The fires had dimmed, but they hadn't gone out.

Ash drifted over Cottonwell like snow, whispering across rooftops and curling into the corners of half-mended fences. The smell of scorched bark and iron hung in the air. Somewhere, water sloshed as a bucket tipped over, followed by hurried paws cleaning what blood they could from the square.

We had survived.

But not all of us.

They were still tending the wounded—some with bandages, others with silence.

I stood near the hall, watching a group of villagers re-secure the northern barricade. The logs had been blackened in the fighting, many cracked or splintered where blades had struck deep. Elder Moss had barely spoken since dawn. The kits who ran messages moved with wide, watchful eyes.

Nick stood beside me, arms crossed, his tail low and still.

Neither of us had slept.

“We bought time,” I said.

He nodded once. “Not peace.”

From down the path, a runner came sprinting—fast, breathless, panic in his voice.

“They left something behind!”

We were moving before he finished.

Past the well. Past the broken crates. Toward the edge of the woods where the last of the enemy had vanished into the trees.

The rider was gone. But something had been left behind, propped against a tree.

A message.

A stake, blackened with fire. And pinned to it: a strip of parchment, its edges burned.

Nick stepped forward and tore it free.

The ink was rough, as if carved with a blade:

> The Queen Beneath Ash knows your names now.

The hunter-cat and the bow-singer.

You lit your fires. Now see what it draws.

Nick’s grip tightened.

“She’s marking us,” I said quietly.

“She’s warning us,” he said. “Or maybe promising.”

I didn’t ask who she was. Not then. Not with the smoke still thick in the air, and the sky turning that pale color that meant rain would fall before dusk.

We knew one thing for certain:

The Queen Beneath Ash was coming.

And next time, it would not just be riders.

By midday, the message had spread. Quietly. No announcements. No orders.

But everyone knew.

They whispered the name like it might hear them:

The Queen Beneath Ash.

Still, the work didn’t stop. If anything, it doubled.

The barricades were rebuilt thicker. The hall’s shutters reinforced with iron nails borrowed from half-finished tool sheds. Nick and I helped where we could—tying rope, lifting beams, checking the far traps one by one.

It was a strange sort of energy.

Like no one wanted to think too long.

And then, late in the afternoon, Elder Moss made her way to the square. Her cloak was patched. Her staff scratched from the fire. But her voice, when she raised it, was steady.

“I’ve never seen a village stand the way Cottonwell did,” she said. “So before night falls again, we’ll sit. Together. We’ll eat. We’ll remember who we are.”

A pause.

Then she added, “And we’ll celebrate that we’re still here.”

Not everyone cheered. Some nodded quietly. A few wept.

But no one argued.

By sunset, they’d pulled tables into the square—rough-hewn wood dragged from storage, or just wide planks laid over barrels. Lanterns were lit and hung in the trees. The kitchens boiled roots and roasted wild greens. Someone found a jar of preserved apples and opened it like a treasure chest. A young baker brought out what was left of the flour and made flatbread by the fire, hands moving fast to keep up with the hungry line.

Even in exhaustion, rabbits joked, nudged, leaned on one another.

Moss sat on the center bench with her cane across her knees, her eyes half-lidded but alert. Nick stood just behind her, arms crossed, scanning the tree line even as a plate of food sat untouched nearby.

I wandered the edge of the square, the bow now slung not in readiness, but like a memory. My leg still ached where I’d been cut, though they’d wrapped it tight. Every step reminded me I wasn’t dreaming.

They’d really come.

And we’d really survived.

“Sebastian!”

I turned. A rabbit kit ran up to me, eyes wide. “You have to come. They’re waiting!”

“Who?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled.

We rounded a table to find a group gathered near the old apple tree. There were marks in the dirt—arrows, crossed swords, small stones shaped into figures.

It was a retelling.

Young rabbits reenacting the defense of Cottonwell with sticks and scarves and bits of costume. A small one with soot on his cheeks leapt from a crate shouting, “I am the hunter-cat!” while another, holding a broom as a staff, yelled, “No, I’m Sebastian, the bow-singer!”

A chorus of laughter and dramatic groans followed as they fake-fell or fled or shouted in glee.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Nick appeared beside me, eyes flicking from one scene to the next. “I’m taller than that,” he said quietly, as a kit pretending to be him tripped on his tail and fell over.

I smiled. “I hope they never get good at it.”

He looked at me. “Why?”

“Because that would mean they’ve had to practice.”

Nick was quiet a moment, then gave a single nod. “Fair.”

We stayed like that for a while. Watching. Listening. Letting it all settle.

Eventually, Moss raised her mug and called for quiet.

She didn’t speak long. Just enough.

“We survived,” she said. “We remember. And we endure.”

Then, without fanfare, she took a sip and leaned back again.

It wasn’t a victory feast like in the old tales. There were no silver horns or banners. But it was real. Honest. Tired smiles and food passed hand to hand, and music that stumbled through verses because no one remembered the second stanza.

And under it all, the smoke still drifted.

Soft.

Waiting.

Because we hadn’t won.

Not really.

But we were still standing.

And sometimes, that was enough.

The fire had burned low by the time the last songs faded.

Plates were empty. Lanterns dimmed one by one. The square slowly cleared as villagers drifted off—some limping, others carrying kits already half-asleep on their shoulders.

Nick and I stayed behind a while longer, helping pack up what we could. He didn’t speak much—just nodded to those who passed and kept his eyes on the treeline like he always did.

The stars were sharp tonight, cold and scattered.

“You’re limping more than usual,” he finally said.

“I’ll live.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I shrugged. “Hurts less than it did earlier.”

“Good,” he said. Then quieter, “Don’t push it tomorrow.”

I didn’t answer. Neither did he.

Eventually, we made our way back toward the porch. The boards creaked as we stepped up. He paused by the door, glancing once more toward the forest.

“Think they’ll come again tonight?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “They already said what they came to say.”

I raised an eyebrow. “By trying to kill us?”

Nick nodded. “That... and leaving one alive to talk.”

He said nothing more, and I didn’t press. We went inside.

The house smelled like pine smoke and something faintly sweet—maybe one of the apples the kits had pressed into my hands earlier.

I sank onto the edge of the old bedroll, pulling off the wrappings around my leg. The cut had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed, slow and deep. Nick dropped his gear in the corner and moved quietly through the room—checking the shutters, locking the door, laying his sword and bow within reach.

Just like always.

Nothing about it felt normal anymore.

The silence stretched between us, comfortable and strange.

Finally, he said, “You did good today.”

It caught me off guard.

I looked at him. “You too.”

He gave the barest smirk and settled onto the blanket near the window, arms behind his head, one knee drawn up like he might spring into motion at any second.

For a while, we just lay there.

Listening.

To the wind through the shutters.

To the faint sound of a kit crying somewhere down the path, hushed by a lullaby.

To the way the world held its breath.

I closed my eyes.

Tried to sleep.

And somewhere in the dark, I imagined a crown of ash slowly turning toward us.

Watching.

Waiting.