The summer heat of late August did not clear the valley; it settled into the hollows baking the yellow clay of the riverbeds until the ground cracked into gray fissures. Along the southern slopes, the rye fields had turned the color of beaten brass, the seed-heads drooping toward the dry earth under their own weight. It was the first full harvest the Down Pack had seen since the permanent transfer of the land to Nila’s name-slot, and the scale of the grain meant the old manor house granary was insufficient for the yield.

Nila stood on the elevated pine platform of the newly constructed timber storage bays, her dark hair...