We'd just finished reattaching the last roof tile (which Splitjaw swore was going to stay up this time, despite the entire right side being propped with a broom and a questionable chunk of resin) when the kid appeared. I say "kid," but he was maybe fourteen, the kind of age where you think a good pair of boots means you'll never trip again and then immediately do just that, face-first, in front of the entire Ashring team.
He landed at my feet. Dust everywhere. The roof tile wobbled. Embergleam caught it without looking. The rest of the village stopped pretending to work and stared.
I peered down. "You alright?"
He spat out a pebble. "Yeah! Yes. Sorry, um… are you—the Ashring?"
Splitjaw loomed behind me, arms folded. "Depends. Are you here to join, or are you selling potatoes?"
The kid went pink. "Neither! I mean, both? I mean—I have a bag for you. From Elm Hollow. And maybe from Maplebend too. And, uh, somewhere called Bent Row. Everyone said you'd want it."
