Jacon Bjorn Agan knelt by the cold fire pit and unwrapped his lute. The wood had split along the belly, frosted with cracks like a fiddle left out in winter. He pressed a string. It sagged, dead. Whissel Hills was three weeks away, and a bard with no sound was no bard at all. A small furry creature crept from the brush, ears twitching, green eyes bright with mischief. It sniffed the broken instrument and let out a low, worried whine. Jacon almost smiled. "You feel it too," he said. The creature trotted ahead, glancing back, as if it knew a place. He followed. Past a bend in the road hung a hand-painted sign on rusted chains, its neat letters promising magic wheat. Beneath it stood a bright little stand, painted in faded reds and greens, bottles glinting on its shelves like trapped weather. Jacon set the ruined lute on the counter. A pair of careful hands took it without a word. Powder was sprinkled. A low hum filled the wood. The cracks drew shut like closing eyes, and the strings tightened on their own with a soft, clean chime. He plucked one note. It rang true, then truer, louder than any lute he had owned. The furry creature flinched and bolted. Jacon stared after it. The sound was perfect — and somehow, already too much.