Winnowing Justice: A Short Story Series: Episode 1

Winnowing Justice: A Short Story Series

Episode 1: First Sight

What would justice look like if it depended entirely on whether anyone cared enough about you to keep you alive?

In the remote villages where the old ways still hold, seven black towers rise above the town walls. They're not watchtowers or granaries—they're something far more unsettling. And far more honest.

This is the first episode in a short story series exploring a world where community judgment matters more than courts, and where true character is measured in the simplest possible terms: will anyone climb a ladder to feed you?

Episode 1: The Towers

I felt them before I saw them. I could sense something tense, a heavy feeling around the corner, something impending… And, although I was aware of this feeling, I couldn’t account for it. Nothing changed, the forest receded quietly as my horse walked down the path, birds continue to chirp quietly, and nothing appeared different - the clouds remained floating in the sky. The only indication was a scent of darkness on the winds.

Three miles out from the village, my horse began to shift beneath me, ears flicking toward something I could not identify. The air carried an odd weight—not malevolent, exactly, but dense  with consequence. Like standing near a graveyard at twilight, when the veil grows thin and decisions echo longer than they should… It felt as if something hovered close by.

When the towers finally came into view, black against the afternoon sky, I understood why my mare had grown restless. Seven of them rising from within the village walls like accusatory fingers. Too tall for watchtowers, too narrow for grain storage. Each one stood alone, isolated, with no obvious purpose except to be seen from a great distance. All were covered in overwhelming ivy, except a single strip along the side of each tower from the ground to the window near the top.

I pulled my horse to a stop at the crest of the hill and took in the landscape, allowing my gaze to soften, taking in all I could see. I allowed my senses to absorb the as much as possible, without judgment. The technique had served me well in unfamiliar places—reading the energetic signature of a settlement before committing to enter. Most villages hummed with the chaotic blend of human emotion, commerce, and daily struggle. This one felt... different. Quiet and still.

There was fear here, yes, but not the scattered anxiety of people under threat. I could smell burnt toast on the wind, and a distinct scent of used oil bottom notes. My left hand began to ache, and fear ran its fingers down my back. This fear had a structure, a personality, almost... respectful. These sensations fell on me like the hush in a temple where real power dwells, but nothing obvious can explain the sense of something ominous.

The towers drew my eye again. Now I could see the ladders built into their sides, rungs ascending to small windows near the top. Windows with bars. My stomach dropped as understanding dawned.

"Prisons," I whispered to my horse. "But prisons for what?"

As if summoned by my words, movement caught my eye at the base of the nearest tower. A figure climbed slowly up the ladder, carrying what looked like a bundle. They moved with the deliberate care of someone performing a sacred duty rather than a chore, but maybe, only careful because of the extreme height of the towers.

At the top, hands emerged from the barred window. The exchange was brief, almost ceremonial. The climber descended, and the figure in the tower retreated into shadow.

I watched this same ritual play out at two other towers. But at the fourth, no one came. The window remained empty, dark.

My gift for reading truth told me everything I needed to know about this place. Justice here wasn't decided by judges or laws or the whims of whoever held power. It was measured in something far more honest—whether anyone cared enough to climb a ladder with bread in their hands.

I heard of these towers, but never thought I’d see them or their functions.

I touched my heels to my mare's flanks and started down the hill toward the village gates, my mind already calculating. Did I have people who would feed me? Had I lived in such a way that strangers might show mercy?

For the first time in years, I wasn't entirely certain of the answer. I was clear my people did not live here. I was most certainly a stranger. Not one person could vouch for me.

The towers silently allowed my approach like silent patient old gods. I found myself hoping I would never need to discover what their shadow felt like from the inside.

Episode 2 soon!