The Night of Seven Fires

The Night of Seven Fires is not celebrated in Caerdun. It is recited like a wound that must not close. Seven watchfires burned out of order under a hard wind, and the roads answered with confusion: riders sent east when the dead were west, grain held behind seals while refugees reached the gates, captains arguing over signals as hamlets vanished into smoke. By dawn, the realm had learned that an oath written poorly can kill as surely as a spear. Each anniversary, children count seven flames in silence while old soldiers watch the hills and remember how quickly a map can become a lie.