"Kaelith!" Lirien's voice sliced through the memory, sharp and insistent. He blinked, the grove snapping back into focus—pine trees, moss, the faint chirp of birds overhead. She gripped his arm, shaking him, her green eyes wide with concern. "You okay? You hit that tree pretty hard. I'm sorry.
Kaelith signed and stated "No, it's really fine, just a bad fever dream."
Her frown deepened, her hand tightening on his arm, anchoring him. "Bad one?" she asked, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual edge.
"The worst," he muttered, his gaze dropping to the ground, the moss blurring as his eyes stung. "Lost someone. My fault."
She didn't let go, her touch warm and solid, a tether pulling him back from the rain-soaked rooftop. "You're here now," she said, her tone firm but gentle. "Not there. Got it?"
He nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat, her words stitching something broken back together. "Got it," he said, meeting her gaze, finding strength in the steadiness of her eyes.
By noon, they staggered back to the village, sweat-soaked and bruised, the twin suns blazing overhead like twin forges. Their heat pressed against Kaelith's ward, a faint shimmer rippling across his skin, the magic woven into him by Seraphine years ago to shield him from their wrath. His tunic clung to him, damp and streaked with dirt, the silver threads dulled by grime. Lirien walked beside him, her braid fraying, her cheeks flushed from exertion, but her stride was as steady as ever.
The village thrummed with life as they approached—women hauling wicker baskets brimming with fresh-baked bread and slabs of smoked meat, men dragging trestle tables into the square with grunts and shouted directions, children darting between legs with shrieks of laughter, their bare feet kicking up dust. Kaelith slowed, wiping his brow with his sleeve, the salty sting of sweat in his eyes. "What's all this?" he asked, nodding toward the chaos, his voice rough from the morning's exertion.
Lirien shrugged, her eyes sliding away too quickly, her tone too casual. "Some feast thing," she said, kicking a pebble down the path. "Don't worry about it."
He narrowed his eyes, suspicion curling in his gut like a coiled snake. She was lying—or hiding something. Talren had slipped out before breakfast, muttering about checking the fields, his hazel eyes dodging Kaelith's with a flicker of something—guilt? Veyra had been jittery all morning, her hands fluttering over the skillet, her usual calm replaced by a nervous energy she couldn't mask. Now the village buzzed with whispers, heads turning his way, quick glances followed by hushed voices. Something was off, and it gnawed at him, a splinter he couldn't ignore.
Talren appeared then, striding up the path from the fields, his boots caked with mud, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. He caught Kaelith on the porch, his broad hand landing heavy on his shoulder, fingers digging in just a little too hard. "Need you, lad," he said, his voice low, almost a growl, his eyes flicking toward the cottage then back. "Run to Jorvyn's—past the orchards. Grab a sack of grain. Quick now."
Kaelith squinted up at him, the unease tightening into a knot. "Why me?" he asked, his tone flat, testing. "Can't someone else go?"
Talren's jaw twitched, a shadow crossing his face—impatience, or something darker. "Just go," he said, the words clipped, his hand tightening briefly before dropping away. "Please. I'm counting on you."
That please landed wrong—tight, forced, an echo of years past when Talren had come home late, reeking of ale and Mira's rosewater perfume, his excuses thin as threadbare cloth. Kaelith's stomach sank, the old wound reopening, raw and aching. Was it happening again? Another woman, another lie, another crack in the family they'd patched together after the affair nearly shattered it?
"Fine," he said, his voice cold, turning away before Talren could see the doubt in his eyes. He stepped off the porch, the boards creaking under him, and started down the path, the suspicion a heavy stone in his chest.
The trek to Jorvyn's farm stretched long and punishing under the suns' glare, their heat a dull pulse against his ward, the air thick with the sour tang of overripe apples from the orchards lining the route. His boots crunched gravel, then sank into soft earth as he cut through the trees, their gnarled branches heavy with fruit. His mind churned with every step—Talren's evasive glance, the way his shoulders had hunched as he'd spoken, the same tells Kaelith remembered from four years ago. He'd been too young then to understand, but not too young to feel the tension, to hear Veyra's quiet sobs behind closed doors, to see the cold distance in her eyes when Talren begged forgiveness. Was there someone new? Some widow in the fields, some secret rendezvous masked as "work"?
Jorvyn met him at the barn, a wiry man with a grizzled beard and a grin too wide for the day's heat. "Grain's ready," he said, hefting a burlap sack onto Kaelith's shoulder, its weight biting into his collarbone. "Tell your pa he owes me a pint. Enjoy tonight, eh?"
Kaelith grunted, adjusting the load, the rough weave chafing his skin through the tunic. "Sure," he muttered, turning back toward the village, Jorvyn's words—enjoy tonight—echoing in his head, another piece of the puzzle he couldn't fit.
The return journey dragged slower, the suns dipping toward the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet. The sack grew heavier with each step, his shoulders aching, his breath puffing in short bursts. The village emerged ahead, its thatched roofs catching the twilight glow, the hum of voices swelling as he neared the square. Tables lined the cobblestones now, laden with food—roasted pheasant glistening with fat, dark loaves of bread stacked high, bowls of stewed apples steaming in the cooling air. Lanterns flickered to life, their golden light dancing across the stones, and the scent of woodsmoke and roasted meat hit him like a wave.
He trudged up to the cottage, the sack a dead weight, his mind tangled in knots of doubt. The windows were dark, the door ajar, a sliver of shadow spilling out. His pulse quickened, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine as he nudged the door wider with his foot, stepping into the dim interior. The silence pressed against him, thick and expectant, and he braced himself—for what, he didn't know.