Algar stretched beneath the blanket as the first rooster’s crow tore through the morning hush. For a moment he lay still, listening to the creak of the wooden walls and the far-off barking of dogs. The air in the room was brisk, steeped in the scent of hearth smoke and damp earth. From outside came the faint ring of metal—someone was already sharpening tools.

  He opened his eyes to a ribbon of light forcing its way through a crack between the boards. He was only sixteen springs old. His shoulders were hard as oak beams, his hands broad and work-worn. Black hair fell over his brow, and sharp, dark eyes—brave eyes—drank in every detail.

  A low murmur rose from the other pallet. Semaj, three years his elder, was still asleep, though he was usually the first to rise. Only a mop of chestnut hair showed. The boy glanced around the room. His father sat on the bench by the wall, tugging on his boots. His mother set before him a wooden plate piled with fried onions and a thick slice of bread. Pale steam curled in the air. It was harvest time—days that began with the rooster’s first cry and ended only when night closed the whole village’s eyes.

  Aloys, head of the family, had chestnut hair shot through with gray. He carried a strength that years of labor had only honed. His beard, trimmed carelessly with a knife, mingled silver and brown. For all his lean frame, Algar had often seen his father shoulder loads that young men could scarcely manage.

  “Up you get, both of you, or the bread will go cold!” he said, sopping his own hunk of bread in the onions.

  “I’m up,” Algar muttered, rubbing his eyes. His stomach answered with a growl.

  Their mother, Dior, had yielded to gray as well. Fine, plentiful lines traced her face, yet the echo of her beauty still showed—most of all in Charlotte, the youngest. The girl bustled by the bench with a child’s zeal, carrying a bowl as if it were a golden tray. Strands of gold hair kept slipping into her eyes, and she brushed them aside with a gesture more theatrical than necessary.

  Aloys glanced over his shoulder at her and gave a brief smile. “You know, love, your mam had hair like that when she was young too,” he said, ruffling it gently. Charlotte flushed at once and hid her face in her sleeve. Algar’s mouth watered. Since he was small, he’d known food was strength—and for a man, strength could be everything.

  “We’ve stock to feed. Semaj, off to the byre. I’ll take Algar to the field,” their father said, rising from the bench and kissing his wife on the cheek. She paused in her tidying to hug him back. Then Aloys ruffled Charlotte’s hair. The girl answered with a sweet smile. “Mind the house, my girls.”

  The elder brother got up with a sigh, stretched, and headed for the door, scratching his neck. He managed to snatch a loaf, hollow out the middle, and pack it with onions—breakfast for the road. Algar grabbed two sickles, licking his fingers so as not to lose the last taste of the meal.

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  “Take care!” Dior called after them, wiping her hands on her apron.

  The door’s creak—like the cottage’s quiet farewell—saw them out at dawn. Semaj bumped his younger brother with a shoulder as they crossed the threshold. “Drag your feet like that, and the moon will trade places with the sun before you reach the field.” Algar shot him a look from under his black hair. “Wait till I’ve got a sickle in hand. You’ll be staring at my back all day.” Semaj snorted and popped the last bite of breakfast into his mouth.

  In the yard the old dog, Claw, was waiting. His grizzled coat stuck out in tufts, and slobber hung from his jowls. When a piece of bread fell in front of him he barked his approval, then lifted his head, wrinkling his muzzle. He tensed as if to run, but stayed by the kennel. His amber eyes fixed on the tree line. The forest there seemed motionless—no birdsong, no rustle of leaves. After a moment the dog sighed and licked his chops.

  “Caught a hare’s scent, did you?” Aloys muttered, patting the dog’s neck. Claw went back to his meal.

  They set off toward the fields as the morning mist thinned under the first rays of the sun. Women passed them on the road with baskets, and somewhere farther on came the ring of hammer on anvil. High above the roofs a hawk circled, letting out a shrill cry now and then. The air smelled of wet earth, hay, and sweat. From a distance came muffled shouts—someone herding cows, perhaps.

  “You know what to do, son,” Aloys said, laying a hand on his shoulder as they reached the edge of the grain. “You’ve done well this year. A week, maybe a touch more, and we’ll have it all in. I’ll give you your share as soon as the headman loosens some coin.”

  The fields ran all the way to the dark line of the forest. The sun was already fairly high; heat shimmered over the ground in waves. The air was thick with the scent of dust and drying straw. Ears of grain whispered in the wind; broken stalks creaked underfoot; tiny midges spun in the air like sparks. From afar drifted the shouts of other farmers, the squeal of wheels, the short calls to horses.

  Algar ran his palm along the sickle’s handle, settling his grip. The wood had been polished by years of use, rough in places where it had been scored. The first cut went light and easy. The blade slid into the stand almost without resistance, and the severed heads fell like heavy rain. Then the second, the third, the tenth. Aloys moved a few rows over to keep the line true. He whistled softly, sometimes snorting when the wind blew dust into his eyes. Algar heard his tread and knew all was as it should be. The straighter they cut, the sooner they’d push the grain to the boundary and bind the sheaves. Sweat ran down his neck, gathered at his hairline, and dripped from his chin onto the coarse shirt. The heat burned his skin, but it didn’t hinder him; it only stoked his resolve.

  In his head he counted coppers. His share from the headman—maybe something more for helping a neighbor. He’d always dreamed of a sword, though the price of such a weapon was far beyond a villager’s means. But an axe—a good, heavy one—might come his way someday. Not just any axe, but one that sat right in the hand. His mind served him up steel flashing in the sun, and that strange calm he felt whenever he thought of a fight. He didn’t know where it came from. Stories, perhaps—or something he had no name for.

  Halfway down the next row, something pricked his hand. He looked. A small smear of blood gleamed on the handle. A burr had caught his skin, leaving a thin red line. He licked it and went back to work. Cut, catch, lay aside. Cut, catch, lay aside. The faster, the better. Somewhere beyond the grain, the forest held its breath.

  Tap Follow to catch it.