A strangely familiar noise jolted Heror awake: The angry groan of a cow.

  By reflex, he kicked out his legs and bashed his ankle against a wooden crate. Stinging soreness shot up his leg and he gritted his teeth. A louder groan from the cow stopped him from yelping in pain.

  Now he squinted and blinked from beneath curls of brown, and he took in his surroundings. He didn’t know where he was, and regret from the previous night’s imbibes seeped in quickly. Leaning against a wood slat barrier, he sat on a thin bedding of dried, golden grass. A barn wall was set across from him. A worn wooden door stood ajar, letting morning sunlight in through a small crack. He smelled the musty odor of livestock.

  Heror lowered his hood and glanced up at the angled ceiling. More mellow light permeated through gaps in the boarding above. Up in the rafters, stacks and bales of hay were stored. Outside, he could hear the calm morning songs of the birds. A rooster released its cockerel cry.

  Confused, Heror wracked his mind to try and remember how he’d gotten here. He tried to retrace his steps. But a pounding headache blocked his progress. He pressed two fingers against his temple and winced. Ucankacei had always warned him about hangovers. Heror hadn’t heeded.

  The cow berated him again. Heror slid around in the hay, and through the slats, he saw a speckled bull staring at him from inside its stall, poking its snout against the planks with hostile intent.

  Slowly, Heror leaned away, and he was just about to stand – when he heard the door to the barn creak open behind him. He turned again, and as he did, he saw a young girl poking her head inside.

  She was a teenager with long light brown hair, wearing a wool cloak to combat the cool air of dawn. With her suspicious hazel eyes, she first surveyed the opposite side of the barn. When she noticed nothing, she stepped inside, holding a wooden bucket. But as she entered, she saw Heror. They locked eyes.

  Startled, the girl screamed and dropped the bucket, spilling water on the ground. Like a caught raccoon, Heror flinched and skittered into the corner, as the cow chastised his actions. He expected the girl to call for the guards, but instead, she took a frustrated breath – her shoulders heaving and falling dramatically. She sighed out her exhale and rolled her eyes, then turned and started to leave.

  “Daa!” she yelled as she walked away. “There’s another drunkard in the barn!”

  Heror heard a muffled response. The girl kept shouting, her voice fainter, but her annoyance still clear.

  “Yes, another one! He broke the latch! And he trampled the scallions!”

  Now it was Heror’s turn to sigh and shake his head. If he’d ever been more embarrassed, he couldn’t recall it.

  The cow somehow wasn’t done speaking on the issue; he gave Heror another very pointed moo. Heror shot the cow a look.

  “I know, I know…” Heror grumbled, voice groggy. “Stop lecturing me.”

  The cow huffed. Heror glowered and peeked at the cow through the slats.

  “You have something else to say? Say it. Go on.”

  All he got was a tail flick and a head shake. Heror scoffed and looked away.

  “I hope they eat you.”

  The cow protested loudly.

  Soon, Heror heard footsteps from outside, and he shuffled to his feet, boots scrunching the matted hay. The door creaked open again, and in walked a middle-aged man in a loose tan tunic. He had a fuzzed, oblong face, and the same sharp jawline as the girl who lingered behind him. His hair was a thinning light brown, and on his belt, he nestled a sword beneath his hand, stored in a scabbard which bore Pylantheum’s wolf insignia.

  “Hello, stranger,” the man said, his voice almost timid. “You lost?”

  Heror had expected more anger from the man – but his severe embarrassment nonetheless remained. He took a shaky step forward, nearly tripping over a stack of wooden boards, then held out his hands.

  “I’m incredibly sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you,” Heror lamented. “I’ll just leave.”

  Heror stopped when he saw their eyes observing him up and down. The man studied Heror’s swords. The girl seemed perplexed by something nearer to his face – and then Heror realized his hood was down. He tugged the hood up to cover his ears.

  “I’ll just leave.”

  “You sure you’re alright to travel?” the man asked, more concerned than anything.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Heror replied, eager to move on. “I’m very sorry, again.”

  Heror started for the exit, and the man almost stepped aside to let him pass. But before he could, the girl tapped his shoulder furiously.

  “Da, the door,” the girl reminded him.

  “Oh, right,” the man remembered. “The door. It was damaged when you came in. Could you–”

  “And the scallions,” the girl went on, glaring at Heror.

  “And the scallions,” the man repeated. “My daughter was exaggerating a bit. They weren’t completely trampled… but if you can spare some Kivs to make up for the damages, I would be grateful.”

  “Of course,” Heror agreed; it was only reasonable. He could leave them more than enough.

  The young man reached inside his cloak and searched for his coin purses. After a few seconds of rummaging, it became clear they weren’t where he left them. A few more seconds confirmed what he feared: They weren’t there at all.

  Somewhere along the way, he’d lost all of his coins. Everything he’d earned. Maybe he left them at the tavern, or dropped them on the road. Either way, they were gone. Over 2,000 Kivs.

  The man and the girl stared at Heror as he fumbled around. After a moment, Heror let out a weak, nervous laugh and dropped his hand.

  “I… had money, but…” he stammered as he checked once more. “I must’ve lost it…”

  Heror kept searching, his hands growing more and more frantic. The girl watched him, mouth agape, while the man started to speak again, grimacing at Heror’s burgeoning anxiety.

  “Young lad, you don’t have to…”

  “I know it’s here somewhere,” Heror persisted in denial.

  But the money wouldn’t turn up no matter how hard Heror looked, and soon, his hands dropped to his sides in defeat, his cheeks burning. He fought the urge to collapse again.

  Seeing Heror’s earnest contrition, the man tried to give him a comforting smile.

  “It doesn’t have to be your money,” the man offered. “Do you have… parents you can go to for the Kivs?”

  Heror said nothing. An awkward silence set in. The man cleared his throat.

  “What about relatives? Have any relatives nearby?”

  Still, Heror said nothing. The girl and the man exchanged a glance.

  “No parents or relatives?” the man sought to confirm.

  Heror took a deep breath, then shook his head.

  The man let out a rough sigh: “Truly, it’s not necess–”

  “Da,” the girl scolded.

  “I’d like to pay you back any way I can,” Heror resolved with a nod, trying to shed his shame.

  The man furrowed his brow and began to think. As he did, Heror saw a small boy with loose, sandy hair peek into the barn from behind the wall, eyeing Heror with curiosity. The girl whispered angrily to the boy and he left as quickly as he came. After a moment, the man seemed to find an idea.

  “Do you have anywhere you need to be?” the man asked with apprehension.

  Heror thought about his failed search. He shook his head solemnly. A look of uncertainty flashed across the man’s face, but his expression quickly lightened.

  “I suppose… you could pay me back with some work on the farm,” the man proposed. “There are always things to do this time of year, and I could use the extra hands. There’s supper in it for you.”

  “Da!” the girl objected in exasperation.

  Heror nodded dutifully: “I accept.”

  He took another step forward and shook the man’s hand. The girl scowled and left, while the man remained.

  “My name is Ylar,” the man said. “I suppose you’ve already met my daughter, Xirre. The boy you saw is my eldest son, Cedor. Ten years old this past Rimvalen. He likes to wander around. I’ll do my best to keep him from disturbing your work.”

  The man’s docile demeanor shocked Heror; he didn’t dare test it. After a short pause, he recollected his thoughts. His lips softly lifted.

  “I’m Heror.”

  “Heror,” Ylar repeated. “Fine name for a fine young buck. Don’t dig yourself a grave for what you did. People fall on hard times. Punish themselves with drink. Isn’t for me to judge. I’ve always found compassion to be a capable remedy.”

  Heror’s smile lasted only so long before a darker emotion leveled his gaze.

  “Thank you,” Heror managed weakly as he followed Ylar through the doorway.

  “But I’ll impress upon you a Kiv’s worth of advice: Don’t make a habit of these inebriated escapades,” Ylar advised with a glance and a grin. “You’ll just as soon get cursed at and chased into the Rheaum. Take it from a retired river runner.”

  Heror couldn’t repress a sheepish smirk: “I’ll try not to.”

  They emerged into the open air, and all at once, Heror was bombarded with the colors of morning in the valley. The last remnants of red on the ragged horizon dripped beneath the sun, as it climbed the clear sky in a rise of blue and golder. The snow-capped mountains to the east and the north collected and cast down the light on the fertile emerald lands. Heror saw acres of fields and meadows of overlapping green and flaxen yellow. Butterflies and bumblebees fluttered and floated through the long grasses lining the path. There was a warm whisper on the cool wind.

  Far to the south, the plot was bordered by thick woodlands. As they ventured away from the barn, Heror glanced back and saw a homestead, accompanied by a few more small buildings. Not far beyond that, he saw the main road, and the city of Eonos as a backdrop to the west. He hadn’t traveled far down the road after leaving the city. He remembered the cold and little more; perhaps he’d sought shelter in his drunken, dissociated state. He silently cursed his recklessness and naivety.

  His third internal curse was interrupted by Ylar: “So where are you from then, if not around here?”

  Heror wondered if Ylar had noticed his elvish features; he deemed it likely. He fumbled for an answer, unsure how to lie while maintaining his integrity. Anything too close to the truth would only bring more questions. Anything too abstract carried the same risk.

  “I’m from Pylantheus,” Heror decided, recalling Raldu’s description of the eastern port city. “But I had been based out of Bern for a bit. Down the road to the east.”

  “Ah, I know Bern well,” Ylar said, voice bright with recognition. “I trade over there from time to time. The week-long round trip with wares allows only for sparing visits, unfortunately. In Bern on business?”

  The assumption startled Heror and prompted him to repeat: “Business?…”

  “Oh, pardon my curiosity,” Ylar went on. “But between that fancy blade and your embroidered cloak and your… um… affiliation… I thought there’d be a monetary motivation for your presence here.”

  “Affiliation?”

  Ylar let out a faint, furtive laugh and dropped his eyes as he walked, suddenly taking care where he stepped.

  “My apologies, I’m not articulating well this morn,” he joked. “Frankly, we don’t see too many elvish folks this way. Makes sense you’re from Pylantheus. There’s more of them over there. By ‘them’, I mean… um…”

  The man tripped on his words again, but Heror sensed no malicious intent. He dropped his hood, and hoped to spare the man any further discomfort by interjecting.

  “It’s alright,” Heror said. “I know what you’re trying to say.”

  “I have no ill will toward your kind, of course!” Ylar exclaimed. “But not all this far west share that peace of mind. Lotta folks see elves as carousing types, trying to capitalize on opportunity. ‘Skulking in the shadows’ types, with their tricks and their magic and their superiority complex. Other people, mind you… n-not… not me…”

  Heror curled his lips and sighed. Harmless, but a bit irritating.

  “So…” Ylar mustered after a moment. “Business?”

  “Yes, business. But… there was a break… in the business.”

  “You a mercenary?”

  “For merchants. On the road.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Heror put the dying conversation out of its misery with an intentional pause.

  Ylar started anew: “I’m sorry you lost all your coin. But that kind of work is always in demand. I’m sure you’ll find your stride again.”

  Heror wasn’t so sure. As they walked, his mind wandered elsewhere – to his next steps. He had no money. He had no leads on the whereabouts, let alone the existence, of his family. While his despair had receded only slightly since the previous night, he was still left without options. He had nowhere to go. He had nowhere to stay. He had no means to stay or go anywhere. He had…

  Heror halted his thoughts before they slid into that abyss once more. At the very least, he knew his immediate path forward. He would pay off his modest debt to Ylar – for the barn door and the trampled crops – through hard work. Then he would fetch Shaadur, who was no doubt being well-tended at the stables down the road. He would take inventory of his remaining supplies, and then…

  And then…

  Then what?

  Despair threatened to take hold again.

  The clear sky and the bright golds of the fields teased him and his hopelessly clouded thoughts. Along a path of dried dirt and discarded hay, they sauntered past crowds of unripe corn, accompanied by snares of beans that climbed up the stalks. At the edge of each growing plot, irrigation channels stretched across the perimeter, sourced from the city’s aqueducts that unfurled into the near plains, feeding the farms of the hold’s loyal subjects. Heror hadn’t realized how far the arches stretched until he saw for himself in the morning light. Had he not been lost in his own thoughts, he might’ve been impressed.

  He lost track of time as they went on. The wind sang and whistled quietly. The many growths quivered and danced at its constant touch. The sun warmed the air.

  Eventually, Ylar stopped, breaking Heror’s hypnotic trance. They were near the southern edge of the plot now, close to the thick woodlands that bordered the acreage. Glancing over his shoulder, Heror saw the homestead, the arches, the city, and the mountains beyond the lake, all stacking far in the distance – beyond a rolling, roping trail of shining fields. As he then looked to his right, at their destination, another vast flat of crops came into view – a clustered, dull citrine plant with gnarled stems, but feathery tips.

  “You came too early for most of the harvesting,” Ylar noted. “But the barley here is ready. We got a good rain a few days ago, so you’ll need to scythe, stake, and dry them. A right bit tedious, no doubt – but all the tools you need are here. I’ll leave you to it then–”

  “Stake… and dry?” Heror stuttered.

  It took a moment for Ylar to process Heror’s words. Then he blinked in surprise.

  “Have you… have you never worked a farm before?”

  Heror’s hapless silence revealed the answer. He saw Ylar’s brow lower in sudden contemplation, but it wasn’t a second later that the man forced a lighter face.

  “It’s… it’s alright. I’ll show you. I know you got the fortitude for it.”

  The man stepped into the fold, grasses crunching beneath his boots. He bent down and hoisted up a tall wooden stake – shaved and sharpened on both ends, and fitted with a stopper near the midsection. Then he paced through the shallow rows and plunged the stake into the soil, driving it down until the stopper rested around knee-high.

  “There are a few more stakes lying around here,” Ylar explained. “You’ll use these to collect the barley you cut. Once they’re set…”

  Now he went to the edge of the barley field again, and picked up two large tools from the dirt: A scythe and a pitchfork. He dropped the pitchfork – letting it clang at Heror’s feet – and then he started cutting the barley at the edge of the flat with the scythe.

  “You just swing… like this…”

  Once enough barley lay strewn about, Ylar dropped the scythe and returned to grab the pitchfork.

  “When you have enough to collect, you take the barley… and…”

  He forked a clump of loose, feathered strands and nestled the harvested barley atop the stake. The plants slid down the shaft, until they rested atop the wooden stopper. Now Ylar turned to Heror – already breathing heavily – and nodded to the young man.

  “Whatcha think? Think you can do it?”

  Heror took a breath: “I… I think so.”

  Ylar tucked his top lip and nodded again. He placed the pitchfork at Heror’s feet, then started to walk back down the path, toward the farmstead. Before he left, however, he turned once more, drawing the eye of Heror.

  “I know there’s other kinds of impairments, aside from the drunken kind,” Ylar offered with a weak smile. “Being out here… it can be very sobering in its own way. Whatever hardships befell you… I hope you can find some distance from it.”

  Heror still did not answer – but a flicker of gratitude assured the man the words had been heard. Now Ylar finally turned and began the trek back across the plot.

  “I’ll be back a little past midday with food and water!” Ylar called as he left. “I’ll check your progress and fetch you at sunset, and then you can join us for supper.”

  Heror’s eyes fell back on the barley field. As Ylar’s steps faded, the sounds of nature settled in. He heard the rich, full hum of the grasses and stalks as a westerly wind swelled and slowly receded. In the meadows and trees closeby to the south, the birds spoke gleefully – chirping and chattering so much, despite having no worries or anxieties or heavy thoughts. Feeling no crippling sadness or burdening guilt…

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  A long sigh followed an equally lengthy exhale, and then Heror went to work. Already feeling the heat of the sun, he took off his cloak and let his blue tunic loose and flutter. Feeling the weight of his swords on his belt, he set these down as well. He rested Kerit softly on his cloak, and then he grasped the Sword of Sparhh’s handle and released it from beneath his belt. He held this one for a moment longer.

  Still, he felt nothing.

  With a scornful scowl, he set this one down, too.

  Now he ventured into the golden brush and picked up the scythe. He studied its features; he’d never held one before. The long shaft, he assumed, was for power. The nub near the shaft’s center, he assumed, was for control. Carefully, he gripped the instrument just as he’d watched Ylar. Then, after a quick huff, he swung the scythe low to the ground, brushing the sharp end through the many stems.

  At first, he saw no difference in the grains, and so he swung again, drawing the blade even lower. He widened his backswing and pressed through – and to his quiet delight, a swath of cut barley now appeared, resting softly atop the snarls of grass and root.

  The tug of the severed barley stems soon became familiar to him. All too familiar.

  He swung back. He swung forward. Back and forward again, in a mindless rhythm.

  The barley stacked and pillowed.

  He swung back. He swung forward. The sun loomed.

  The limbs strewed. The blood spread.

  Heror dropped the scythe and pressed a fist against his burning forehead. His frantic heart battered at his ears, begging for escape. He gritted his teeth and waited for the feeling to fade. With his forearm, he wiped a bead of sweat from his temple.

  He brought the scythe out into the path and grabbed the pitchfork. He stepped into the soft grass and stabbed at the patches of loosened barley. Then he set them over the stakes, so the barley could accumulate.

  Heror stabbed. Then he lifted and pulled away. He stabbed. He lifted. He pulled away.

  He stabbed.

  Wind blew.

  He stabbed.

  An elinji soldier fell.

  He stabbed.

  Oranthei gurgled and choked.

  He stabbed.

  The young siephall shivered and cried…

  “Aa-aaghh!”

  Heror stumbled to his knees and let the pitchfork clatter, as his distressed shout caught in the wind. He dug his fingers into his trousers and tried to calm himself. His breath was hollow, and his pulse raced. He glanced in the direction of the farmhouse, to make sure no one heard his outburst. Then his tormented eyes sank again. He tried to breathe. He tried to calm. The piercing pain echoed above his brow.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  Slowly, cautiously, he carried on with his work. When one stake was filled to the top, he set another and started anew. He swung. He stabbed. The spires of barley climbed almost ten feet high, catching the arcs of the breeze.

  Ylar first returned later than expected, with a stale portion of bread and a waterskin. Heror put on a face for the man. He ate and drank and smiled and made small talk as best he could. Then Ylar left, and Heror carried on without his mask.

  The sun passed its apex. He started his third stake.

  As it began to fall, he started his fourth – his mind a husk, a corpse.

  By sunset, he’d completed eight full stakes, and the field of barley looked noticeably thinner. The stakes stood sporadically across the grassy flat, all of them topped by long, wide plumes of compacted barley frills.

  Westward, the sun neared its rest and ploughed the lands with amber tides. From his spot alongside the barley rows, Heror could see for miles. The rolling emerald waves and flowered meadows stretched far past the farmsteads – far past the city of Eonos, far past the bend in the great river, and far past the roads and villages that adjoined it. In the evening luminance, vibrant greens skewed into a divine gradient of gold and red – a painting of pigments blended into a beauty only an unknown God could birth.

  Maybe once, Heror would’ve found peace in the sight.

  It was around this time that Ylar returned once more. His eyes gleamed, and a smile stretched across his face as he saw Heror’s progress.

  “Well done, Heror!” the man exclaimed as he approached. “This would’ve taken me a couple days at least! You covered a whole quarter!”

  Heror shed a fake smile.

  “Why don’t you grab your things and help me take the tools back to the shed?” Ylar proposed. “I was a fool and left them out last night. By the time we get back, supper should be almost ready.”

  Heror did as Ylar asked. He gathered his swords and his cloak, and then the pair left the barley field, starting the long walk back to the farmhouse.

  Heror must’ve failed at hiding his entranced emotions; Ylar spoke after a few minutes of silence.

  “Don’t you want to set the terms of our agreement?”

  Heror broke out of his daze and cleared his throat.

  “Yes, that… that sounds good.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you can work as long as you feel you want to,” Ylar went on. “I figure the door and the latch would cost a little less than 100 Kivs. The scallions… it’s not so much about the cost of the materials, but the lost time. I’m not the kind to keep you here against your will… but if you’re intent on seeing the debt through, I imagine a week’s worth of work would suffice. If you harvest the rest of the barley, that’s a lot of time and effort I can spend on other things. More I can sell, too.”

  Absently, Heror nodded. Ylar eyed him and nodded back.

  “I’ll set up a spot for you in the loft, in the barn,” Ylar decided, before sending over a smirk. “It’s even better sober… i-if you can get past the smell.”

  Heror managed a miniscule smile, though it soon devolved into a grimace.

  “Thank you…”

  Soon enough, they arrived at the farmstead. They stored the tools in the shed. Then Ylar led Heror back to the barn.

  “Before I let you in the house, gotta ask you to leave your weaponry here,” Ylar told him. “As I’m sure you understand. Hide ‘em where you want, but even without the latch, I don’t think they’ll be much at risk here. Latch is more for keeping the cows and goats from getting loose.”

  Heror climbed the loft and stowed his swords, covering them up with his cloak. Then they left the barn and went on their way to the house, just a few dozen paces northeast. In the yard, two boys – identical with auburn hair and freckles – tossed a pigskin ball back and forth while the younger, smaller Cedor attempted to intercept. Cedor lunged and lurched, while the others laughed.

  “Nispur! Nenor! Play nice!” Ylar shouted as he and Heror crossed through.

  The twin boys didn’t hear him – or perhaps they simply chose not to. Ylar cut through the yard’s green grass, to the house. It was a one-story structure of wood and straw that sat upon a stone foundation, with a roofed porch in front. It was wide, with windows and presumably rooms aplenty – but Heror still questioned how many it could hold.

  Ylar took one step up to the porch, and before he reached the top, the front door burst open with another teenage girl – this one sharing the auburn hair of the twins – hoisting a toddler off the ground by his armpits.

  “Apologies, uncle,” the girl grumbled. “Suorn… soiled himself again.”

  “No apology necessary, Aspra.”

  The girl rushed past them and dragged the toddler – who seemed giddily unaware of his situation – down the steps and away to the outhouse, and the door swung shut again. Now Ylar reached the top uninterrupted, and he ushered Heror to his side. Before he stepped toward the door, however, his eyes begged for the young man’s attention.

  “Before we go in, I’ll just ask you to… well, don’t bring up the circumstances of your arrival,” Ylar advised. “We’ll just say you were… well, we’ll be intentionally vague, how about that? We will subvert the expectation of a backstory, so as not to arouse suspicion. Yes! They’ll never see it coming. Most here aren’t the prodding types, but… not all of them would take kindly to me feeding a drunkard who wandered in off the street like a stray. N-not saying you’re a drunkard or a stray, of course. Obviously, a drunken mishap led you here, but you’re not drunk all the time! Ahah… just saying… that… u-um… oh, nevermind…”

  The plan seemed rather unintelligible to Heror, but he didn’t have enough energy to raise concerns. Ylar let out a preparatory sigh and pulled open the front door. He ventured inside first, then held the door open for Heror. The young man entered the house and emerged into a vast foyer area with a joined kitchen, dining area, and living room. Immediately, the sharp smell of garlic-cooked vegetables met Heror’s nose. An array of windows east, south, and west mixed streams of shining natural light over the flickering fireglow of an active cooking pot.

  At the cooking pot, above the contained crackling of the logs below, a middle-aged woman with burnt red-orange hair stood and stirred with a cured wooden spoon, while a young girl – perhaps five or six – stood at her hip and watched, gripping the woman’s gown. As Heror’s eyes traveled right, he saw a thin old woman in the living room, sitting on a padded wooden bench as she read a book to a boy not older than five. The old woman glanced his way as he and Ylar entered. Her eyes lingered on him, and her brow tightened. Heror looked away and followed Ylar to the kitchen.

  “Almost ready, Ebica?” Ylar asked the woman at the cooking pot. “We’ve got one more tonight. Heror here agreed to help with the farming. Damn near harvested the entire barley field today.”

  “Heror it is then? Sparhh’s blessing to ya for offerin’ your help so selflessly,” Ebica exclaimed, before adding with a wink: “And such a shapely young fellow at that!”

  Heror coughed and cleared his throat. Ebica glared at Ylar, expression shifting.

  “Ya didn’t tell me we’d be having yet another mouth to feed, Ylar,” she scolded.

  “‘Twas a last-minute addition, sister.”

  “Ya got that right,” Ebica scoffed, before turning again to Heror: “Please don’t take my tone as displeasure, Heror. Simply regardin’ Ylar’s communication skills with the proper ire.”

  Heror smirked knowingly and glanced at Ylar, who wore an embarrassed half-grin.

  “You’ve likely already noticed, we have quite a lot of baby birds to satiate here,” Ebica continued. “Just as hungry, just as aggravatin’. But one more adult in the room is no trouble, truly. We’re happy to have ya!”

  “Don’t speak for everyone,” the old woman called from the living room, behind frizzled wisps of white and gray, with a tone that obstructed her true intent.

  Both Ylar and Ebica went silent, and the house grew unnaturally quiet for a short spell. Then Ylar gathered himself and brought a hand to Heror’s shoulder. With his other hand, he gestured to each inhabitant.

  “That’s amma Yxia in the living room, reading to my youngest, Tebor,” Ylar said, before flourishing his arm to the pair in the kitchen. “Ebica is my sister-by-marriage. And this little sweetheart is Ebica’s youngest daughter, Runde.”

  The young child at the cooking pot peered up shyly at Heror, still clutching her mother’s garb. Heror gave her a light smile, before his eyes dropped away.

  “Where’s Aspur?” Ylar asked Ebica.

  “He was off to check the corn for those nasty stalk borers,” Ebica answered. “He said his knees were actin’ up today. I’d wager he’ll be back soon, nonetheless. What of Xirre?”

  “She’s getting the cows and goats back into the barn.”

  “Then we should have almost a full table!” Ebica declared. “I’ll get an extra chair for Heror. Make yourself at home, darling! If ya’d like, ya can help me set the table. Just wash your hands in the basin first.”

  Heror gladly accepted Ebica’s request. He washed his hands of grime and dried sweat in the basin, then grabbed a stack of porcelain bowls from the wooden counter. He went to the dining area at the western wall and began placing a bowl at each seat, in the warmth of the setting sun. He only set two before he felt someone at his side. Glancing down to his right, he saw that little Runde had joined him soundlessly. Standing only waist-high, close to his hip, she strained to reach above the edge as she nestled wooden spoons beside the bowls.

  “… hello…” Heror said gently after debating whether or not to speak. “I’m… I’m Heror.”

  Little Runde glanced up at him from beneath chestnut curls. Again without saying a word, she pointed a tiny finger toward the next seats. Heror smiled and nodded.

  “Yes… let’s keep going.”

  Together, they set the table.

  In minutes, the table was ready, and so was the stew. Ebica extinguished the cooking fire, then stomped to the front door, already preparing her lungs for the coming shout.

  “Adan house!!” she bellowed as soon as she creaked it open. “Supper! If ya don’t come in five minutes, I’m pouring it down the well!!”

  “That’s where it belongs!” one of the twins quipped from the yard, prompting Ebica to wrench the door all the way open.

  “Which one of ya said that??”

  After a stern talking-to, the twins came first – sulking their shoulders. The young boy Cedor followed them. Heror felt the wandering stares of all who entered, but Cedor made no attempt to hide his fascination of the new arrival. Just as he had that morning, he peeked at Heror from behind doorframes and towering adults. Even as Heror sat down at the table, he couldn’t escape the boy’s curious gaze.

  Minutes later – after the girl Aspra returned with a crying toddler in tow – a new face came into the foyer. In his facial structure, medium height, and light brown hair, he shared obvious resemblance to Ylar. But his hair was longer – both on his head and his cheeks – and he carried more weight on his bones, with a plump belly resting above his belt. Beneath his bushy beard, he bore a jovial smile for the congregation, and his hearty voice bellowed through the hall.

  “Good evenin’, family!”

  The man’s eyes went toward Ebica: “You look absolutely ravishing tonight.”

  “Why thank you, Aspur,” Ebica cooed, blushing.

  “Oh, apologies,” the man named Aspur joked. “I was talkin’ to the stew.”

  Ebica rolled her eyes and clasped Aspur’s arm as he brushed past.

  “You dim-witted dunderhead…”

  Aspur gave Ebica a kiss on the cheek, as Ylar sat down next to Heror. The children began taking their places across from the elders. It wasn’t long before Aspur’s eyes fell on Heror. His brow furrowed, and he took a step toward the table.

  “Young lad, you’re in my spot, you are,” Aspur scolded.

  Heror quickly started to stand, fumbling over his words: “O-oh, I’m–”

  “Nah, I’m just messin’ with you,” Aspur chuckled, before leaning and reaching across the table with a thick, hairy hand. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Heror,” the young man answered with a handshake.

  “Heror’s going to be helping us on the farm for a little bit,” Ylar explained, before rushing into a lie: “Thrice-removed second nephew of an old friend of mine. Off work for the time being.”

  “Ah, well… lucky for us!” Aspur boomed, bypassing his confusion at Ylar’s words. “What line of work would that be?”

  “Mercenary,” Heror gave his rehearsed answer. “Merchant protection.”

  “A noble pursuit, ‘specially in these trying times,” Aspur remarked. “I’d love to inquire more of ya, but food’s a’waiting!”

  “Where in the world is Xirre?” Ebica murmured, as Aspur clambered around the table and took his place next to Heror.

  As if on cue, Xirre – the last one to enter – came in through the front door, grunting as she shut out an aggressive gust of wind. Free of the wool cloak she’d worn earlier, she dropped a hooded shawl over her shoulders and shook out her hair.

  “Sorry I’m late. Nemoor was being–”

  She stopped and glared when she saw Heror.

  “You’re alright, dear!” Ebica told her. “The stew’s still warm. Take your seat at the table and we’ll do devotion.”

  Though it took her a moment to decide, Xirre chose against confrontation. She took her seat on the eastern side of the table with the children, just as Yxia led Tebor to his chair. In moments, the whole family was situated. The children chattered and whispered, some stealing glances in Heror’s direction. At a firm hush from Ebica’s lips, however, they quickly quieted – and all eyes now went to Yxia, at the table’s northern edge. The old woman bowed her head and clasped her fingers. The others followed suit.

  “Sacred Sparhh, we thank you for these blessed gifts,” old lady Yxia began, her voice sharp yet fragile. “The gifts of the Divines that you have bestowed upon us, by sacrificing yourself and earning court among them. We are thankful that the warmth and All-Sight of Bor proves eternal in our realm of Aelyum. We are thankful that Kyr makes the plant roots strong, and the hunts bountiful. We are thankful that Shen gives us rain to raise our crops, and clear skies to let them keep rising. We are thankful that Opela has let this beautiful family blossom, and that our Aldur is protected in battle… and we are thankful that Ynd forgives, protects us from evil, and makes us whole through the Consortium’s blessing. These gifts, we hold ever dear.”

  “‘These gifts, we hold ever dear.’”

  “You didn’t say it.”

  Not a second after the final words of the prayer, Yxia directed the pointed criticism at Heror, and all eyes flocked to him again. Before Heror could muddle through a response, Ylar spoke up in his defense.

  “It’s his first time, amma,” Ylar admonished. “Don’t be so harsh.”

  “Who’s this?” one of the twins asked.

  “Everyone, this is Heror,” Ylar announced. “He’s a friend. He’ll be helping us on the farm for a little while.”

  “Why are his eyes so bright?” the other twin questioned.

  “Why are his ears pointy?” Tebor noted, lisping through a loose baby tooth.

  “Is he an elf?” Aspra realized.

  “I heard elves made deals with demons–”

  “Is that why he didn’t say the prayer?”

  “I heard they can turn your insides out with a single sp–”

  “Boys, girls, quiet!” Ebica lamented, raising her voice. “That’s not the way to treat a guest who’s offered his hands on the farm. Now, let’s dish up.”

  And now the family members all stood and picked up their bowls, and one by one, they joined a line led by Yxia at the cooking pot. Heror started to stand, when he was stopped by Ylar.

  “It’s Pylanthean tradition that the guest goes last out of respect for the family,” Ylar informed quietly, regret in his voice. “I just wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

  And so Heror waited. He waited until Yxia and Ebica and Aspur, Ylar and Xirre and Cedor, Nispur and Nenor and Aspra, Tebor and Runde and Suorn all received their helpings – Suorn with the help of his father. And then Heror took his turn at the cooking pot, scrounging up what was left of the cooling broth, stewed vegetables, and sparse shrivels of rabbit meat.

  The remnants of the stew did little to fend off Heror’s hunger. For a time, they ate mostly in silence – until Xirre spoke.

  “So da,” Xirre asked, raising an eyebrow at Ylar. “How did you and Heror meet?”

  “How did we meet?” Ylar echoed, sputtering. “W-well, um… like I said, he’s–”

  “Would it have something to do with the barn door?” Xirre pressed her father.

  “What happened to the barn door?” Aspur questioned.

  “Heror broke it,” Xirre revealed, seeking justice. “When he was–”

  “It’s a funny story, actually,” Ylar interrupted, his mind racing to find a cover story. “His… horse was loose.”

  “His horse was loose,” Xirre repeated, with a deadpan expression.

  “Yes, his… his horse was loose and bucking like wild, he said,” Ylar explained, glancing anxiously at Heror. “Said the wild thing kicked in the barn door, bucked him off, and took flight down the road! By working on the farm, he can also help us work off the cost.”

  “My, that sounds like such a fright!” Xirre exclaimed with a fake gasp, before turning to Heror. “I hope you didn’t get any boozes – I mean ‘bruises.’”

  Heror rolled his tongue and blinked assertively in Xirre’s direction. Now Xirre smirked.

  “Whatever the cause, he’s going to be here for the foreseeable future,” Ylar concluded, targeting Xirre with a knowing glare. “So you’d best welcome him with open arms.”

  “Of course,” Xirre replied, turning toward Heror again. “Anything you mead – oh, silly me! I meant ‘need.’”

  Heror sighed and picked at his broth – but he couldn’t help but smile. Xirre shared the grin; she didn’t press any more after that.

  After supper, Heror retired to the barn. The sun neared its slumber, leaving little more than a red glow in the west, beneath the starry sky.

  Heror climbed up to the loft, where Ylar had left a makeshift straw bed for him, with a plush feather-stuffed pillow and a knit blanket – positioned behind a stack of hay bales for protection from any creeping drafts of wind. Heror lay on the rough wooden floorboards. It wasn’t the most comfortable, but it was comfortable enough. Normally, the warmth of the blanket and the ease of the pillow would’ve been enough to usher Heror asleep in the torchless shadow. But tonight, his thoughts still ran.

  For a brief moment – setting the dinner table with Runde – he’d had peace from them. He’d forgotten what it was like to be free of them. But now, alone in the loft, they began to come back.

  In his mind’s furor – urged onward by the chant of the crickets outside – one thought pestered him: Why had he lied to Ylar?

  He could’ve told Ylar the truth. That he was searching for his family. That he’d traveled from the Kingdom of Ardys. Perhaps it would’ve forced him to answer more questions – but he could have told the truth. Knowing Ylar as he did now, Heror would have been given grace, regardless. So why did he lie?

  His thoughts crumbled when he heard the barn door creak open. Swiftly, Heror jumped to a crouch, and he instinctively reached for his sword not far away… when he heard a child’s voice call up to the loft, speaking softly as if to avoid detection.

  “Heror? Mister Heror? Are you there?”

  Heror’s tension washed away. Gingerly, the young man rose to his feet and leaned over the loft’s railing. Below, in the dancing orange light of a lantern, he saw the young boy Cedor standing by the entrance.

  “Yes…” Heror replied, confused. “I’m here.”

  Cedor suddenly smiled wide. He set down his lantern on a wooden crate, then shut the entrance.

  “M’name’s Cedor, in case you didn’t know. I’m sorry for keepin’ you up,” Cedor started. “I was lookin’ at the stars and d’cided to pop in. It’s just… you’re a mercenary! You’re a warrior! You must have so many stories!”

  Heror’s heart sank in his chest: “Yes… I do…”

  “Were you a soldier once? I saw your fancy swords earlier. You must’ve been a soldier before you became a mercenary! Were you a soldier??”

  Heror didn’t have to lie this time: “Yes… I was…”

  Cedor found a stick in the matted hay and picked it up. He swung and stabbed against the slats of the wooden stall, drawing the angst of a nearby cow. He mimicked the grunts of battle, jumping onto a hay bale as he feigned a riposte.

  “I wish I could be a soldier!” he mused. “Fighting evil for the good of the Kingdom! Stifling the darkness wherever it aims to do harm! Being strong! Hi-yaah!”

  He spun and stumbled, letting out a clumsy “woah!” as his feet shuffled through the straw. Heror peered downward at the small boy, eyes weary.

  “So did you win battles?” Cedor prodded, his voice still steeped in awe. “Did you kill enemies?”

  Heror’s throat clenched. His breath quivered. He faded from the bars.

  “C-Cedor, I’m sorry, but I need to go to sleep.”

  “Oh yeah, right, right…” Cedor remembered. “Sorry, Mister Heror. I’ll let you sleep.”

  As Cedor turned and grabbed his lantern, he said: “You remind me of my brother.”

  Heror stopped. He tilted back toward the railing.

  “Your brother?”

  “Yeah, my brother Yselar!” Cedor recollected. “You’re around his age, too! He fought for the Pylanthean army, but he never wanted to talk about it when I asked him to tell me stories.”

  “Ylar said you were his oldest.”

  Now Cedor went silent. The boy’s mouth opened and closed.

  “Yeah… well…”

  He went silent again. Sadness overtook his gaze. And then he jolted upright and started for the door.

  “I’d best be goin,’” he said suddenly. “Goodnight… Mister Heror.”

  The boy heaved and pushed the barn door open, then closed it behind him. The iron hinges screeched, and the broken latch clacked and clattered in the wind. The lantern light dissipated. Darkness flooded in its place.

  And Heror was left alone – awake – with the shadows of death and life.