THE EVACUATION ORDER

Three days after the refugees' arrival, the royal escort appeared on the horizon like a line of steel beneath the morning sun. Marcus spotted them first from his position mending the barn roof. A column of mounted soldiers in gleaming mail, their banners snapping in the wind. Behind them, more refugees trudged forward, perhaps two hundred souls with their cattle and possessions strapped to weary backs.

Even from a distance, he could see they moved with the disciplined precision of professional military.

Marcus scrambled down from the roof, his mind racing. Royal soldiers didn't visit farm villages without serious purpose. Given the timing, this could only concern the warnings brought by the refugees from Thornwick.

Relief flooded through him. Perhaps he wouldn't have to convince the townspeople to dig trenches and build barriers after all. The burden of defending their worthless village against a magical army might not fall on his shoulders alone.

By the time the escort reached Millhaven's square, half the village had gathered to meet them. Marcus and his family clustered with their neighbors, watching as twenty mounted soldiers formed a disciplined formation around a central figure who commanded immediate attention.

She was tall, perhaps thirty years of age, with auburn hair braided in a practical warrior's knot. Her leather armor was well-maintained but showed the scars of actual use, and a silver pendant bearing a sunburst symbol hung at her throat. A white tunic beneath her armor caught the morning light.

When she dismounted and removed her helmet, Marcus caught sight of intelligent green eyes that swept the crowd with professional assessment.

"I am Sister Korra Brightshield of the Order of the Dawn's Light," she announced, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "I serve as both military chaplain and evacuation coordinator for His Majesty's forces." She gestured toward a short man in gleaming armor who was talking with another soldier in more standard gear. "Commander Cain commands the provincial soldiers under Lord Hammond. By royal decree and divine guidance, all settlements within fifty leagues of the eastern border are to be evacuated immediately."

Marcus's worries disappeared. They wouldn't have to defend their village against magical forces. The decision was being made for them.

A murmur of distress rippled through the villagers. Elder Aldwin stepped forward, his aged frame somehow managing to project dignity despite his obvious fear.

"Sister Brightshield, we are honored by your presence, but surely there has been some mistake. Millhaven lies far from any border conflicts"

"No mistake, honored elder." Sister Korra's tone remained formal but not unkind. "The threat we face transcends traditional boundaries. The dark wizard Malachar's advance has accelerated beyond our initial calculations. Intelligence suggests his forward elements may reach this region within days rather than weeks."

Captain Cain stepped forward, his presence commanding immediate attention. "No one should fear," he said in a voice that carried across the square. "We will evacuate everyone safely behind the capital's strong walls."

The reassurance helped somewhat, but Marcus could read the pain on everyone's faces. Abandoning everything they had built would hurt deeply.

"Where are we to go?" asked Marta, the innkeeper's wife. "We have businesses here, families, livestock"

"The capital city of Drakmoor offers sanctuary behind its walls and magical protections," Sister Korra replied. "Wagons will be provided for essential belongings and those unable to walk. The journey will take eighteen days, perhaps twenty depending on the size of our column."

Marcus's grandfather pushed through the crowd, his walking stick tapping against the cobblestones. Despite his age, his voice carried the weight of village leadership.

"And if we choose to remain? This is our home, Sister. Some of us have roots here deeper than royal decrees."

Sister Korra's expression softened slightly, showing the compassion beneath her military bearing. "Honored grandfather, I have seen what Malachar's forces leave behind. Empty villages are the kindest fate. I would not wish the alternatives upon anyone under the Light's protection."

"How long do we have to prepare?" Marcus found himself asking, surprised by his own boldness in addressing such an obviously important official.

Sister Korra's gaze fixed on him with sharp attention. "You have two days to gather what you can carry or load onto the provided transport. We depart at dawn on the third day, with or without stragglers. The kingdom's survival depends upon maintaining schedule."

Over the next hour, Sister Korra and her soldiers outlined the evacuation procedures with military efficiency. Each family would be assigned space in wagons for essential supplies. Livestock could be driven along, but would likely slow the column. Personal belongings had to fit strict weight limits.

As the crowd scattered to begin their frantic preparations, Marcus lingered near the village square. His mind buzzed with logistical concerns. How to preserve their improved farming techniques, what supplies would be most valuable in a prolonged siege, how to maintain his family's unity during such upheaval.

More immediately, he faced a problem he'd never encountered. How could he learn more about their destination, about the resources available in Drakmoor, about anything that might help his family survive, when he couldn't read the local language?

In his modern life, research meant libraries, internet searches, academic papers. Here, information was stored in written form he couldn't decipher. He'd heard references to "scrolls" and "records," but the village had nothing like that.

Most of his neighbors couldn't read either. Elder Aldwin was one of the few who could manage basic written stuff.

Another thought nagged at Marcus's mind. Why would nobles help refugees? Sending troops and funding expensive evacuation expeditions. Refugees meant disruptions to their comfortable cities and palaces. It meant poor, unemployed masses flooding in. Were the nobles of this realm better than current world leaders? There had to be some catch. This didn't align with human nature as Marcus understood it.

That evening, while his family sorted through their possessions in a flurry of difficult decisions, Marcus sat by the fire working on a project that had occupied his thoughts since the evacuation announcement.

Marcus pulled out his familiar supplies. The birch bark papers he'd been making for weeks and his crude ash-and-sap pencil. What had started as a way to track cattle treatments had become his method for recording anything important that happened in Valdris.

The real challenge was writing itself. He knew the sounds of Valdris speech, could speak it fluently after years of immersion, but he'd never seen their written symbols. So he did what seemed logical. He created his own system, using letters from his English alphabet to represent the sounds he heard.

"What in the Light's name are you doing, Marcus?" Big Tom plopped down beside him, watching with confused fascination as Marcus carefully formed symbols on his bark paper.

"Making marks that mean words," Marcus replied, then paused. How did you explain writing to someone who'd never seen it? "Like capturing speech so you can look at it later."

Tom's brow furrowed in concentration. "Capturing speech? That's magic, that is."

"Not magic. Just..." Marcus searched for words. "You know how you can look at tracks in mud and know what animal passed that way?"

"Sure. That's hunting."

"This is like tracks for words. See, this mark means 'Tom,' and this one means 'Marcus,' and these together mean 'Big Tom helps Marcus.'"

Tom stared at the marks as if they might bite him. "Those scratches mean all that?"

"If you know how to read them, yes. And I'm gonna teach you Valdirian when I learn it in Drakmoor. It'll be more important in a huge city."

"I'll try if you say so."

Their conversation was interrupted by a shadow falling across Marcus's work. He looked up to find Sister Korra standing beside their fire, her expression unreadable.

"May I approach?" she asked formally. Despite her obvious authority, she waited for his grandfather's nod before settling beside them on a wooden stool. "My men and I are visiting each household for any unusual sightings," she explained with a reassuring smile, though Marcus sensed she was also evaluating them. Perhaps checking for potential fugitives or agents, but without being threatening about it.

Her gaze fell on Marcus's bark paper and primitive writing materials. For a long moment, she said nothing, simply studying the crude symbols he'd created.

"Remarkable," she said finally. "I have served the Crown for twelve years, traveled from the northern forests to the southern deserts, and I have never seen such innovation from someone of..." She paused diplomatically.

"Someone from a farming village with no learning?" Marcus supplied.

"Someone without formal education in the scribal arts," she corrected gently. "Tell me, Marcus of Millhaven, where did you learn to create writing materials?"

Marcus felt heat rise in his cheeks. He'd gotten careless, let his modern knowledge show too obviously. "I wondered how marks could preserve words, like Elder Aldwin sometimes shows us on trade papers. So I tried to make my own."

Sister Korra picked up his makeshift pencil, testing its weight and texture. "The binding agent in this marking tool shows sophisticated understanding of material properties. And this writing surface..." She examined the pressed bark paper.

"You've essentially created parchment using available resources. Most trained scribes would struggle to produce anything so functional with forest materials."

She set down the pencil and fixed him with those penetrating green eyes. "The symbols themselves are equally intriguing. They seem to follow consistent patterns, as if you've developed your own system of notation."

Marcus felt Big Tom shift beside him, probably wondering why this important military leader was so interested in meaningless scratches. "It seemed logical," Marcus said carefully. "Each sound should have its own mark."

Lying had become second nature to Marcus at this point, rather than trying to explain what he knew and why he knew it.

"Indeed." Sister Korra was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Can you demonstrate? Write something for me to see?"

Marcus hesitated, then carefully formed the words: "Sister Korra helps Marcus learn." He pointed to each symbol as he spoke the corresponding sounds.

Sister Korra's eyebrows rose. "You've invented a phonetic writing system. Without any exposure to existing scripts." She shook her head in what appeared to be amazement. "Marcus, do you understand how extraordinary this is?"

"Is it?" Marcus tried to sound appropriately humble. "It seemed like the obvious approach."

"Perhaps obvious to you. Valdirian is based on flourishes, each representing complete sounds humans make." Sister Korra stood, brushing dust from her traveling robes. "I have studied at the capital's academies, trained alongside scholars and scribes. What you've accomplished here in an evening would be considered advanced theoretical work in academic circles."

She paused, looking down at him with an expression that mixed respect with curiosity. "When we reach Drakmoor, I believe certain individuals would be very interested to meet you. The capital has resources for developing unusual talents."

After Sister Korra departed to continue her rounds of the village families, Big Tom turned to Marcus with his characteristic directness.

"So, are you some kind of scholar or something? Because if you are, you've been doing a right good job of pretending to be a farmer."

Marcus laughed, the sound containing more nervousness than humor. "I'm a farmer, Tom. Just one who thinks too much."

"Well, thinking or not, if we're going to this Drakmoor place, I'm going with you." Tom's expression was earnest, uncomplicated. "Family sticks together, and you're the closest thing to a brother I've got."

"You don't have to"

"Already decided." Tom crossed his arms, a gesture that somehow managed to look both stubborn and protective. "You helped our crops grow better, made the animals healthier, came up with that soap idea that made Aunt Mara actually smile. Far as I'm concerned, you've got more sense than the rest of us combined."

Marcus felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. In his modern life, relationships often felt complicated, layered with social expectations and unspoken tensions. Here, Tom's loyalty was simple, direct, and completely genuine.

"Besides," Tom added with a grin, "sounds like this Drakmoor place might have need for someone who can think of strange ideas. And if you're going to be thinking, might as well have someone around to handle the heavy lifting."

As the evening wore on, Marcus's family made their decisions about what to take and what to leave behind. Arguments erupted over the value of various possessions, tears were shed over mementos that couldn't be preserved, but gradually a consensus emerged.

They would go to Drakmoor. All thirteen family members, plus Big Tom, plus whatever livestock they could manage on the journey. It meant abandoning the farm that had been in the family for three generations, but as his grandfather put it: "Land is only valuable if you're alive to work it."

"We have to slaughter the oldest cow," Marcus said during their planning. "She won't make the journey, and if she dies on the road they won't stop for us to butcher her."

"The meat will rot on the way, son," his father replied. "There's no time to dry it properly, and we can't eat it all."

"I think we have to sell everything when we get there just to survive," Marcus continued. "If we have spare food or something to sell, we might suffer less."

"What makes you think it will be so bad?" Aunt Mara asked.

Marcus couldn't reference real-world refugee crises, and there were no history books to point to. "Let's just be prepared. Also, we can preserve the meat with salt and herbs and spices. I heard about the technique from a trader. I was drying some herbs to sell, but we'll have to use them for ourselves now."

Later that night, as Marcus lay in his bed trying to process the day's events, he thought about Sister Korra's words. In Drakmoor, there would be scholars, academies, people who might appreciate his "unusual talents."

Maybe this forced journey would provide opportunities he couldn't have imagined. Maybe his modern knowledge could be useful in ways beyond farming improvements. Maybe the capital would offer resources for fighting back against threats like Malachar.

Outside his window, he could hear the night sounds of a village preparing for exodus. Muffled conversations, the creak of wagon wheels, livestock being gathered and sorted. Tomorrow would bring more preparations, more difficult decisions, more uncertainty.

But tonight, Marcus allowed himself to feel cautious optimism. Sister Korra had seen something in his crude writing experiment, something she called extraordinary. In his modern world, he was just another struggling college freshman. Here, apparently, he might be something more.

He touched the bark paper where it lay beside his bed, feeling the rough texture of his improvised creation. Such a simple thing, really. Marks that meant words. But Sister Korra's reaction suggested it might be the key to opportunities he couldn't yet imagine.

The evacuation was forcing them toward an uncertain future, but for the first time since the refugees' arrival, Marcus wondered if that future might hold possibilities as well as dangers.

Two days, he reminded himself. Two days to prepare for a journey that would change everything.

He was ready to find out what lay beyond the horizon.