The bells stopped ringing.
At first, no one believed it. For three mornings straight, the air stayed still—no echo from Hearthstead, no sound rolling down the valley. The silence felt strange, it was not the eerie kind. The birds were chirping and there was no smell of burnt linens.
Then, on the fourth day, a rider arrived with a yellow flag tied to his arm—the sign of recovery, not warning.
He was thin and pale but smiling.
"The fever's broken," he told them. "The High Court will lift the lockdown within the week."
No one shouted or danced. They just stood there, letting the words settle.
It took a while before relief felt real enough to reach the surface.
Tristan's hand found Shannon's without thinking. "We made it," he whispered.
Shannon squeezed once. "We did."
The days that followed were a mix of joy and weariness.
