"Like this," she says, using the tool to gently uncover the growing roots without damaging them or disturbing the plant too much. "See how this one looks healthy? Firm texture, good color—that purple-white shade with no dark spots or soft patches. The skin should be smooth and intact."
She moves to the next plant and carefully exposes its root. "But this one..." Her expression becomes serious as she shows him a root covered in dark spots that look almost like bruises. "This needs to come out immediately before the infection spreads to its neighbors. Once you learn to recognize the signs, it becomes almost automatic."
She demonstrates the proper way to remove the diseased plant—quickly but carefully, making sure to get all the roots so no infected tissue remains in the soil. The removed plant goes into a separate basket, she explains, that will be burned rather than composted to prevent spreading the disease.
The work is detailed and requires attention and care that keeps them busy, but Evran finds it oddly soothing despite—or perhaps because of—the focus it demands. There's something deeply satisfying about having a clear task with a clear purpose, something concrete he can accomplish that will genuinely help these people. The small act of having work that matters, that will keep people fed through the harsh winter, resonates with something deep in his chest.
He genuinely wants to help these people he's going to be living among, and he's willing to do whatever that entails—even if it's spending hours on his knees in the dirt examining turnip roots. The work feels honest in a way nothing in his previous life ever did.
They work their way through the turnip plots methodically, Eira patiently correcting his technique when he's too rough ornot thorough enough. The sun steadily creeps higher in the sky as the morning hours pass, warming the mountain air and making the work pleasant despite its repetitive nature. They move from turnips to potatoes—which Eira tells him with obvious pride is another crucial staple that stores well and grows reliably even in harsh conditions—and begin digging up the mature tubers into woven baskets.
Carrots follow shortly thereafter, their bright orange roots emerging from the dark soil like buried treasure. Evran starts to notice a trend toward hearty root vegetables that can survive in harsh environments and store through long winters. Everything here is chosen for practical reasons, selected over generations for reliability rather than novelty or prestige.
"I've never met a southerner before," Eira says after they've worked in comfortable silence for a while, the quiet broken only by the sounds of their tools and breathing. She glances at him briefly with a wry smile that suggests she's been working up the courage to speak. "Or anyone from outside the mountain clans, actually. You're my first outsider."
Evran smiles softly at her, charmed by her honesty. "You've lived here all your life then?"
"My parents brought us here when I was still very small—maybe three or four years old. So the Drakarri are all I've ever really known or remembered." She places another handful of carrots into their newest basket, her movements practiced and efficient. There are several baskets sitting off to the side already full of vegetables destined for the kitchens. "I've been curious about the outside world, but..." She pauses and gives him an apologetic glance, as if worried about offending him. "Stories of your people that reach us here are not flattering. At all."
Evran laughs genuinely for what feels like the first time in days, maybe weeks. The sound surprises him with its lightness, and it seems to put a smile back on Eira's freckled face. "Trustme, the stories I was told about your people were as unflattering as they come. Honestly, I could not have been more uneducated about the Drakarri if I had deliberately invented false tales on my own. Everything I thought I knew was wrong."
The admission feels good, like releasing a weight he didn't know he was carrying.
Eira shows him how to plant new seedlings in the spaces they harvest from, explaining that there's still time for another round of faster-growing crops before the weather becomes too harsh for anything to survive. They spend the rest of the morning in this rhythm—harvesting mature vegetables and planting seeds for late-season crops, working side by side as the sun climbs higher and the shadows shorten.
As the morning progresses and his initial nervousness fades, Evran finds himself settling into the rhythm of the work in a way that feels almost meditative. Eira is a remarkably patient teacher, showing him not just what to do but explaining why each task matters, how each plant fits into the larger system that keeps the stronghold fed through seasons when nothing grows.
She explains how they rotate crops to keep the soil healthy and prevent it from being depleted of specific nutrients. How they save seeds from the strongest plants for next year's planting, slowly improving their crops over generations. How they preserve and store food using techniques passed down through families—drying, smoking, salting, storing in cool caves that maintain consistent temperatures.
"We have to be careful not to waste anything," Eira tells him earnestly, carefully saving even the greens from vegetables that are rotted or otherwise spoiled, placing them in a separate basket. "When the snows come—and they will come, heavier than anything you've experienced in the south—we have to be completely prepared. We could be cut off from the outsideworld for months. So we're very careful with everything. Very thoughtful about what we use and what we save."
"Your work here is really meaningful then," Evran says, and he's surprised by how much the purposefulness of this task resonates deeply in his chest, filling something that's been hollow for years. After years of feeling useless, ornamental, like a burden his family could barely tolerate, the idea of doing something truly worthwhile that affects others on such a grand scale is intoxicating. "I feel like I've never done anything important in all my life."
"I'm sure that's not true," Eira looks up from her work with genuine concern in her dark eyes. "You said yourself you worked the harvest at home. That's important—feeding people is always important."
But it hadn't been important to his father. The memory surfaces unbidden: Callum finding him in the fields during harvest time, dragging him back to the house by his collar like a wayward child despite Evran being nearly grown. The lecture about wasting his time getting his hands dirty with common work when there were more important matters demanding his attention—meaning political maneuvering and social climbing.
Evran had wanted to point out that if the vassals farming their land didn't complete their harvest in time due to lack of available hands, there would be no food for any of them, lord and servant alike. But he'd known better than to argue with his father's twisted priorities, where image mattered more than practical concerns.
He knows better now than to tell Eira she's mistaken about his past contributions being valued, so he just gives her another small smile and goes back to examining carrots for any signs of disease or damage.
Eira warms up to him considerably over the course of the morning, her initial shyness melting away as they work. Hersmiles come easier, her laughs more frequent as they talk about vegetation sprinkled with personal topics that help them learn about each other. She tells him of her favorite pastimes—she likes to read when there's time, especially old stories about the clan's history. She describes the way she prefers carrots prepared with rosemary on cold days, the combination warming her from the inside out.
She speaks lovingly of her younger brother who is still too small to do much more than cling to their mother's skirt and get underfoot, though she says this with obvious affection rather than annoyance. Her face lights up when she talks about him, and Evran finds himself thinking of Merona, wondering if his sister will have children someday who look at her with the same adoration.
Eira asks thoughtful questions about the south, careful and curious in equal measure. She wants to know about his home—is it very different from the mountains? What do lowland gardens look like? She asks about his siblings, and he finds himself telling her about Merona's love of music, Nathaniel's skill with horses, and Willem's head for numbers.
She's perceptive enough to notice when topics make his shoulders tense and his voice go quiet, and she gracefully steers the conversation away from painful subjects without making it obvious. It's a kindness he appreciates more than she probably realizes.
His reassessment of her is that she's likely younger than he initially guessed—perhaps only seventeen or eighteen—but remarkably capable and possessed of a wealth of knowledge when it comes to growing things. She shoots fearful glances at the guards patrolling the perimeter of the gardens, flinching slightly whenever they pass too close, and he gets the distinct impression that her initial awkwardness toward him was less about him being a stranger and more about him being a man.
The realization makes him sad for reasons he can't quite articulate. What has happened to make this capable young woman nervous around half the population?
Despite their differences in age and experiences—or perhaps because of them—he finds himself drawn to her quiet charm and genuine kindness. She reminds him a lot of Merona in some ways: the same gentle nature, the same fierce intelligence hidden under a layer of practiced meekness. He thinks they would get along well together in some impossible world where his sister could visit these mountains.
By midday, his knuckles are dirty beyond immediate cleaning, his knees are sore from kneeling for hours, and his back aches from the unfamiliar postures required by garden work. But when Eira surveys their morning's work with obvious satisfaction—taking in the cleared beds, the baskets full of healthy vegetables, the newly planted seedlings already settling into their soil—Evran feels a pride he hasn't experienced in years.
This is an accomplishment. Real, tangible, meaningful work that will help feed people through the winter. Not political maneuvering or social climbing, but honest labor with visible results.
