To My Cousin Dalen,
The rains have come late this year, and the fields crack like old pottery. Yet even in such hunger, Friar grows louder with song. Explorers pass through our village almost every week now, carrying relic shards and trophies to show at the Hearth Tavern. They boast of their Ember rites, of Spark brew, and of how they held the Hearthfire without burning. It inspires the young ones, but it leaves folk like me uneasy.
You see, when the guild grows strong, the Wolves grow bold. They came to our door last night, asking if I had bound myself by proof of oath. I showed them a bowl of water and a sprig of herb, as the rites require. They nodded, yet their eyes lingered on my eldest daughter. Tell me, cousin — does Kum enforce oaths more cleanly? Here, it feels less like protection and more like the same hunger, dressed in scripture.
And yet, I hold my tongue. Better an oath than a thief’s dagger. Better Wolves than Red Beards. That is what Father Tai preaches, and I suppose he is right. But I cannot help but wonder if all this order is simply another kind of leash. If the goddesses truly see us, I pray they know I only wish for quiet days, for bread that rises, and for children who need not fear the dark.
Your weary cousin,
Halric