The first to stand up against them was neither a noble nor a knight, nor even a warlord.
It was Garron, the son of the butcher. At fourteen years old, he was broad-shouldered, not the sharpest with his wits, and naturally equipped with fists that swung before thoughts came to mind.
For years, he had dominated the alleyways of Briar Hollow—picking pockets, pushing smaller children into ditches, and demanding "fines" for straying too close to his father's smokehouse.
He loathed two things more than anything else:
Being overlooked.
Being outsmarted.
Charlotte—known as Lina to the others—managed to do both.
She had embarrassed him twice before he even acknowledged her presence.
First, she tricked him into pursuing a stolen pie that she had already stashed in the chapel eaves. By the time he returned, the evidence (and half the pie) was gone.
Second, she assisted three of his usual victims in creating an elaborate trap—a dummy stuffed with wasp-nest filling, concealed beneath hay and a cloak. Garron struck it.
He didn't stop screaming for an entire hour.
When he discovered who was behind it, Garron spat on the dirt outside her doorstep.
"That rat-girl thinks she's clever," he growled. "Let's see how clever she is when she's missing a tooth."
Charlotte saw him first the following morning.
She and Finn were in the clearing behind Widow Marny's house, teaching a village boy how to write his name. Charlotte caught a glimpse of movement in the trees—too heavy-footed to be a bird, too motionless to be a farmer.
She remained unperturbed.
"Finn," she said steadily, "the lesson's over."
Her younger brother recognized that tone. He knew to pack up the book and follow, quiet as a shadow.
But it was too late.
Garron emerged, flanked by two other boys—less brutish, more like followers than thinkers.
"You think you're smart, huh?" Garron said, cracking his knuckles.
Charlotte positioned herself in front of Finn. Her voice remained cool.
"Garron. Still hurting from the wasps?"
He turned bright red. "Think you're clever? That nobody recalls where you came from?"
Charlotte tilted her head. "Are you referring to the drunk who used to claim he was my father? Or the mother who disappeared without a word? You'll need to be more specific."
Even the boys at his side hesitated.
Garron charged.
Charlotte stayed still.
But Finn stepped forward.
He raised his hands—not in a gesture of aggression, but to communicate.
"I had a dream last night," he said simply, locking eyes with Garron.
The butcher's son froze.
"A wolf chased you into the river. You hit your head on a rock. You went under. Everyone thought you had drowned."
The clearing was silent.
"I woke up before I found out if they ever located you," Finn added, his eyes distant. "But you were crying."
Garron stumbled backward. "Shut—just shut up—"
Charlotte offered a faint smile.
"People generally don't favor prophets, Garron. Particularly those who narrate their dreams."
By nightfall, Garron hadn't laid a finger on them.
By the end of the week, he entirely avoided their vicinity in the village.
The villagers began to whisper more loudly now.
"Witch-child."
"No—blessed."
"Her brother foretells truths."
"Maybe they're from elsewhere."
"They survived Darnell. That's enough for me."
And in the quiet of their room, Charlotte smirked and tousled Finn's hair.
"Well done with the improvisation," she said.
"I really did dream that," he murmured.
She hesitated.
"…Of course you did," she replied, half-smiling, half-cautious.
Because lately, Charlotte had begun to ponder—
What if it wasn't just her who had returned?