Ethan stared at the assembled trio, a knot of bewildered amusement tightening in his gut. Silas, smelling faintly of juniper and still varnish, puffed his chest out, a stained felt hat perched precariously on his head. Bronwyn, the blacksmith, stood stoic and formidable, arms crossed, her leathery face etched with the wisdom (and weariness) of a thousand hammer blows. And then there was Jebediah, decked out in camouflage gear that looked conspicuously new, his eyes darting nervously around the ramshackle barn that now served as Oakhaven's impromptu throne room.