What followed was the fastest, most desperate hour the village had seen since the massacre.
Orin moved through the chaos like a man who had spent his whole life preparing for exactly this — directing the elderly and children toward the deepest, most reinforced section of the grain store, organizing the able-bodied into whatever roles Thran called for, his calm, steady voice cutting through rising panic with the simple authority of someone who refused to waste time being afraid.
"Weapons to the eastern wall," he called. "Water and bandages to the hollow. Anyone who can't fight, you're carrying something useful instead. Move!"
Thran, despite his exhaustion, forced himself upright, dragging his battered body toward the fortifications with grim determination.
The blessing Ethan had granted weeks ago flared to life behind his eyes the instant he looked at the walls — angles, weak points, the hidden strength of structures that looked far more fragile than they truly were.
