The village of Bramblewick lay tucked in a shallow valley, its stone cottages and thatched roofs scattered like pebbles around the market green. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of fresh bread mixed with the tang of damp earth after last night’s rain. It was a quiet place in theory—until the prophecies began.

No one remembered exactly when the first one arrived, but by now, they came so thick and fast that the village kept a roster of four town criers whose sole purpose was to keep track of them. Each carried a bell, a stack of parchment, and an expression that hovered somewhere between grim duty and weary disbelief.

This morning, they had gathered in the small, draughty council hall, the long table before them piled high with rolled scrolls sealed in every color of wax.

“Right,” said Matthis, the eldest crier, his voice deep and deliberate. He unrolled one of the fresher prophecies with a snap. “According to the Seer of Red Hollow, a hero with hair the color of burnt straw will arrive at dawn tomorrow to fell the Beast of the Western Moors.”

“That’s fine,” said Brenn, the youngest, scribbling on a slate. “Except the Oracle of Windmere says the Beast won’t appear until the Festival of Larks next month.”

“That’s nothing,” broke in Elara, a sharp-eyed woman whose bell gleamed like polished gold. “The Hermit of Wrenton swears the Beast’s defeat will cause the river to reverse its flow, flooding the granaries—unless a ‘man without a shadow’ binds it with silver chains.”

Jorik, who had been silent so far, cleared his throat. “We might have a problem there. I’ve just had word from the Dream-Speaker in Highpine that the ‘man without a shadow’ is currently busy preventing a drought in the southern fields by dueling a sorceress over ownership of the Sunstone.”

The room fell silent. Matthis rubbed his brow. “We’ll need to stitch these together somehow, or no one will know whether to bring a sword, a bucket, or a set of silver chains to the green.”

They began to spread the scrolls across the table, ink and wax gleaming in the flickering lamplight. Outside, the faint chatter of market stalls drifted in through the window, accompanied by the smell of roasting chestnuts.

“All right,” Brenn said at last, “what if the hero with burnt-straw hair arrives tomorrow—not to fight the Beast straight away, but to warn us of the drought, which leads us to send for the man without a shadow?”

“Who,” Elara added quickly, “is delayed because of the duel for the Sunstone, the outcome of which determines whether the Beast can even appear.”

“And,” Jorik continued, warming to the idea, “when he does arrive, he binds the Beast with silver chains during the Festival of Larks—thereby saving the granaries but accidentally causing the river to reverse.”

Matthis frowned thoughtfully. “Which, in turn, waters the southern fields so thoroughly that the drought is prevented anyway.”

They all looked at one another.

“It… works,” Elara admitted.

“Barely,” Brenn said, “but it works.”

Matthis reached for his bell. “Then we tell it that way. Keep it simple: hero comes, man without shadow duels sorceress, Beast bound at the festival, river runs backwards, drought avoided, granaries saved.”

“And leave out the part about how we’re not entirely sure which comes first?” Jorik asked.

“Absolutely,” Matthis said firmly. “The people don’t need to know how close this village runs to confusion.”

The bells rang out across Bramblewick that afternoon, carrying the strange, tangled story to every corner of the market green. And for the first time in weeks, no one asked which prophecy to believe—because, somehow, they all had become the same one.