Heat creeps up my neck. “Um. Hi. I’m Alina. I mostly bring sarcasm and a basic understanding of soil mechanics.”
The older of the two boys snorts.
“She speaks like Varen’s cousin from the quarry.”
“Hush,” Clarisse murmurs, though she’s smiling. To Dagan, she dips her head. “My Lord, if it pleases you, the boys have brought the first seed.”
The smaller boy steps forward, cheeks flushed, and holds out his pouch like an offering.
Dagan’s expression softens in a way I’ve never seen.
“You honor the Marches,” he says gravely, taking the small pouch in his large hand. “What is planted with intent grows strongest.”
“What did you bring?” I ask gently, crouching a little to meet the boy’s eye.
“Heart grain,” he says, eyes wide. “For porridge and bread. For trading. For my little sister so she won’t be hungry when she comes.”
Clarisse’s eyes flick skyward for a second. I recognize that look.
Hope and fear wrapped up together.
“Your sister?” I ask.
“In my belly,” Clarisse says dryly. “We argue over names daily.”
“Oh,” I say, smiling. “Well. She’s already got an excellent big brother.”
The boy beams.
Dagan opens the pouch and lets a few of the seeds spill into his palm. They’re a deep reddish-gold, faintly luminescent.
He closes his fist around them.
The air changes.
I feel it before I see it—this low, thrumming vibration that starts under my boots and runs up through my legs. Like standing on a bridge when a truck goes by, only the truck is the world.
His green-gold eyes shadow over, going distant and deep. Stone hums. Roots stir beneath the terrace.
The furrows in the field seem to darken as if rich nutrients are bubbling up from below.
“May the season be gentle,” Dagan intones, voice not just loud—resonant—like the land is speaking with him. “May your hands be strong, your backs unbroken, your table never empty. May what you sow return to you tenfold.”
A soft wind sweeps across the terrace, lifting soil, ruffling the boys’ hair, stirring Clarisse’s braid.
My arms break out in goosebumps.
The seeds in his palm glow for a moment, then settle back into quiet.
He pours them back into the pouch and presses it into the boy’s hands, covering them with his own.
“Plant them,” he says. “You and your brother, together. The field will listen.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the boy whispers, eyes huge.
“Thank you,” Clarisse says, and then, surprising me, she looks at me. “And thank you, Lady Alina. For walking the lines with him.”
“Oh, I’m just tagging along,” I say, flustered. “He’s the one doing all the heavy lifting.”
