Liora rolled up her sleeves, shaking out the stiffness in her fingers before setting to work at the kitchen counter. The hearth fire crackled softly behind her, its warmth welcome against the chill creeping through the cottage.
She sifted through the basket of ingredients, brushing dirt from a bundle of carrots, their orange skin still streaked with soil. The turnips were firm under her fingertips, their waxy peels curling away in thin ribbons as she ran her knife along them. Chopping them into chunks, she savored the rhythmic thunk against the cutting board, the sound filling the quiet kitchen.
The leeks were next, their scent sharper than the turnips, making her eyes sting. She sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve before pushing them into a neat pile. The golden onion was the worst offender—by the time she was done, her cheeks were damp with tears.
Her knife hesitated over the salted lamb as a shout echoed from outside. A peddler? No—Erma, probably bickering about the price of Maris' herbs again. Liora smirked slightly but quickly turned back to her work. She sliced the lamb into firm, even chunks, savoring the way the blade slid cleanly through the meat.
The iron pot was already warming over the fire, a thin sheen of fat sizzling at the bottom. As soon as the onions hit the heat, their aroma burst forth, curling into the air with the first hint of supper. She stirred them with slow, deliberate motions, watching as their edges darkened into caramel gold.
Once the lamb was added, a satisfying hiss filled the room, the fat spitting against the sides of the pot. Liora pressed the spoon against the bottom, scraping up the browned bits, relishing the way the fragrance deepened with each passing moment.
She worked methodically, scooping in the carrots and turnips, watching them tumble into the bubbling broth. The barley was last, sliding through her fingers like coarse sand as she let it scatter across the pot’s surface. She leaned in, inhaling deeply. The scent wrapped around her, warm and familiar—earthy vegetables, fragrant rosemary, the rich depth of slow-cooked lamb.
A wooden spoon clattered against the pot as she turned, wiping her hands on her apron. As the stew thickened over the fire, she rubbed warmth back into her fingers, flexing them against the cool air of the cottage. Outside, the light was beginning to dim, the soft hum of village life winding down with the setting sun.
Dinner was nearly ready.
Maris was ladling pottage onto stale trenchers as Uncle Rannick walked through the door. He had left his smith’s apron back at the shop, but the grime of a long day still clung to his arms and face. His boots, caked with dirt, thudded against the wooden floor as he stepped inside.
“Don’t ye dare bring those filthy boots into my house!” snapped Maris, never taking her eyes off the ladle. “Liora just swept!”
Rannick froze mid-step, his sheepish grin faltering. He carefully bent down and tugged off his boots, leaving them just beyond the door’s threshold. Despite the scolding, his good mood remained intact, his smile returning to his soft face as he straightened. That was Rannick—always cheerful, always acting like the world was just a little kinder than it truly was.
“She’ll make a fine wife yet,” Rannick said with a chuckle, ruffling Liora’s hair. “Mayhap even catch the eye of Earl Humbrick’s court one day, with all that sweeping.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maris snapped, setting the iron pot hard on the counter. “Earl Humbrick doesn’t concern himself with village girls.”
Rannick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just jesting, Mari. No need to get angry.” He chuckled again but let the subject drop when Maris’s glare didn’t soften.
Liora glanced between them, unsure if she should laugh or feel embarrassed. She couldn’t imagine the Earl—or anyone beyond Mosswick, for that matter—ever taking an interest in her.
Maris let out a weary sigh and rubbed at her temples. “Ranni, at least wash up before sittin’ down.”
Rannick groaned but obeyed, rolling his sleeves up and dunking his hands into the washbasin near the hearth. The water turned murky within seconds.
Liora busied herself setting the table, but she noticed how her aunt kept glancing at Rannick, as if weighing words on her tongue. Maris had been particularly on edge lately, her fingers always fidgeting, her jaw always tight.
“Hard day at the forge?” she asked, hoping to shift the mood.
Rannick dried his hands on a cloth and sat down with a sigh. “Same as any other.” He leaned back, stretching out his shoulders with a satisfied grunt. “Folk always need nails, horseshoes and hinges. And with the festival, I had a few extra orders.”
Maris exhaled sharply and turned back to the pot. “Folk always need herbs too.”
There was something in her tone, something pointed.
Rannick glanced at Liora, his easy smile fading for just a moment.
Liora pretended not to notice.
Supper was the pottage that she had cooked, alongside a variety of berries, nuts, and bread still warm from the oven.
“This looks wonderful,“ Rannick said. “Especially the lamb!”
Maris sat at the table, gripping her fork—but she didn’t eat. Her fingers tightened around the handle, her knuckles whitening as she stared down at her trencher.
“It’s the reason we’re still in this here cottage.“ Her voice was quiet at first. Then, suddenly, she snapped—stabbing her fork hard into a chunk of lamb.
Liora flinched.
Rannick’s smile faded.
The air shifted, thickening like the steam curling from their bowls.
Liora swallowed, her appetite fading as tension settled over the room like a heavy fog.
Rannick set his spoon down with deliberate care, his shoulders stiff. “Mari, please," he murmured, his tone low, pleading. “Not this again.”
Maris hesitated. Her fork hovered above her trencher. For a moment, she just sat there, jaw tight, fingers twitching.
Then, finally, she spoke.
“Don’t ya dare tell me that, Ranni.” Her voice was quick and sharp, but it wavered—just for a second. “I respect yer work, I do, but it’s not enough.”
She exhaled harshly, pressing her palm flat against the table as if steadying herself.
“I’ve taken on another plot of herbs just to feed this girl.”
She gestured sharply toward Liora, barely acknowledging her presence.
“She eats like a grown man, Ranni! And not just that—she can’t eat like us.” Maris’s voice grew strained, as if she had been holding this in for too long. “If she doesn’t get meat and fruit every day, she gets the shakes! Like a babe that’s not been fed!”
She threw up her hands. “Me and you, in a harsh winter, we can make do with just the bread. We’d be hungry, sure, but we’d survive.” She turned her gaze back to Liora, her expression caught somewhere between frustration and worry. “But her? She’d wither away.”
Maris pressed her fingers to her temple, her voice quieter now but no less burdened.
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“And that sweatin’—all day, all night. I’m washing her bedding twice a day, and I don’t have time for it!”
Liora’s face burned, her gaze fixed on the table. Every word felt like a slap, but she bit her tongue. She had no defense—not one that Maris would listen to.
Maris paused, her breath coming fast, her voice cracking as she added, “Folk come to me every day for herbs, and I can’t keep up.”
“Maris!” Rannick cut in, his voice sharp and heavy with warning. The room fell silent. “Ye best remember how excited ye were when we took her in.”
"--And why." Rannick's words were sharp and deliberate.
Maris froze, her mouth tightening, and for a moment, she looked like she might argue. But her gaze flicked to Liora, taking in the girl’s hunched shoulders and the way she pushed her food around instead of eating it. The fight drained from her face.
Her fork clattered to the table, and she exhaled shakily. “We dun’ know that yet, Ranni,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, almost fragile. “I’m still young. We can keep tryin’”
Rannick shook his head, his expression softening as he glanced at Liora. “Just appreciate what we’ve got. A niece as loving as she is.”
Liora kept her eyes on the table, staring at the servings:
As usual, Maris’s trencher held the smallest portion—a bit of pottage with only a few pieces of lamb, a piece of bread, a few nuts and a couple of berries. Rannick’s trencher was full, as befitting a man who spent his days at the forge—thick chunks of lamb floated on top of the pottage, heaps of turnips and carrots, thick bread, and big handfuls of nuts and berries.
Then there was her own trencher: brimming with lamb, bread, turnips, carrots, mushrooms, far more than anyone else’s. She didn’t have room in her trencher for anything else, but she knew she would fill it back up again with berries and nuts after eating all of it.
Her stomach twisted with guilt—she didn’t deserve so much when Maris had so little.
She swallowed hard, her face burning as shame prickled at her skin. It wasn’t just the food; it was the burden she brought to the table every single day.
“I could…” she said meekly. “I could eat less. To help.”
Maris’s sharp eyes lingered on Liora, the lines around them easing for the first time that day.
“Yer skin n’ bones, lass,” she said, her voice quiet now. “Look at ye.”
Liora glanced down at her shirt, noticing how loose it had become. Her arms looked thinner than she remembered, the softness gone from them.
“It’s not yer fault, lass,” Maris said, her tone breaking with emotion.
An awkward silence stretched over the table, each of them staring at their food, pushing chunks of meat around the thick stew.
Finally, Maris pushed back her chair, the legs scraping against the uneven wooden floor. In the cramped space, she only had to take a step before she leaned down and wrapped her arms around Liora in a sudden, fierce hug.
“I’m sorry, lass,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “What good is a woman who can’t bear a child?”
Her sobs came in heavy gasps now as she leaned into Liora, her body trembling.
Liora hesitated before placing a tentative hand on Maris’s back.
“Yer me daughter,” Maris whispered through her tears, her voice raw. “The only daughter I got.”
Later that evening, the cool air outside felt like a balm on Liora’s flushed cheeks. The tension from supper still clung to her like an ill-fitting cloak, so she grabbed her shawl and slipped out the back door. She didn’t tell her aunt where she was going, and Maris didn’t ask. Liora knew she wouldn’t go far; she just needed to breathe.
The path behind the cottage wound gently through the village outskirts, where the houses grew sparser and the fields stretched toward the woods. She spotted a familiar figure seated near the old oak at the crossroads—a gangly boy with a pale complexion and a thick woolen scarf wrapped around his neck despite the mild evening. Falben was hunched over a sheet of parchment, scribbling furiously with a stubby quill.
“Shouldn’t you be inside, Falben?” Liora called as she approached, her tone light but tinged with concern. “You’ll catch a chill.”
Falben didn’t look up. “Not tonight,” he muttered, his voice nasal and congested. “There’s too much to do. I’m writing a letter to Earl Humbrick.”
Liora took a seat next to him, wiping her moist hands on the soft grass.
Liora blinked, taken aback. “Earl Humbrick?”
“Yes,” Falben said, finally glancing up. His eyes gleamed with the fervor of someone convinced of his own importance. “He’s got to know about Earl Valmere’s latest scheme. It’s about the grain shipments—or so I’ve heard.”
Liora tilted her head, fighting a smile. “What scheme?”
Falben puffed out his chest, his pale cheeks flushing faintly. “Word is, Earl Valmere’s been stockpiling grain and refusing to trade with our county. He’s trying to drive up prices—starve us out.”
Liora crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. “And you know this… how?”
Falben hesitated, his eyes darting from side to side. “I have sources.”
“Sources,” Liora repeated, her tone skeptical but amused. “In Mosswick?”
“Not in Mosswick,” Falben said with a huff, rolling his eyes as though the answer should be obvious. “But the merchants pass through, don’t they? And they talk. If Earl Humbrick doesn’t act soon, Valmere will have the upper hand, and we’ll all suffer for it.”
Liora bit back a laugh, not wanting to bruise the boy’s fragile pride. “Well, I’m sure your letter will make all the difference,” she said, her tone kind despite the faint teasing lilt. “What would we do without you to keep the peace?”
Falben straightened, mistaking her jest for genuine praise. “Exactly! Someone has to care about these things, Liora. Not everyone can hide away in the woods all day.”
Liora flinched slightly but quickly masked it with a shrug. “I’ll leave you to your important work, then. Don’t catch a cold.”
As she stood, she grabbed Falben’s hand and cupped it with mock reverence—her left hand beneath his, her right hand above, bowing her head with exaggerated solemnity.
Falben scowled, wiping his hand on the fabric of his trousers. “You will have to cup me one day when the Earl enlists me in his service!”
Liora straightened, her grin widening. “Yes, m’lord!” she exclaimed, pulling the hem of her dress into an overly dramatic curtsey. “I’ll be sure to practice.”
“Of course you will.” Falben said with a knowing sniff. “When I’m advising the Earl on matters of grain and war, You’ll regret not treating me with respect.”
Liora stifled a laugh, raising her hand as though to swear an oath. “I’ll remember my manners, Falben. Truly.”
As she walked away, she allowed herself a smile. Falben’s tales were often exaggerated—or entirely imagined—but there was something endearing about his fervor. Still, his words about the feud between Earl Humbrick and Earl Valmere lingered. Could there be truth hidden in the gossip?
The path home felt quieter than usual, the stillness of the night pressing in around her. The village sounds had dulled into a faint murmur in the distance, replaced by the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze.
As Liora neared her cottage, her gaze drifted toward the woods. Her steps slowed. The faint glow in the distance—subtle and flickering like a firefly’s light—caught her attention immediately. She knew that glow. Jonnan’s words from earlier in the day echoed in her mind: “It weren’t the first time.”
Her heart quickened. The boulder.
Drawn by an inexplicable pull, Liora turned off the path, her feet carrying her toward the familiar outcrop nestled in the trees. The air felt heavier here, charged with something she couldn’t name. As she approached, the faint glow grew more distinct, emanating from the smooth, weathered surface of the boulder.
She hesitated a few paces away, her breath shallow. The light wasn’t bright—barely more than a soft pulse, like the fading embers of a dying fire. Yet it was enough to make her stomach twist with a mix of unease and fascination.
Carefully, she stepped closer, her hand instinctively brushing against her forehead to wipe away the ever-present dampness. Her fingers came away glistening with sweat, and she frowned, wiping them on her skirt. The glow seemed to intensify as she moved nearer, a faint hum filling the air—so faint she couldn’t tell if she heard it or simply felt it in her chest.
She reached out tentatively, her palm hovering just above the surface of the boulder. The air around it felt cool and slightly damp, as if the stone were exhaling. Her skin prickled, a shiver running down her spine.
When her fingertips brushed the stone, the glow flared—not blinding, but brighter than before. Liora jerked her hand back, her pulse hammering in her ears. A faint trail of moisture shimmered on the stone where her hand had been, and for a moment, she thought she saw it ripple, as though the boulder’s surface were water instead of solid rock.
Her breath caught. She wiped her hand on her skirt again, but the dampness clung stubbornly to her skin, colder now, as if the boulder’s touch had left something behind. She reached out again, more cautiously this time, letting her palm rest fully against the stone.
The glow pulsed once, a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with her heartbeat. A faint warmth spread through her palm, followed by a tingling sensation that crawled up her arm. It wasn’t unpleasant—just strange, like the static charge before a storm.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the glow faded, leaving the boulder dark and ordinary once more. The hum in the air vanished, replaced by the quiet chirping of crickets.
Liora pulled her hand back slowly, staring at the now-lifeless stone. Her fingers trembled, her mind racing with questions. Had she imagined it? Was it some trick of the light—or something more?
She glanced down at her hand. The faint moisture that clung to her skin seemed to shimmer faintly in the moonlight, but when she wiped it on her skirt again, it left no mark.
The woods suddenly felt too quiet, the air too still. Liora stepped back, her heart pounding as she turned and hurried toward the safety of her cottage.
Just as she reached the edge of the clearing, a soft rustle sounded behind her. She froze, her breath catching in her throat, but when she turned, there was nothing there—only the trees, swaying gently in the night breeze. Still, the feeling of being watched lingered long after she stepped back onto the path home.
