I stand outside our house, watching smoke curl from the chimney into a pale sky. The porch creaks behind me as the breeze nudges the faded blue door. The wood-plank walls, silvered by wind and time, lean into the hillside like they’re tired—but holding.
My father works nearby, framed by the hush of late morning light. Sun warms his shoulders, sweat glistening at his brow like dew on stone. His hoe moves in quiet rhythm—rise, fall, breathe—splitting the soil in soft, scraping strokes. It parts easily, dark and rich, curling like a wave.
I watch him work. Watch the hills. Something in the breeze tugs at me—too sharp for spring. Too still.
I tuck a strand of black hair behind my ear. My braid’s already loose, the ache in my back already starting.
I just can’t shake this sense of foreboding.
The hills roll like sleeping giants, touched with green. Wildflowers dot the field’s edge—yellow, white, the occasional violet. Trees along the far edge have only just remembered sunlight.
Father catches my eye and smiles. His fair skin flushed from sun and work, brown eyes crinkling with quiet joy. A breeze lifts his brown hair from his brow, and for a second, he looks younger.
I smile back, wipe my brow with the back of my hand, then swing my arms a few times, trying to loosen the tension. I stayed busy all winter—hauling wood, grinding grain, helping Mother with weaving—but fieldwork is different. It asks more of you. Different muscles. A different kind of patience.
I know the ache will fade. It always does. By midsummer, my body will remember, and these muscles will carry me through harvest.
Each day here brings its own rhythm: the feel of soil beneath my hands, though it crumbles drier than it should for early spring. The laughter over our meals, always a little louder these days—like we’re all trying to drown something out.
The farm feels safe. But safety’s started to feel like something wepretend—while word spreads of shadow breaches, raids along the southern borders of the realm, and skies growingquieter as fewer dragons are choosing.
Nonetheless, there’s comfort in focusing on the land—something I can control. This rhythm . . . this shared return to the earth. A season turning over. A life beginning again.
“Time to eat!”
My mother’s voice rings out from the house, clear and melodic. I look over my shoulder to see her standing in the doorway, drying her hands on her apron. Her green eyes are bright, her cheeks rosy, and her chestnut hair piled into a messy bun, strands catching the sun.
She looks beautiful: sun-kissed, confident, and content. Glowing with the life she built with her hands.
Father sets down his hoe and stretches, then starts toward the house. I rise too, brushing dirt from my hands, the pull of sore muscles steady in every step. As we step inside, delicious scents greet us—bread, vegetables, and something sweet, enveloping us in comfort.
As we eat, Mother mentions the market. “We’ll need to go tomorrow,” she says, reaching for the butter. “We’re out of salt, and I want to see if the baker has that rye flour I like.”
Father nods. “Anything else?”
“We have a few jars of preserves left,” she says, glancing toward the pantry. “Blackberry and quince. I’m hoping to barter for more.”
The mention of the market lights a spark in me. “I want to come,” I say, leaning forward, bowl forgotten.
Mother’s lips twitch. She and Father exchange a knowing look.
They’re remembering things.
Probably the time Lyra and I knocked over a fruit cart chasing a chicken. Or dyed the fountain blue with berry juice. Or when I almost punched the baker’s son for saying I didn’t look like my parents.
Which—fine. I don’t. Not in the ways that matter, anyway.
“Of course,” Mother says with a smile that’s part indulgent, part wary. “I already asked the Durnharts if we can stay with them tomorrow night.”
Lyra Durnhart—my best friend since we were eight. Fifteen years of chaos and the best kind of trouble. It’s only been a few days, but it feels like weeks. I miss her laugh. The way her thoughts fall straight out of her mouth. That glint in her eyes before she ropes me into something reckless.
I can already hear her now:Finally! I was starting to think you got buried under a pile of potato sacks.
Mother starts to clear the table, but Father stops her with a hand on her wrist. He gathers the plates and carries them to the sink, washing them in silence. She sits beside me, watching him with quiet affection.
When he’s done and the plates are resting in the drying rack, he turns and extends a hand to her. She takes it without hesitation, that same familiar glint in her eyes. They walk toward the door hand in hand, back to the fields.
I glance through the window, toward the curve of the road—the one that leads to the village. And farther still.
