The first sign that the old council is coming apart reaches me secondhand.
It arrives the way most truths do now. Quietly. Without ceremony. A runner from a southern pass pauses near our boundary long enough to speak, then leaves before Adam can offer water. The words linger longer than the messenger ever does.
Resignations. Forced removals. Elders accusing elders. Votes that end in stalemate and shouting. Meetings adjourned with nothing decided and no one satisfied.
Power eating itself because it can’t decide who deserves to hold it anymore.
I listen without comment while the runner speaks, hands folded loosely in front of me, posture relaxed enough to unsettle him. When he finishes, I thank him and send him on his way. Adam watches him go, eyes narrowed.
“That was fast,” Adam says o
