The morning broke clear and bright, and the whole village felt tight as a drum. It was weigh-day. The square had been swept before sunrise; someone had hung thyme and river reeds from the post to chase off bad luck, and the ants had made neat rails of pebbles so the sacks would slide straight to the scales. Arielle stood beside Lyan at the board with the two tall columns—WITH KIT and WITHOUT KIT—chalk tucked behind one ear, ledger open on the crate. She'd slept little, and it didn't matter. Her mind was a clean blade today.
They had begun early, measuring plot by plot, and the air was full of grain-dust and low voices. Sigrid worked the scale, shoulders set, eyes watchful. Lara and Tara cut twine and kept a steady count, hands quick, movements smooth. Farmers took turns heaving sacks forward. Each was weighed, chalked, and recorded with a slap of Arielle's hand on the page. She didn't rush. She did not raise her voice. She let the numbers tell their own story.
