Rowan Pinwell's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

Rowan shoved the baker's scrap deep into their coat pocket. The wind was still moving, and so were the secrets. They needed a way to find the rest before more hands closed on them. Every minute, another voice in town might begin reading a stranger's shame aloud. The deer at the pillar had not moved. Its branching antlers caught the light, ears stitched tight against the breeze. Rowan watched it lift its nose, turn, and step down a side lane with slow purpose. Something pale fluttered in its mouth. A scrap. Rowan's breath caught. They pressed a hand to the cool, cracked face of the pillar and made a choice. They followed. The deer led them to a low hedge where two more scraps were snagged, trembling. Rowan gathered them with shaking fingers. Three saved. But footprints crossed the dirt past the hedge — small, deliberate, leading toward the square. Someone was collecting the rest first.