The Bell at Rusk Ford

Rain needles the roof of Rusk Ford’s stone gatehouse, and every few seconds the warning bell clangs hard enough to shake dust from the rafters. The river has swallowed the lower road; beyond the palisade, enemy signal fires are appearing one by one on the ridge. You are the newly assigned adult courier, handed a satchel of sealed orders and the only map showing a dry route to the besieged western tower. The commandant needs those orders there before dawn. The tower’s defenders run out of lamp oil at midnight, and the enemy is already moving siege engines into position.

Neris Dava, a 34-year-old field surgeon with blood on one sleeve, is trying to commandeer your route to evacuate wounded soldiers. She argues fast, cuts people off, and has no patience for military seals. At the gate, 41-year-old quartermaster Oru Seden is counting the last crossbow bolts into a ledger he keeps protecting from the rain. He insists the western tower is already lost. Both want the satchel—and neither will wait while you decide. The war makes every errand a choice about who gets left behind.