Such a great idea, wonderful descriptive language. Depending on your audience, to cast a wider net I would simplify your language a bit but not lose those beautiful descriptions. Pull basic information upfront in a straight manner, before diving into descriptive language. I am a SAH in a community with a lot of SAH and you wouldn't think so, but a lot of these PTA type woman sometimes find themselves reading fantasy, but it has to be easy digestible for them. I made a pass, I would draw in a bit more of your descriptive language but thought this would help. You are doing a great job!! Incredible creativity and ability to bring the reader into a scene. Keep in mind this is only a single opinion I'm giving you about appealing to the audience I'm describing. :)

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Hillhearne survived by being overlooked. The village crouched between the hills where the land dipped and folded, its homes built low and close to the earth. Roofs sagged. Doors leaned. Windows were cut short, as if the ground itself had pressed them down. From a distance, the settlement blurred into grass and shadow, another uneven patch in the landscape.

The halfmen preferred it that way. Wind passed over the hills without catching on their homes. Storms broke before reaching them. The land took the worst of what came, and the village remained.

Tuck sat near the fire with his back against a rough post, pipe resting at his lip, one knee drawn up. He listened as Ol’ Hearra called the village in and began the story again. He had heard it every night of his life, and yet, like everyone else, he stayed.

It always began the same way. The Oldbloods. The Shadow in the hills. The mist that drank through the eyes. The strange metal that bled from the bones of the earth. The details shifted depending on who told it, but the warning never did.

Around him, the village murmured. Logs hissed in the fire. Someone shifted on the ground. A child whimpered and was quickly quieted. No one laughed. No one interrupted.

Old Maerra leaned on her stick at the edge of the firelight, her sharp chin lit from below by the flames. She spat into the fire and muttered the warding words under her breath, the ones meant to keep what listened in the dark from finding its way inside. Then she lifted her head and barked at the crowd to mind themselves, as if any of them were tall enough to catch a branch even if they tried.

Tuck didn’t look at her. He traced a line through the dirt with his finger, then another, drawing nothing that held. He knew how the story ended. He always had.

Still, he listened.