The days pass in a rhythm that feels almost normal. Joel and I spend hours side by side, cutting timber, hauling beams, and constructing the new barn frame. Sweat drips into my eyes as I hold one of the supports steady while Joel hammers a thick peg into place. Naomi’s laughter rings out from the yard, where she races around with Finn and Wren, the terrier’s barks blending with the occasional sound of hammering. The children’s games spill over into our worksite, and more than once Joel shoos them away with a mock growl.

  “Not bad for a bunch of amateurs,” Joel says, leaning on the hammer and wiping his brow. His tone is gruff, but there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes as we step back to admire the skeleton of the barn taking shape.

  Elara’s voice drifts from the porch, where she’s helping Mara knead dough, the two women sharing quiet conversation as they work. Occasionally, Elara glances over at me, her eyes thoughtful, as if she’s still coming to terms with her awakening. Later, I see her slip away to the shade of the old oak, settling cross-legged on the grass. She closes her eyes, her breathing steady as she meditates. The sight makes me pause, a beam balanced on my shoulder. There’s something different about her now, a quiet strength that wasn’t there before.

  “She’s… changed,” Mara remarks one evening as we’re packing up tools.

  “Elara has always liked her quiet moments,” I tell her. “I’m not sure if it’s an elf thing or her magic, but it does seem to be evolving.” Awakening will do that to you. Change is inevitable and a reason we need to move on, with it becoming more apparent in her with every passing day.

  By the morning of our departure, the farm buzzes with activity as final preparations are made. Joel and I secure the last beams of the barn frame, his hands steady despite the early hour. Mara fusses over a bundle of provisions, her sharp voice cutting through the crisp morning air as she directs Finn and Naomi to stay clear of the tools.

  Naomi clings to Finn, her face scrunched in determination as she promises to return. “I’ll write to you,” she says earnestly. “As soon as I learn how.”

  Wren circles their feet, tail wagging furiously as if adding his own farewell.

  Mara tucks a scarf around Naomi’s shoulders, her hands lingering as she cups the girl’s face. “Be good, lass. And remember, you’ve got a place here. Always.” Her voice trembles, though she quickly covers it with a brisk wave to Elara.

  We set out as the sun rises higher, the farm slowly fading into the distance. For a moment, I glance back at the barn frame standing tall against the horizon. The work we’ve done feels like a parting gift, a small piece of permanence in a world that’s anything but steady.

  ‘This place is stronger for having faced its demons,’ Misty’s voice drifts into my mind, her tone unusually contemplative. ‘You should learn from that.’

  ‘Always with the wisdom,’ I reply inwardly, though there’s no bite in my tone. She’s right—about the farm, about me.

  Ahead, the crossroads come into view, the path to Hybern stretching beyond. I adjust the pack on my shoulder, casting one last glance back at the farm before stepping forward.

  The road stretches ahead, bordered by wild hedgerows and rolling fields dotted with clusters of trees. The air is crisp, tinged with the earthy scent of damp soil and the faint sweetness of blooming wildflowers. Misty pads ahead, her tail swaying lazily, while Naomi skips along the roadside, her hands clutching a growing bundle of wildflowers she’s picked along the way.

  “What’s this one called?” Naomi asks, holding up a delicate white blossom.

  Elara steps closer, her gaze softening as she examines the flower. “That’s moonlace. It only blooms at dawn and dusk. It’s not medicinal, but it’s said to bring good dreams if you keep it under your pillow.”

  Naomi’s eyes widen. “Can I keep it?”

  “Of course,” Elara replies with a gentle smile, tucking the flower into Naomi’s bundle.

  As we walk, Elara points out plants I’ve not yet encountered. “That’s bristlethorn,” she says, gesturing towards a spiny bush with small purple flowers. “The roots can be boiled to create a bitter tea that helps with nausea, but avoid the thorns—they’re laced with a mild toxin that causes itching.”

  I crouch to take a closer look, noting the fine barbs glinting in the sunlight.

  “Nausea, huh? Might be useful.”

  Further along, she points to a low-growing plant with vibrant orange-red leaves. “That’s fireleaf. It’s good for reducing fever, and the steam from its leaves can ease poisoned lungs.”

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  “We could’ve used that earlier,” I say, recalling past injuries. Elara nods, her expression thoughtful.

  Misty pauses ahead, her ears twitching. With a flick of her tail, she vanishes into the underbrush. Moments later, she reappears, a bird the size of a large chicken clutched delicately in her jaws. She drops it at the edge of the road and looks up at me, her expression inscrutable.

  “A snack?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Dinner,’ Misty replies dryly in my mind. ‘At least for someone who appreciates effort.’

  Naomi giggles, but her laughter is cut short by the sound of rustling in the nearby bushes. Elara’s hand instinctively moves to her quiver and she nocks an arrow. My hand grasps the hilt of my sword, scanning the treeline. The tension dissipates as a pair of wirrals flutter out of the foliage, their wide, golden eyes blinking in the sunlight before they take to the sky. Naomi watches them go, her face lit with wonder.

  “Wise little creatures,” Elara murmurs, relaxing her stance. “If they’re nearby, it’s a good sign. They don’t stay where there’s danger.”

  “I’ll take any good signs we can get,” I say, lowering my bow. The road ahead winds through a stretch of forest, the canopy overhead casting dappled shadows on the path. The air grows cooler as evening approaches, carrying the faint scent of moss and pine.

  We stop by a small brook to rest and refill our water skins. Naomi splashes her hands in the clear water, giggling as the current tickles her fingers. Elara crouches nearby, her eyes scanning the surrounding flora. She plucks a sprig of a delicate-looking plant from a damp stone, holding it up for me to see.

  “This one’s new to me,” she admits. “But I get a sense of magic within it.”

  I make a note of its narrow, almost translucent stems as she goes to tuck it into her pouch.

  “This is where you can use some of your awakened abilities,” I explain. “Look at it and think, identify.” Saying this, I do so myself.

  Identify.

  Glasswort: Mix petals into a poultice to reduce irritation from bites and stings. The stems can be used in a tea to relieve constipation.

  ‘Hmm, useful,’ I muse.

  Elara’s eyes light up. “I hadn’t realised it could be used like that. Teach only gave me an example of assessing an enemy in combat.”

  “That too,” I agree, “and very useful for it, but basically you can use it on anything. The amount of detail you get can vary, and it seems particularly hard to use on magical things until it gets stronger.”

  As the light begins to fade, I figure this is as suitable a spot as any to set up camp. The clearing is just off the road, bordered by a thicket of bramble that offers some cover. The stream winds its way nearby, its gentle burble adding a soothing rhythm to the evening air.

  Misty deposits her catch—a churrup—on a flat stone with a sense of feline satisfaction. The churrup is a bit like a cross between a bush chicken and a grouse. Naomi claps her hands, clearly impressed, while Elara kneels to inspect the bird.

  “It’s plump,” Elara says, her tone approving. “Plenty to go around.”

  ‘I don’t settle for less,’ Misty comments smugly, padding over to a sun-warmed patch of grass and curling up with a contented sigh.

  I set about gathering kindling and dry wood from a nearby patch of trees, while Elara plucks and prepares the churrup with practised efficiency. Naomi assists with an eagerness that reminds me of her boundless energy. Soon, the fire crackles to life, its glow chasing away the deepening shadows.

  The aroma of roasting meat fills the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the forest. Naomi hums softly as she arranges the wildflowers she collected earlier, her bundle now a colourful, fragrant display.

  As we eat, the conversation drifts to lighter topics. Naomi chats animatedly about the wirrals we saw earlier, while Elara shares stories of similar creatures from her homeland. Misty listens with half-lidded eyes, occasionally interjecting with dry remarks only I can hear.

  While the embers die down, Elara offers to take the first watch. I stretch out near the fire, using my pack as a makeshift pillow. Naomi curls up under a blanket close by, her breaths soon evening out in sleep. Misty perches on a low branch overhead, her watchful gaze scanning the perimeter.

  The night passes without incident. Elara nudges me awake in the early hours, and after a brief conversation as I stoke the fire, she heads to the blankets while I take over on watch.

  When dawn breaks, the forest is quiet but for the trill of birdsong. The rising sun paints the horizon with streaks of pink and gold as we break camp, the clearing returning to its undisturbed state.

  It isn’t long before Misty halts abruptly, her nose twitching. ‘Smoke. A lot of it,’ she remarks, her mental tone tinged with caution.

  I squint ahead, following the direction of her gaze. Sure enough, a thin plume of smoke rises on the horizon, barely visible against the morning light. Seeing my gaze, Elara’s expression tightens as she adjusts her bowstring. Naomi, sensing the shift in mood, grows quiet, her steps smaller and more cautious.

  As we approach a fork in the road, the acrid scent of charred wood hangs heavy in the air. Rounding a bend, the scene before us comes into view.

  A wagon lies toppled on its side, its frame blackened and smouldering. The remains of its cargo—scorched barrels and shattered crates—litter the ground. Nearby, several bodies, clad in what appear to be militia uniforms, lie sprawled in grotesque stillness. A thick smear of dried blood marks the dirt road where they fell. Crows flap lazily upwards from their impromptu feast as we approach, their cawing complaint echoing through the air.

  Elara moves to one of the bodies, her movements precise but respectful. “These aren’t bandits,” she murmurs. “They’re guards. Or were.”

  I scan the surroundings, my grip tightening on my sword hilt. “No sign of whoever did this. If they took losses, they’ve cleaned up after themselves.”

  Misty sniffs at the ground near the wagon, her ears flicking back. ‘They didn’t leave much behind,’ she notes grimly. ‘Whoever it was, they were organised.’

  Naomi clings to my arm, her wide eyes fixed on the scene. “Why would anyone do this?” she whispers.

  “Loot,” I reply grimly, gesturing to the scattered remnants of the wagon’s cargo. “Or maybe worse.”

  Elara rises, her gaze hardening as she scans the treeline. “We need to keep moving. Whoever did this could still be nearby.”