Tayani finds me again that afternoon. She leans on her staff along the vines. “You want to go back,” she says quietly.
I stop pruning a vine. “Why would I stay?”
“Because you are wounded. You can heal here. Or you can drift.”
I laugh—low, harsh. “Healing is for the weak.”
Her faint smile curls. “And killing is for the damned.” She turns away.
I am left with the vine. My hand closes around the sappy shoot. My body remembers strength. I bend the vine back.
Something unsaid hangs between us.
Night falls. I pace near the firepit again. The coals glow orange, hissing embers pop. I pick up the stones I gathered—a row. I carve the glyphs anew. My fingers bloodied. The smell of scorched rock and ink fills the air. I whisper her name: “Liora.”
Footsteps. I lift my head. Aren stands there, small under the starlight. “Sir Gyon?” he says. “You show vines and fire. You’re not like the others.”
I grin, fleeting. “No. I’m not.”
He nods. “Good.” He crouches next to the stones. “Why you carve names?”
I close my eyes. “Because names are anchors. They keep you from drifting.” I push a stone aside.
He picks it up. Examines the glyph. “What language?”
“Old Reaper,” I reply. “Clan script.”
His eyes widen. “Cool.”
I straighten. “Go inside. See the elder.”
He runs off.
I turn back to the sky. The stars wink like embers. I breathe deep. My scars still burn beneath my shirt. My stomach twists with hunger—for battle? For her? For something real.
“Don’t go,” her voice echoes.
I clench my fist. “I’ll find you.”
Whether it’s here or there, whether she knows or not—I will.
I dropthe bucket into the trough with a clank, the metal rim ringing in the air like a bell of obligation. The Solari animals line up—goats with gentle eyes, sheared-wool sheep, small green-horned grazers I’ve never seen. I raise the bucket and the water sloshes, cold on my forearm. The scent of damp earth fills my nostrils, mingled with hay and animal-warm fur. My ribs ache. My joints screech in protest.
“Careful there, warrior,” Tayani says behind me, soft but firm. “It’s not a charge run. It’s watering.”
I set the bucket down. Her voice always comes in when the world is quietest. I hate that kind of calm.
“Right,” I grunt.
Sweat trickles from the back of my neck. The sun is climbing. The fields pulse with life—vineyards shimmering in pale green, wind towers turning lazily overhead. Nothing explodes. Nothing screams. No one calls out my name to attack. No strategy. No war. Just this.
I set to feed the grazers—loose chunks of grain, clinks of feed bowls, the animals crunching their guts. One goat leans in and butts my arm with her head. I swear. “Look, you stupid?—”
Tayani clears her throat. “You’ll be better tomorrow.”
I don’t look at her. Instead I bend to pick up a fallen tool, a rusted pitchfork no one will miss. The ground here is soft—soggy from dew—my boots sink an inch each step. My balance wavers. I hate the softness. In war, you knew the ground could crack under you. Here, it just tilts and yawns.
I stab the pitchfork into the earth to steady myself, and a twitch of vine wraps around the tines. I pull it free, jerked to one side. I curse. “Damn it.”
