The harvest was over in the village of Elm Lake, yet the soft thump of flails and the whisper of winnowing still drifted across the fields. This final batch of grain was for the villagers themselves; most of the earlier yield had already gone to the local baron as tax for the right to farm his land. Not much remained, but it would be enough to see them through the winter.

As the sun sank toward the horizon, a lone traveler approached the village entrance. A weather-stained green cloak draped over his shoulders, and a brown shoulder bag hung at his side. Dust clung to his boots from a long road. He moved with the quiet steadiness of a man who had walked far and thought much.

Villagers looked up from their work as he passed. Curious eyes followed the stranger, though none stepped forward. With his hood drawn low and a muffler covering most of his face, it was impossible to tell what he looked like.

He stopped at a small cottage where a woman was feeding her livestock.
“Evenin’,” he said, voice dry as gravel. “Anyplace a man can bed down for a night?”

Startled, the woman straightened, still wary of the unexpected visitor.
“This is only a farming village,” she replied. “We don’t have an inn. You’d best speak with the village chief—he might find you a place.”

“Chief, huh? Which way?”

She glanced down the lane and pointed. “Keep walking this road, stranger. You’ll see a house with a red-roofed barn on the right. That’s the chief’s home.”

The stranger gave a slight nod. “Much obliged.”
He resumed his walk as the sky deepened from blue to ember red. Candlelight began to glow behind shuttered windows, warm squares against the cooling dusk.

The house with the red-roofed barn soon came into view. As he approached, raised voices drifted through the evening air. Beneath a tall elm tree a crowd had gathered, their faces tight with anger.

“This is outrageous! We already delivered our quota last week,” a broad-shouldered farmer shouted, his thick mustache twitching as he tried to contain his fury. “And that fat leech wants more!”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group. An old, thin man—the village chief—stood before them, staff in hand, his lined face drawn with worry.

“Did the baron give any reason for this demand?” a woman called.

The chief sighed. “The bailiff claims the baron needs extra supplies for a ‘bandit-subjugation expedition.’”

“Bandit subjugation, my backside!” a man barked.
“He just wants an excuse to take your granddaughter if we can’t pay,” another cried.

“I heard he used the same trick in another village,” someone added angrily.

“I saw that fat pig eyeing Ellie when he visited last week,” a woman said, fists on her hips. “He wants to snatch Ellie away, I tell you!”

“How much more wheat does he want from us?” a voice demanded.

“Another three bushels per acre,” the chief answered reluctantly. “And the deadline is four days.”

A wave of anger, panic, and fear swept through the crowd. Some whispered about how to survive the winter. Others fretted over next season’s planting if they were forced to eat the seed grain. Most simply cursed the baron with every foul word they knew. Lines of strain deepened across the chief’s face.

“If I go, will the baron cancel the tax?” came a clear young voice.

The crowd fell silent and turned.
Standing apart was a slender young woman in worn farmer’s clothes. Her hair was cropped short like a boy’s, a scattering of freckles across her cheeks. “Cute” suited her more than “pretty.”

“Ellie…” the chief breathed when he saw her.

“If I go, will the baron cancel the tax?” she asked again. No one answered. They all knew the truth but could not bring themselves to speak it.

“I won’t let him have you!” a woman burst out, eyes blazing. “He’ll treat you like a toy. Many women taken by that filthy pig died within months. Others came back broken.”
Her voice cracked and tears welled. “When I was a child my sister was taken. She hanged herself after they ‘returned’ her to us. She was only seventeen.”
The woman fell to her knees, sobbing, as others knelt to comfort her.

Ellie stood silent for a long moment. “But our village will be—”

“We’ll figure something out,” a man interrupted firmly. “We’ll find a way to survive the winter.”

“But he’ll keep harassing all of us until he gets me,” Ellie argued.

“It’s my duty as a man to protect the women, children, and elders of this village—am I right?” the man shouted to the crowd.

“Yeah!” the men roared, their determination surging.

“We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow,” the chief said, lifting his staff. His gaze slid toward a man in a green cloak standing just beyond the firelight. The crowd turned to look as well.

“We’ll come back in the morning, Chief,” someone called, and the villagers began to disperse toward their homes.

The stranger stepped forward.
“Didn’t mean to spoil your meeting,” he said, voice low.

“Don’t worry,” the chief replied with a weary smile. “It was getting too dark to continue anyway. What can I do for you, stranger?”

“Need a roof till morning. Woman down the road said you’re the man to ask.”

The chief hesitated. “My house is small, and I live with my granddaughter. I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you, but I can ask around.”

The stranger’s eyes drifted to the barn beside the house. “Barn’ll do. Warm enough.”

“If you don’t mind sharing it with the rats, be my guest,” the chief said, glancing toward the building. “I’ll ask my granddaughter to bring you food.”

“No need. Got my own.”

The chief gave a tired nod and headed for his house. The stranger entered the dark barn, the smell of hay and old wood filling his lungs. He crossed to a far corner, set down his brown shoulder bag, and knelt.

“Tomorrow might get interesting,” he muttered.