THE BROKEN EGG

making, watching the light dance on the wooden sill. It was a morning like any other-until she saw it. An egg. Not one of hers, not from the coop out back where her hens clucked softly. Th

e egg. "Harrow, come look at this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. He shuffled inside, his cane tapping the wooden floor, and stopped beside her. His sharp blue eyes narrowed as he studied the egg. "Where'd you get that?" he asked, his tone heavy with something Clara couldn't place-worry, perhaps. "I didn't," she replied. "It was just... here." Harrow's face tightened. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, worn leather book, its pages yellowed with age. "You ever hear of the Eldermoor Prophecy?" he asked, flipping through the book with trembling fingers. Clara shook her head, her gaze flicking between Harrow a