
The Last Bell of Eberhain
When the first refugee cart came through the northern gate, Eberhain remained silent, and that silence made the morning feel wrong. The city had three bells, a bright one for fire, a heavy one for judgment, and an old restless one for war, whose voice every child knew long before it understood the letters of its own name. But on that morning the tower did not answer, though the cart came from the border road, though mud clung to the spokes, and though a man walked beside it with one hand pressed against his belly while blood ran between his fingers.
