Every autumn, as the last crops came in, the villagers lit the lamps of the Harvest Festival. On its opening day, everyone gathered in the square to hear the lord's address. Hooves struck the rain-filled ruts, and Lord Edric rode into the rare bustle of celebration with his wife Elora beside him, her face hidden behind a black veil. Older villagers whispered at the edge of the square about the fire eighteen years before. The former lord, Alaric, had died while suppressing bandits, and his widow Elora had later married his younger brother Edric.

The whispers passed quickly from mouth to mouth, then stopped when Edric stepped down from his carriage and raised a formal writ of accusation.

"I have received several accounts that a witch in league with the Devil hides among my good subjects. As of today, Mora, the herbalist who lives in the cottage, will be investigated for witchcraft. If she is innocent, the truth will clear her name. If not, she will face the judgment she deserves!"

"No! Mora is not a witch!"

A gray-haired village woman who had been watching the procession turned pale and shook her head. Pippin, the boy who had been tumbling playfully around Mora, pushed through the crowd. Mora held him back before the soldiers could reach him. She had treated feverish children and tended the injured with care, yet whenever misfortune visited the village, malicious rumors followed her. Edric waited for the commotion to subside before continuing.

"The charge will be investigated in full, and Mora will stand trial before the Harvest Festival ends. Until a judgment is reached, enjoy the celebration."

Edric led his soldiers toward Mora's cottage. Close behind walked Cedric, the knight who had guarded Alaric and retained his post when Edric became lord. Soldiers took position at the cottage door while curious villagers lingered nearby. Among them was Bran, a bounty hunter newly arrived in the village.

In time, the opening toast began. A great brazier burned in the square, its smoke rising through the damp scent left by the previous day's rain. Rowan, a wandering knight who had stepped out of the inn, shook the water from his cloak and joined the crowd. Edric suspended the interrogation and opened the ceremony. Mead filled every cup, and fragrant liquor shone in the ceremonial golden goblet. As the tedious address drew to a close, Edric raised the cup to his lips, staggered, and fell. Garik, the tanner who had been leaning against his workshop door, rushed over with the startled soldiers. Cedric checked the lord's pulse, then slowly rose.

"Silence! Lord Edric is dead. This matter will be investigated, and the culprit will be found. No one is to move."

The entire village had gathered in the square, but suspicion soon settled on seven people: Elora, who had stood beside Edric; Rowan, the wandering knight who arrived that day; Bran, the bounty hunter with his rain-spattered ledger; Garik, the tanner whose whereabouts had been unclear; Pippin, the jester who had roamed the festival grounds before the toast; Mora, the herbalist already accused of witchcraft; and Cedric, Edric's own guard knight. Each carried grounds for suspicion, and each guarded a secret. From embers left smoldering eighteen years ago, new smoke began to rise.