The first week passed slowly. The air carried the smell of soap and smoke. People spoke in low voices, measuring every word the way they now measured everything else.
The bells still tolled from Hearthstead—soft at noon, sharp at dusk.
No one said it aloud, but they all counted the gaps between tolls, hoping they would stop.
The courtyard became the heart of Greystone. Every morning, Shannon stood there with a chalkboard listing what was available: flour, roots, beans, soap, firewood. Tristan handled the records and kept the scales honest.
Marla and Eira took charge of the kitchen. They measured rations with spoons, not scoops.
"Two ladles per person," Marla said firmly one morning. "And if anyone complains, they can chew air."
Tara nodded in approval. "Chew slowly; it'll last longer."
The small joke drew tired laughter from the workers—the kind that made them feel human again.
Shannon's voice carried easily over the noise of the square.
