Mara turned to run.

At the edge of the old condemnation line, a low stone wall had stood for forty years. Beyond it, Ussfall proper: rooftops sinking into grey mist, chimneys that hadn’t smoked since her grandmother’s time. She’d been told never to cross that wall. No one ever said why. Just don’t .

The notice was a single sheet of cheap parchment, nailed to the church door at dawn. “By decree of the Conclave of Silent Stones, the condemned town of Ussfall is hereby expanded to include all lands within a day’s walk of its border. Residents are granted three sunrises to depart. No exceptions.”

At the center of the new street stood a signpost. Not wood. Bone. Human femur, by the look, bleached and polished, with words carved in a script that moved when she blinked. “Now accepting new residents. All debts transferred. No exit after signature.”