Morning came heavy again. Not storm-heavy, not like thunderclouds weighing on the fields, but in the small things. In the way the chickens clucked too loudly, as if nervous. In how the milk pail rattled when I set it down, my grip tighter than usual. In the silence of Father's chewing at breakfast—each bite deliberate, hard, like he could grind unease down into nothing if he just worked his jaw enough.
The smell of smoke from the hearth lingered in the rafters longer than it should have, caught in the damp wood of the beams. I tried to swallow down spoonfuls of porridge, but every bite stuck in my throat.
Sera kicked her legs under the table, impatient, spilling a few drops of milk down her dress. Mother scolded her softly, but her eyes slid toward Father with that same quiet weight. We were all pretending at normal, but the air between us said otherwise.
Afterward, Father laid a hand on my shoulder before I could dart off. His grip was rough, his palm calloused from years of working the soil and tools. "Take the bundle to old Tomas," he said. "The man's hip is failing. He can't fetch his own grain anymore."
I nodded. The bundle sat by the door: a sack of grain tied with twine, a small wrapped parcel of dried meat, and one of Mother's loaves of bread. Practical kindness. The sort of thing our village relied on.
But the errand gave me an excuse to walk further into town, and a part of me—some restless, guilty part—was glad.
---
The lane into the market square smelled of yeast and damp hay. Horses snorted at their posts, stamping the packed dirt. A dog barked once, sharp, then quieted when its master whistled. The whole town was moving slower, though, like a body bruised and sore, reluctant to stretch.
I passed Mira near the well. She balanced two buckets against her hips, sleeves rolled up, her straw hat tilted low. When she spotted me, she gave a brief wave but didn't stop drawing water. Even she seemed quieter than usual, though her glance followed me as I walked.
At the smithy, Garrel hammered at a horseshoe, each strike ringing too loud in the square. His apprentice fumbled with bellows, sending sparks dancing high into the rafters. Normally Garrel would bark at him for wasting coal, but today the old smith said nothing. Just hammered, and hammered, as if noise could keep thoughts away.
Two women at the baker's stall spoke low, heads pressed close. "Saw a shadow cross the ridge," one whispered. "Too wide for a hawk." The other clucked her tongue. "Don't speak it aloud."
Their words followed me as I tightened my grip on the grain sack.
---
Old Tomas lived at the edge of the square in a leaning house that smelled of pine tar and age. He answered the door with a grunt, his hair a frizz of white, his hip bandaged thick under his tunic.
"Ah. The farmer's boy." His voice rasped like dry reeds. "Bring it in, then."
I carried the bundle inside. The air was heavy with the scent of herbs, not fresh ones but dry, brittle leaves hung in bundles from the rafters. A cane leaned against the wall, worn smooth by years of use.
Tomas lowered himself into a chair with a slow groan. "World's cracking, eh?"
I hesitated, unsure if he meant the sky or his joints. "The fields look the same," I said carefully.
He snorted. "Fields look the same before a storm too. Doesn't mean the storm isn't coming." He waved a hand, dismissing his own words. "Tell your father he's good to me. Tell your mother her bread still beats the baker's, curse his ovens."
I gave a quick smile, but it faltered when Tomas leaned forward, his old eyes sharp despite the cloudiness. "Keep your eyes open, boy. The sky's not done with us yet."
His words clung like cobwebs as I left.
---
The square had grown busier. A cluster of children played at knights and monsters with sticks, their laughter shrill but edged with something else, too wild, like they were trying to laugh louder than their fear.
Then I saw it—three older boys circling a smaller one, the smallest lad in town, Joren. He hugged a basket to his chest, clutching it tight as the bullies shoved him back and forth. His heel caught on a stone, and he nearly spilled the basket's contents: a handful of apples, bruised but precious.
"Pay the toll," one sneered. "Sky tax!"
The others laughed, grabbing at the fruit. Joren's lip trembled, but he held on stubbornly, shaking his head.
I set the grain sack down, my feet moving before my thoughts caught up.
"Enough." My voice cracked sharper than I expected. The bullies froze, then turned.
"Oh, look," one said, smirking. "Farmer's boy thinks he's a knight."
I didn't answer. My hand tightened around the stick I'd been carrying from the forest yesterday, still strapped to my back. I stepped closer, meeting their eyes one by one.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The square's noise dimmed, villagers turning to watch.
Then the smirker lunged forward, shoving Joren again. I caught his wrist mid-push. His skin was hot, sweaty. He tried to wrench free, but I held fast.
"Let him go," I said, low.
He snarled but pulled back, shaking his wrist when I released him. His friends muttered curses, but none dared press it further under the watching eyes. One spat at the dirt, then they slunk off, kicking stones.
Joren's basket trembled in his hands. A single apple rolled free and bumped against my boot. I picked it up, dusted it, and dropped it back into his basket.
"You alright?" I asked.
He nodded quickly, eyes wide. Then, without a word, he bolted down the lane, apples bouncing.
The square buzzed again, whispers rippling like wind in tall grass. Some approving, some disapproving. I ignored them, hoisting the grain sack back onto my shoulder and moving on.
---
Later, by the ridge path, I found Mira again. She leaned against a fence post, arms crossed, watching me.
"You've got a habit," she said.
"Of what?"
"Stepping into things. Things bigger than you."
I shrugged, though my pulse still raced. "Someone had to."
Her gaze softened, but only a little. "Ren… the marks in the forest aren't just burns. My uncle says he's seen the like before. Long ago, when raiders came riding beasts that weren't horses."
I swallowed hard. "Beasts?"
"Wings," she whispered. "Teeth. Fire." She searched my face, then shook her head. "Forget it. Old stories. Just… don't walk alone too far from town. Promise me."
The weight of her words stayed with me all the way home.
---
That night, I lay awake long after Sera's breathing steadied beside me. The rafters creaked, wind moaned through the shutters. My hand itched toward the stick by the door. I rose, quietly, and slipped outside.
The fields stretched silver under moonlight. I swung the stick once, twice, pretending it was steel, pretending I knew how to fight. My breath came quick, my arms tired faster than I'd admit.
I closed my eyes, tried to recall the dream from the night before—the furrows in the sky, the seeds of light, the vast hands shaping something monstrous. I whispered to the dark, half in foolishness: "Show me."
Nothing answered. Only the rustle of wheat, the distant bark of a dog.
I sank onto the grass, chest heaving. The stick lay across my knees, light, too light.
Sleep claimed me there, under the stars.
And the dream returned.
This time clearer. The ridge split open, glowing veins pulsing beneath like blood in stone. Figures stood upon the cracks—silhouettes in armor, cloaks snapping in a wind that wasn't there. Behind them loomed shapes vast and scaled, wings unfolding like storms.
One figure turned its head.
I couldn't see a face, but I felt the weight of its gaze like iron pressed to my chest.
I woke with dawn bleeding pale over the fields, the dream still clawing at my ribs.
And I knew—ordinary days were ending.