No, I'm mucking about in the cold for the fun of it," she deadpanned. Then she grinned. "It's good to see you too. Did you find the nest?"

Her brother shook his head and came all the way into the Sifting Room, stomping mud off his armored boots and unbuckling his gauntlets and gloves. "I think the bugs are learning. We found their most recent den – the hounds went mad over it – but I swear the crawlies knew we were coming. The nymphs weren't hiding in the grotto, they had moved all their eggs... all we found were a few old sheddings and a dud they left behind. The trail went cold at the river."

"That's three weeks without a catch," Rhoa said slowly, the narrow-tined rake going still in her hands.

Kennon gave her a meaningful stare, then shrugged out of his heavy cloak and hung it on its peg by the door. "We'll have to dip into the reserves again. Father won't like it."

That was an understatement. Rhoa offered him a small, sympathetic smile before he trudged to the sink by the stairs and began washing up.

She started raking again, her arms moving automatically, each pass of the rake's peg-like teeth breaking the ashes down over the sifting mesh and shoving any larger chunks of charred hardwood into the scraps bin at the end of the trough. The swish-thump-tap-thunk was a familiar rhythm, but it didn't have the usual lulling effect.

Kennon finished toweling his hands, bent to brace himself on the edges of the sink, let out his breath on a swift, soundless whistle like a prizefighter about to enter the ring, turned, and headed up the stairs to the kitchen.

Rhoa didn't envy him that job. Their parents' reaction to his news wouldn't be loud. Father never yelled. But his disappointment was worse, somehow, than knowing he was angry. He would grind his teeth in frustration, and the worry-line in Mother's brow would deepen, and then they would share that look that meant they were both thinking up ways to tackle a major setback head-on.

Dipping into the reserves this close to the Warmoon could very well be disastrous. After nearly a year of coming back empty handed more often than they brought in a catch, even the reserves were running low.

There had been a lot of those looks, lately.

With a sigh, Rhoa tapped the rake against the edge of the scraps bin, knocking loose a bit of cinder. It wouldn't do any good to brood over something that couldn't be helped.

She lifted the sieve off the top of the ash trough and propped it up on its mat, then tilted the trough onto its wheel and trundled it around the stairs and into the Soaking Room, where she dumped the ashes into the vat nearest the door. The valve on number one took a little coaxing, but the lever finally emitted a squeal and gave up, letting loose a gush of water from the cistern on the roof.

Rhoa leaned against the wall beneath the water spigot and began peeling off her long leather gloves as the ash vat began filling with liquid. She inhaled, breathing in the peculiar scent of burnt wood and rainwater she had personally dubbed 'soggy campfire.' It was the smell of home. Lye day was usually something she looked forward to. The quiet routine of the Sifting Room was a welcome break from sparring with Phane and Radier in the training ring.

Today, though, had been different since before the sun came up. She could feel it the minute she woke, a subtle, rasping hum beneath her feet, as if the ground itself were breathing. She had noticed it this same time every year – in the weeks leading up to her birthday – but it had never been so strong.

The reason was enough to make every last hair prickle a warning, and Rhoa shot a pensive glance through the Soaking Room doorway.

The fortress tower stood out in the bailey, just beyond the far wall of the Sifting Room, its massive stone base etched with strange lines and daubed with countless layers of white mud. The tower wasn't the problem. The problem was the sleeping monster contained in the windowless cell at the top of that tower. Somehow, that thing was connected directly to the hum, as if every dull throb in the ground were a breath in its lungs, every slow groan of stones a beat of its ancient heart. And both the hum and the creature were connected to the great, sullen red moon lurking low on the horizon.

The monster was growing restless. She could feel it as surely as her own frantic pulse.

Rhoa closed her eyes for a moment, grappling with the instinctive need to run, to bolt out through the lean-to and across the bailey, then through the gates and down the hill like a frightened deer. Unease, her mother called it. It was normal. Every new generation of Strongcastles experienced it before they passed their Trial and survived their first Warmoon. Lathen, Radier and Phane were all feeling the same thing, she had said.

There wasn't any proof they were. Maybe she really was different, somehow...

No. She wasn't a mistake. She wouldn't run. She was a Strongcastle.

And the soaking vat was about to overfill.

Lips curling into a grim sneer, she hauled on the lever, closing the spigot. She didn't have time to run. There was too much to do.

°°°°°ººººº°°°°°

Dinner was a markedly somber thing that evening. Never in her life could Rhoa remember laughing at the dinner table, but usually there was conversation, even if it was serious and centered around the next hunt. That evening, the only sound was of cutlery on wooden trenchers. Even the children were quiet, watching the adults with wide eyes.

Strongcastle swiped a chunk of flatbread around his plate, scraping up the last of the sauce, then chewing and swallowing with deliberate thoroughness. When he finally spoke, his scratchy voice cut through the silence like a blade. "We need to go north, beyond the river. If Kennon, Isander and I leave tomorrow, we may be able to pick up the trail again before the rain washes it away. Four days out, four days back, we should have just enough time to process anything we catch."

Tettony leaned close to Isander, resting her head on his shoulder with a sigh.

Rhoah opened her mouth, but her father cut off her inevitable question with a firm shake of his head, hazel eyes glittering as he regarded her down the length of the table. "Not this time. You'll stay and help your mother and Tettony. They'll need you more than I will if the younger three bring in anything while we're gone."

"What about Phane? He could stay when they get here, and I could go with you –" Rhoa began, but he held up a hand.

"This isn't a competition. I need their experience. And... I have a specific job for you in the morning. While we're getting ready, I need someone to ride hard to Varisk with a message for the Eleventh Hold. I happen to know that you, my dear, can make that run faster than any of the boys," he said, ending with a small grin.

Rhoa caught the glare her mother was giving her from across the table and bit back her disappointment. "Yes, Father," she muttered, and picked up her goblet to hide her reluctance.

In the fortress, no jobs were unimportant. She had learned that lesson well, but some jobs were much more interesting. Staying home when there was a long-distance hunt going on felt very much like she was being left out. Add to that the fact that the only road to Varisk ran straight through Ardusk, and it felt more like punishment.

But she was a Strongcastle. Strongcastles didn't run, and they did whatever was necessary to help the group as a whole. Their survival often depended on it. There could be no weak cogs in the machine.

She must be a good cog.

With a final swig of her wine, she got to her feet and began clearing the table, falling easily into step with Kennon as they began scrubbing the dishes at the scullery while Strongcastle and Isander discussed the new, absolute tithe edict handed down by the Divine Order, requiring surrender of anything harvested or slaughtered.  

Then she, Kennon, Phane and Tettony played a silly, giggling game of Toads and Snakes with the three grandchildren, until Kennon left for the village to spend time with Sedir while he could, and Tettony and Isander retired to their apartment to do the same.

As usual, Rhoa was the last to leave, having no one to warm herself with.

She banked the fire in the main hall, collected her bedstone from the hearth, trooped up the long flight of stairs to the third floor of the fortress keep, and fell into her bed.

The day had been long, and weariness tugged at her, but sleep didn't come easily. It wasn't the rain still pelting down outside or the sting of feeling just a little inadequate that kept her awake, or even the promise of being gawked at and whispered about by the villagers in the morning. It was that awful hum, grown worse now under the strange red light of the Warmoon as it made its journey across the night sky.

It rose from things. When she closed her eyes, she could feel it, a breeze whispering along her skin. From her skin. From the ground. From the straw in her mattress and the wool of the blankets, drawn up like some sort of freakish, invisible tide pulled from the stones of the mountains, the sap of the trees, the current of the wind, all of it flowing toward the tower.

None of the texts she had ever studied mentioned such a thing. The Warmoon was merely a natural phenomenon. Every twenty-one years, the moon passed a little closer than usual to this part of the Great Continent, and its pull excited dormant particles in the air. The monsters somehow gained energy from the particles, which was why they were so difficult to keep sedated during the Warmoon.

That was all.

There was nothing magical or mysterious about it. She was letting her imagination prey on her.

Which only made her wonder if the hum was able to pull her thoughts along, too. Like a fish on a line.

With a grunt she flopped over and buried her head beneath her pillow. If her father knew the sorts of things that popped into her brain, she would never become a Keeper.

Still, no matter how ridiculous she told herself she was being, when she drifted off at last, the moon rode through her dreams, large and an unnatural fiery orange, its fierce golden light scorching the earth and leaving nothing behind but dust.        

°°°°°ººººº°°°°°