The air in the lower weaving hall was thick with the scratchy lint of gray winter wool and the oily, heavy scent of unwashed sheep hides.

Nila stood by the secondary carding bench, her fingers gently checking the tension on a newly threaded spindle. She didn't look toward the long trestle tables where the older pack matrons were gathered, but she didn't have to. Their voices, though kept to a low drone that matched the clack-clack of the wooden looms, carried clearly across the stone floor.

"A vanguard captain without a mark is one thing," Marta, the blacksmith’s widow, muttered, her blunt fingers twisting a thick strand of flax. "The...