Aren chuckles. “You’ll sing too one day.”
“Don’t count on it,” I growl.
He shrugs and moves ahead.
The field stretches wide and golden now. The sun high. I sweat. The smell of grain is heady, dusty, memory-heavy. I wipe sweat from my brow with a forearm. My armor—bronze plate and scorched edges—still sits unused in a storage shed. I think of it sometimes. The weight of gear. The roar of engines. The fists of enemies. Here the worst blow is a blister.
I finish the load and drop it near the granary. My muscles scream, but I breathe deep. The wind comes across the towers in steady gusts, carrying the hiss of turning blades. Sometimes Ipause just to feel it across my face, to remind myself the world is still moving even if I’m standing.
“Finally,” someone says behind me.
I turn. It’s a Solari elder I don’t know well—thin white hair, veins faint under pale skin. “You did well.”
I nod. I don’t smile. They expect nothing more.
Dinner time arrives—communal table under eaves outdoors. The smell of stewed root-meal and fresh bread drifts across the benches. I sit on the edge, keep my elbows wide, back straight. People talk quietly around me. I listen but don’t join.
A woman near me says, “Gyon, the field’s looking strong this season.”
I glance at her. “Good.”
She nods and smiles, then turns back to her bread.
Peppered sunlight flickers through vine leaves above. The mood is calm. I feel again that fierceness inside—like I’m meant for something else. Home. But home isn’t here.
At the end of the meal, Tayani sits next to me—rare. She offers a small piece of bread. I take it. She watches me chew.
“You miss them,” she says simply.
“You think I don’t?” I snap.
She laughs, quiet. “No. I know you do.”
I retreat my guard. “Why? So you can pity me?”
“Because you’re human.” She tilts her head. The wind blows and her hair flies. “And you remember.”
I don’t answer.
Night falls fast. The two suns go down. I walk the fence line—edge of the commune where fields end and wild grass begins. The darkness pulls tight around me. The sky glitters cold. Stars I don’t name. Planets I can’t touch.
I strain to hear anything. Hum of a ship? No. Engines? No. Just wind. The soft susurrus of reeds. My boots crunching.
“Gyon?” The voice comes from the walkway behind the vine row. I turn. It’s Aren, the boy. “Want to see something?”
He holds out a piece of scrap metal—shiny, scorched. “I pulled this from the junk pile. Daddies used to fly them.”
I hold it. The metal bit is too light. The burn marks too precise. I stare at it. “What are you saying?”
He shrugs. “It was hurting the vines so I stopped it. I thought maybe you’d like it.”
I push it into my pocket. “Thanks.”
He grins. “Okay.”
He runs off.
I stay where I am, the scrap in my hand, the wind licking my ear. I look up. My chest tightens again.
