“Why now?” Father asks.
“I don’t know,” Aiel replies. “But if she’s testing the borders again, it means she’s looking for something. Why else is she moving again after all this time? Why enter our lands?”
A beat. Then her face shifts when she glances at Mother, something gentler beneath the steel.
“I’m sorry, Mira. Amara. Old habits. Infantry mindset—I tend to speak straight. And now I’m out here ruining a spring afternoon.”
Mother shakes her head, voice soft but resolute. “I’d rather hear the truth than pretend the world hasn’t changed.”
Aiel gives a grateful nod, then offers a smile—worn at the edges, but warm.
“Still,” she says, stepping back, “I’ll save the war talk foranother time. After a drink and fewer witnesses.”
She looks at my father one last time. “I’m near the western fields. Come by so we can catch up.”
“We will,” Father says.
Aiel turns to me. “Nice to meet you, Amara. Hold tight to your roots. The world likes to try to shake them.”
I smile, then glance at my father. His eyes are on Aiel as she walks away. He clears his throat, adjusting the bundle in his arms.
“Come on,” he says. “The Durnharts are waiting.”
We walk the rest of the way in near silence, the sounds of the square filling the space where conversation might have been. But the weight of Aiel’s words linger like dust that has not settled.
Lyra’s house comes into view—two stories of warm stone, flower boxes spilling green over every window. The front door is propped open, letting in the spring air, and I’ve never been more grateful to see the place that has been a second home to me for all of my life.
“You’re here! And about time,” Lyra calls from somewhere inside. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost between the stables and our front gate.”
We step into the front hall. Lyra appears, wiping her hands on a towel—red hair loose, cheeks flushed, green eyes sparking. She fills a room like fire on dry leaves.
Where I’m long and lean, she’s all curves and motion. She says what I won’t. Lyra is persistence to my resistance. She burns, I hold, and the balance works.
Lyra grins. “There she is!”
Before I can speak, she pulls me into a tight hug. The last of the tension I carried from the square melts from my shoulders.
“Come in,” she says, waving us through. “Mama’s made enough food to feed half the village.”
The door slams open behind us with a crack.
“Lyra! Lyra!”
A barefoot blur crashes into the room—maybe seven, chestnut brown hair wild, nearly toppling a stool.
“Right here!” Lyra calls, unfazed. “That’s Revan—our neighbor. He’s staying for dinner too.”
He barrels into her, arms wrapping tight around her legs. She tousles his hair and he beams radiantly.
I can’t help smiling. His joy is so pure, so complete, it pushes the last of Aiel’s shadow to the edges.
Tamsen Durnhart stands at the long table, placing a basket of rolls beside a steaming bowl of roasted squash. Her sleeves are rolled up, her hair streaked with gray and pulled back into a loose braid.
“Mira,” she says warmly, pulling my mother into an embrace. “Branik. It’s been too long.”
“And there she is,” says Galen, stepping in from the porch, wiping his hands on a cloth. He’s broader than my father, but carries his weight like a hearthstone—solid and familiar.
He pulls me into a hug and I disappear into his arms. “Amara, it’s good to see you. You look well.”
