The trip back to the shrine is uneventful, and on the way, I check through the two messages that have been beeping away annoyingly.

  [Your sneak ability has improved slightly; try not to get caught.]

  [Tracking has improved slightly; it’s the little things that matter.]

  ‘Hm, okay, I can appreciate that,’ I consider with a satisfied smile.

  “Misty, I may not be the best student, but you are a pretty good teacher.”

  ‘Of course I am,’ she glances at me. ‘Did you ever doubt it?’

  “How could I ever, oh mighty feline?” I laugh.

  With a flick of her tail, she turns dismissively back to her task of leading the way onwards.

  We arrive back to find Elara and Naomi outside the building in a cleared area at the foot of the steps. Naomi looks to have gathered several flowers, which she is sorting into rough bouquets.

  “Hi, Del,” she says brightly. “I’m getting flowers to make Myrrith’s house pretty again.”

  “That’s really nice of you, Naomi. I’m sure the goddess will enjoy them.”

  Elara steps over and inspects the carcass as I drop it down.

  “Nicely done,” she checks the hole left by the arrow and the decimated throat. “…Misty.”

  “Hey, I helped as well,” I protest.

  “Of course you did, Del,” she pats my cheek. “You managed to hit it anyway.” And gives me a cheeky grin.

  The damn cat just rolls over to allow Elara to grace her with belly rubs.

  ‘This one appreciates my skills,’ she purrs. Then, with a flick of her claws, she grips the elf’s hand to start nibbling and battling it.

  ‘At least I can manage one thing,’ I grumble, and, taking my knife, I start to skin the dinkus. I even make a fairly reasonable job of it. With a sigh, I scrape the last of the hide free and look over my handiwork.

  Not perfect, but at least it’s not a total disaster. I glance at Misty, lounging nearby with her tail flicking lazily, and Naomi, who’s humming as she sorts the flowers.

  "Right," I announce, wiping my hands on a cloth and gesturing to the carcass. "Let’s get the best cuts off this before anything else decides to take an interest."

  Elara nods, stepping forward with that unnerving grace of hers. She crouches next to the dinkus, her hands moving deftly.

  “I’ll help. It’s quicker this way.”

  ‘Quicker, and less messy,’ Misty quips from her perch. ‘You do have a habit of turning butchering into more of a crime scene than a task.’

  “Helpful as always,” I mutter, slicing carefully along the spine to separate the prime cuts. “One day, Misty, I’ll surprise you with my competence.”

  ‘Oh, I’d like to see that.’ She flicks her tail over her nose.

  Between Elara’s efficiency and my determination not to embarrass myself too badly, we manage to carve out the choice cuts. Taking a shoulder, one of the haunches, and a few meaty ribs, we pack them into the food sack.

  The rest, sinew and bones included, we leave neatly piled for the land’s less picky diners.

  Naomi comes skipping over, her hands full of vibrant blooms. She holds up a particularly bright bouquet.

  “Do you think Myrrith will like these?”

  “She’ll love them,” I say, standing to stretch. It is so good to no longer be almost crippled with aches these days. “I’d wager she already approves of the effort you’re putting in.”

  Naomi beams at that and turns back toward the shrine. I watch as she carefully lays the flowers along the edges of the old stonework, creating something that’s almost a garden. Elara joins her after we clean up, murmuring suggestions and helping arrange the blooms.

  Misty hops onto a ledge near me, looking down at the others with what might almost be approval. Almost. ‘It’s a start,’ she remarks.

  “It is,” I agree quietly, my eyes lingering on the shrine. For all its age and ruin, it doesn’t feel so abandoned anymore. Something has shifted, as though it’s waking up slowly.

  When Naomi finishes, we gather our things, leaving the shrine behind with a faintly renewed sense of purpose. I shoulder the pack containing the meat, the weight a welcome reminder of our success. Misty darts ahead, her tail flashing through the undergrowth like a banner.

  We rejoin the main path, the river murmuring alongside us as we walk downstream. The air is fresher here, the oppressive stillness that once clung to the shrine lifting with every step.

  After a while, the trees thin, revealing a small clearing. A fence—weathered but sturdy—encircles a plot of land where neat rows of crops stand proud. Beyond that, a simple farmhouse rests against the backdrop of the forest, smoke curling lazily from its chimney.

  The farm sits on a gentle slope, bordered by low stone walls and hedgerows. Rows of golden wheat and barley ripple in the breeze, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the fields. A sturdy farmhouse with weathered timber beams stands at the centre, flanked by a smaller barn and a chicken coop. A single plough sits abandoned near the barn, its blade dulled from use.

  As we approach, a barking dog—a wiry terrier with a scrappy brown coat—bounds out from the side of the barn, her tail wagging cautiously.

  Elara pauses, her keen eyes scanning the area.

  “This isn’t on any of the maps I’ve seen.”

  “Which makes it either a sanctuary or trouble,” I reply, checking the sword slung at my waist.

  Misty prowls ahead, her nose twitching. ‘Let’s hope it’s the former. I’m not in the mood to rescue you again.’

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Very funny,” I mutter, stepping forward cautiously.

  A figure emerges from behind the farmhouse—a stout man with a broad-brimmed hat and a wary expression. He holds a pitchfork loosely in one hand, though his grip tightens when he notices us.

  "Strangers, eh?" His voice carries across the field, steady but edged with suspicion.

  Elara raises her hands, palms out. "We mean no harm. Just travellers passing through."

  He eyes us for a long moment, then lowers the pitchfork slightly. "Travellers, is it? Well, don’t just stand there gawking. Come closer, and we’ll see what you’re about."

  Stepping up to the gate, we wait politely for the farmer to approach.

  “Name’s Joel,” he informs us, looking us all up and down. He focuses on Elara. “Don’t get many of your sort coming down the road.”

  Not sure how to take that statement, I question, “That’s not a problem for you, is it?”

  He just shrugs. “Nope, just an observation. Not seen any elves since I left Hybern to farm this patch a couple of years back.”

  Naomi pokes her head out from where she was hiding a bit behind us.

  Joel’s sharp gaze shifts to Naomi as she steps into view, her cautious expression not going unnoticed. His eyes soften, though the pitchfork remains in his hand. "Got the whole crew with you, then. Don’t worry, lass, I won’t bite," he says, his tone less gruff now.

  Naomi nods but stays quiet, her hands fiddling with the hem of her cloak.

  Misty pads forward, tail flicking. She sniffs the air and looks back at me with her usual unimpressed stare.

  ‘This one’s harmless—mostly.’

  "She’s got an eye for character," I say lightly, gesturing to Misty. "We’re just passing through. Name’s Del. That’s Elara, Naomi, and this is Misty, though she’s more the boss of us than the other way around."

  Joel chuckles, his grip on the pitchfork easing at last.

  "Well, Del, you lot picked a quiet stretch of road to wander. Ain’t much out here but fields and hard work." He leans the pitchfork against the fence and waves us through the gate. "Come on, my wife’ll have my head if I leave you standing out here too long."

  Joel leads us up the dirt path to the farmhouse. As we approach, a boy of about five peeks out from behind the doorframe, his wide eyes darting between us. A woman, tall and sturdy, with flour-dusted hands, appears behind him. Her dark hair is tied back in a neat braid, and she wipes her hands on her apron as she steps out to greet us.

  "This here’s Mara, my wife," Joel says, his tone softening as he gestures toward her. "And that’s Finn, our boy. Don’t mind him; he’s just shy around new folk."

  Mara studies us with a mixture of curiosity and hospitality.

  "Strangers on the road, eh? Must be a story behind that." Her gaze lands on the bundle of dinkus meat slung over my shoulder. "And it seems you’ve brought supper with you."

  Elara smiles. "If you’ve got a place for us to sit, we’d be glad to share."

  Joel nods toward the side of the porch.

  "Settle your packs over there. Dog’ll keep an eye on ’em." He glances at the terrier, who’s now sitting attentively by the door. "Name’s Wren, and she’s more bark than bite—unless you’re a skep."

  ‘Skep? What the hell is a bloody skep?’

  The farmhouse kitchen is simple but inviting, with a large wooden table at its centre and dried herbs hanging from the beams. The smell of baking bread mingles with the earthy scent of fresh vegetables. Mara busies herself preparing a stew, and the boy, Finn, stays close to her, stealing glances at us when he thinks we’re not looking.

  As we sit, Joel leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing for the first time since we arrived.

  "Don’t mean to pry, but you lot seem a bit more... seasoned than your average travellers. What brings you through these parts?"

  "We’re heading to Hybern," Elara explains, her tone light but non-committal. “We didn’t know there was a farm around here.”

  Joel chuckles. "As I said, only been here a couple or so years. Not everyone finds farm life so appealing, especially with the pests we sometimes get round these parts. But me and Mara, well, we decided to try something different, and Finn doesn’t cope well with people.”

  "It’s certainly peaceful enough out here,” I agree. “But you mentioned pests?" I ask, already suspecting this is leading to something more than a few mice in the pantry.

  Misty’s ears perk up. ‘Here we go,’ she mutters, hopping onto a nearby windowsill to peer outside.

  Joel sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

  "Skeps. Big rodent-like buggers, mean as they come. Been raiding the barn for weeks now, and Wren’s too small to take ’em on. I reckon there’s a nest somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I can find it."

  Mara looks up from the stove. "They’re more than pests, really. They’ve chewed through grain stores, scared the chickens half to death, and nearly took Finn’s hand last week when he went to fetch eggs."

  Elara frowns. "That sounds serious. Have you considered leaving traps?"

  "Traps, poison, even tried smoking ’em out," Joel says, shaking his head. "Nothing’s worked. They’re too clever—and too many."

  Naomi, silent until now, looks to me. "We could help," she says softly. "Couldn’t we?"

  Joel hesitates. "I don’t want to put you out. You’re just passing through—"

  "Not a problem," I interrupt, meeting his eyes. "We’ve got a bit of experience with things that bite back. Besides, it sounds like these skeps are more than you should be handling alone."

  “Ain’t that the truth of it,” he agrees.

  We all settle into a delicious dinkus stew. Mara is an excellent cook, and Finn, after a bit of encouragement from his mother, starts to shyly make friends with Naomi.

  “We have a spare room in the attic you can use for the night,” Joel informs us, and we agree to start looking into the skep problem in the morning.

  As the evening unwinds and the children are settled, we are able to spend a comfortable evening trading news of the goings-on in Stonebridge with Joel and Mara’s tales of life setting up the farm and bringing in their first harvests.

  With a look and a mental nudge, Misty lets me know she is going out hunting.

  With a graceful jump, she passes through the kitchen window and out into the night.