The mill smells like dust and damp grain, a stink that’s settled into my bones after all these years. I lean on the grindstone, feeling it judder under my palm, its groan syncing with the ache in my left leg—three summers since I took a tumble off the wheel in a downpour and landed like a sack of wet barley. Outside, the hills hunker under a gray sky, patched with scrub and stone, the river slinking through like it’s dodging work. I brush chaff off my tunic, the weave rough as a bad promise, and mutter, “Keeps the mice honest, I suppose.” Sack’s at my feet, lumpy with grain. I nudge it with my boot, just enough to prove it’s still there. Another day grinding for the hillfolk. Thrilling stuff.

  Midday drags in, slow as a cart with a busted axle, the light too lazy to cut through the haze. I’m sweeping dust off the floorboards—mostly to look busy—when Jel slinks through the door. His coat’s a rattle of junk: bent spoon dangling like a sad trophy, rusty pins glinting in the folds. Grins like a ferret who’s just pissed in your stew. “Fat sack from downriver,” he says, heaving it off his shoulder. It hits the floor with a thud, kicks up dust that floats like it’s got nowhere better to be. “Grind it quick, eh? I’ve got places to stink up.”

  I prop the broom against the wall, wipe my hands on my tunic, and limp over. “Places got a whiff like eel grease and regret?” I bend to the sack—plain wheat, nothing to write songs about—and straighten with a grunt that tugs my leg. “Coin first, your lordship. I don’t grind for free, even if you smell like you’re charging by the whiff.”

  Jel’s grin twitches, but he digs into his coat, muttering about stingy millers like it’s my fault he’s a walking scrap heap. Slaps something into my palm—feels off, heavier than copper, edges sharp like it’s itching to cut me. I turn it over. Ain’t the usual dull coin—gleams a bit, stamped with a face, smug and squinting like it’s judging my life choices. “What’s this, then?” I ask, holding it up to the gloom. “Your gran’s dowry finally pay off, or did you swipe it from a drunk troll?”

  “Found it in a ditch,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Good as anything. Take it and hop to, you old goat.” He’s out the door, coat clanking, before I can blink—fast as a rat when the cat’s yawning.

  I stand there, coin in hand, then snort and shove it in my pocket. Coin’s coin—probably won’t even buy me a decent ale, but it’ll do. I drag Jel’s sack to the mill, floor creaking under my lopsided steps, and tip it into the hopper. The wheel kicks up, loud and steady, grinding away. Flour dusts the air, settles white on the sacks. I work slow, checking the flow, kicking a sack straight when it slumps. Afternoon stretches out, shadows creeping long across the yard. When the last grain’s dust, I lock the mill—bolt scrapes like it’s complaining—and limp to my lean-to.

  Inside’s bare as a beggar’s purse: pallet with a thin blanket, table that wobbles, stool with a leg propped on a rock. I light a tallow stub, its flame flickering like it’s embarrassed to be seen, and sit with a bowl of broth and a crust of bread. Broth’s thin as a promise, bread’s dry as my luck, but it’s supper. I eat slow, the mill’s hum still rattling in my skull, then blow out the light and flop on the pallet. Sleep lands heavy, like the hills decided to sit on me.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  A noise yanks me awake—wood creaking, sharp, then a splash slicing the dark. I lie there, staring at the roof, waiting for my eyes to catch up. It comes again, louder, like something big’s rolling over. I groan, roll off the pallet—leg twinges like it’s mad at me—and fumble my shirt half-on. Step outside, and the cold bites, prickling my skin. Moon’s up, thin and pale, smearing light over the yard. I limp to the mill, barefoot, mud squelching cold between my toes, and stop dead. The wheel’s spinning—slow, lazy, tossing water back up the river like it’s trying to pawn off a bad day.

  “Bloody hell,” I mutter, rubbing my face with a rough hand. I shuffle closer, mud sucking at my feet, and squint. “You drunk again, you rusty bastard?” I kick the axle—solid as a taxman’s heart. Run a hand along the gears—cold, still, nothing stuck. The wheel keeps turning, creaking like it’s snickering at me. “Fine, throw your tantrum,” I say, shaking my head. “Third bath this week if you keep splashing like a kid in a puddle.” I stand there, arms crossed, watching it spin like it’s got all night, then turn back. By the time I’m under the blanket, the noise quits, just the river gurgling like it’s minding its own business.

  Morning slogs in, gray and damp. I wake stiff, leg aching like it’s holding a grudge, and take my time getting up. Pull on my boots—one’s split at the heel, figures—and trudge to the mill, yawning into my sleeve. Yard’s puddled from the wheel’s antics, mud clinging to my soles like a bad debt. Unlock the door, bolt scraping, and step inside. Sacks sit where I left them, heavy with last night’s grind. I untie one, dip a hand in. Flour’s off—dark, powdery, like someone burned the barn and swept it up. I lift a fistful, sniff it. “Burnt boots and disappointment,” I mutter, letting it drift back. “Guess we’re baking despair today.”

  I limp to the wheel—still now, dripping like it’s hungover. Stand there, hands on my hips, staring at the sacks. All the same—black, useless, half a dozen villages’ worth of something that ain’t flour. Brenna barges in before I can sort it, gust of cold air on her heels. She’s the baker’s wife from down the hill, wiry and tough, apron dusted gray. Carries a lump of dough, face like she’s chewed a nail and didn’t like the taste.

  “Tomas, what’d you do?” she says, sharp as a slap. Drops the dough on my table—thuds like a rock—and crosses her arms. “This ain’t flour—it’s punishment. I’ve got folk waiting for bread, not coal cakes to chuck at rabbits!”

  I lean against the grindstone, grinning despite the mess. “Don’t look at me, Bren. Jel’s the mastermind—probably ground his laundry instead. Want me to whip up an eel pie to go with it? Smells about right.”

  “Jel’s a weasel, not a wizard,” she snaps, jabbing a finger at the dough. “Fix it, miller, or I’ll knead you into next week’s batch and serve you with gravy—might taste better than this.” She stomps out, leaving the lump squatting there like a sulky toad.

  I scratch my neck, eyeing the sacks. Black through and through—ruined breakfasts for half the hills. “Day’s off to a grand start,” I mutter, nudging one with my boot. It thumps like a dead hope. The mill creaks behind me, playing innocent, and down the hill, a chicken squawks—harsh, loud, like it’s just laid a rock and wants me to know.