1
The hero presses the woman against the oak table, his lips brushing hers, softly at first, then deeper, a promise and a claiming all at once. Gods, he’s perfect. Strong, brave, kind and far too beautiful to be real. The sort of man who would cross kingdoms for the one he loves.
I let out a dreamy little sigh and flop forward on my elbows, chin resting on my fists as I read the sentence again… and again. Just for the flutter it gives my chest.
The farmhouse groans around me, old timber settling under the weight of another bitter wind. The fire in the hearth is little more than glowing embers, red as my hair in its frayed braid over my shoulder, my breath fogging faintly in the air.
Still, I linger on the page, because in here, in this book, winter isn’t swallowing everything whole.
“Neve!”
My father’s voice cuts through my daydream, sharp and breathless as the wind itself.
I jolt upright, snapping the book shut so fast the last few pages crumple. Cursing myself, I flip it back open and smooth the bent corner, murmuring an apology to the lovers I’ve just abandoned mid-kiss. Then, I shove the story aside on the desk with the rest of my daydreams.
Reality waits. It always does.
Beneath the books lies a pile of papers. Endless lists in smudged ink: repairs, debts, losses. The list only ever grows longer. Just like the book, I shove them aside and tuck them into a brown leather satchel on the desk. I latch it shut, as if locking the truth away will make any of it less real.
“Coming!” I call, already shrugging into my heavy cloak.
Even through my worn boots, the icy floorboards nip at my feet as I hurry across the room. The cold has crept in everywhere. Beneath the doors, through the hearthstones, between the cracks in the shutters. It’s not supposed to be this cold, not in spring.
I push out into the yard, boots crunching on the thin layer of rime coating the earth. The cold hits harder out here, sharp enough to sting my lungs. My father stands near the gate, red-faced and shivering despite his thick wool coat. Our farm stretches out before us. A place that once thrived under mild seasons and soft, forgiving rains.
We used to grow amberroot grain, a tall golden crop with broad leaves and pale red tassels that shimmered at dusk. It loved warmth, flourished in rich soil, and grew in rolling, sunlit waves you could see from the road. When I was young, the fields used to glow. An endless sweep of color that made people stop their carts just to admire it.
But when the frost began creeping toward us, slowly at first, we tried to adapt. We bred the grain hardier, cut planting cycles shorter, rotated the soil more often. We prayed it would be enough.
It wasn’t.
Now the fields look nothing like the ones etched in my memories.
The amberroot stands stunted and colorless, its once supple stalks frozen into brittle gray spines, each leaf edged with ice, the tassels hanging limp and dead. Every row is another small surrender to the curse.
Father lifts his chin toward the fields as I join him by the fence line. “Another row’s gone,” he says, voice gravelly. “Frost took it overnight.”
My stomach sinks, but I don’t let it show.
I can still remember how this place once was. How warm the soil felt between my fingers, how the grain whispered in the wind, how everything seemed possible.
Now the only sound is ice cracking beneath our boots, and as I stare vacantly at the ruins of our livelihood, something hollow inside me aches for the book on the desk. For the refuge of imagined worlds, warm hands and brave hearts, sunlight that lingers, and places where winter doesn’t swallow everything it touches.
A world where love exists without duty, without debt. Without fear.
A world nothing like mine.
Father props a boot on the fence rail, staring out at our fields like they’re an enemy army advancing on us. Silence settles between us, but the swallow I try to hide must sound like a crack of thunder.
“Don’t dance around it,” he says, not looking at me. “You’ve got bad news too. I can feel it.”
“I went over our accounts twice this morning.” A second lump gathers in my throat. “We owe the seed store more than we’ll make this harvest. Even if the weather turned tomorrow.”
Father grunts, jaw tightening. “I’ll speak to them. They’ll give us time.”
“They already gave us time,” I say sharply. “Two extensions and we still haven’t paid last season’s debt.”
His silence is as heavy and stubborn as the mule we had to sell just to keep food on our table.
