Ivan wipes his brow, having sown a seed in the last free patch of the vegetable garden. He gently packs the soil over the seed, then lays a barrier of mulch around it before rising to his feet and plucking his tools, then heading back to the shed. Most other farmers have returned home for lunch, and Ivan has a mind to do the same, though as he comes around the farmhouse he sees Erik is still out in the crop fields. He works just as hard as he did in the morning, clearing away the rest of the ruined crops before they can rot where they lay with barely a single break.

Ivan shakes his head and walks to the shed. He leaves his tools inside, as well as his soiled gloves, and goes out to his brother, stopping just short of the crop fields by the road.

"Erik!" he calls.

Erik pauses, then turns in his direction, waiting.

Ivan beckons him with a wave of his hand. "Lunch!"

Erik moves again, dragging his tools, and Ivan heads back home, entering through the back door and walking into the living room where Dana rests by the hearth. From there, he gets to the kitchen where he takes a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and strips of spiced salt lamb. With a sharpened knife, he slices the loaf, then the cheese, leaving them on the chopping board. There's still enough space for him to place the strips of salt lamb on it before he brings it to the kitchen table.

He pours some ale into a couple of tankards and brings them to the table, too. The stick of butter from breakfast still sits at the centre of the table, made soft from the heat of midday.

He turns back to the counter, reaching for the cupboards above it to pluck two plates and a butter knife, setting the table just as Erik comes through the door. His stomach rumbles as his eyes go to the food on the table, and Ivan hums with laughter. "Your stomach almost sounds angry. You need to learn to take a break."

Erik scoffs, but he takes a seat at the table, just as Ivan does, and spreads a dollop of butter on a slice of bread, slapping a piece of cheese on it before taking a big bite.

"You're welcome," Ivan says.

"Thanks," Erik says, the word muffled and distorted by the food in his mouth.

Ivan takes the butter knife and repeats after his brother, though he takes a strip or two of the salted lamb, too. "Father and Artur should be back from town soon."

"They should be back now. Artur's probably messing around in town and Father's just letting him. It's not safe."

"Relax, Erik. The beast isn't going to take us unawares again."

Erik shakes his head but bites his lip, to Ivan's relief, and they eat for a while in silence, save for their noisy stomachs, the result of half a day's hard work. Ivan takes a swig of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighs.

"What say I help you in the fields after lunch? I've finished sowing the seeds in the vegetable garden and everything that needed harvesting has been seen to."

"Aye, I saw the haul of produce father left with. If you want to help me in the fields, I won't say no."

Loud meowing turns their heads toward the living room.

"Father must be back," Erik says.

Ivan gets up and walks through the living room until he reaches the landing, and later, the door. As he opens it, Dana gets to her feet, wagging her tail and panting.

"You're never this excited when I come home," he says, an exaggerated pout taking form on his lips as he looks at the dog. Dana goes to the door and paws at it, and he shakes his head, though there's a humorous smile on his lips as he opens it. She squeezes through as soon as possible, joining Tom behind the house and barking. Ivan follows their gaze to a point on the main road where he sees his father and Artur heading back home, but they don't travel alone.

Even without her crown of antlers, she's recognisable, owing to her flowing mane of copper-red hair. Sylfir holds a lyre in her hand as she walks alongside Artur, who carries a basket of oranges in his arms. He's talking with a grin on his boyish face and she's laughing with bright eyes.

His father walks a couple of paces ahead of them, and when Ivan turns his gaze toward him, he's staring back with stern, stormy blue eyes. Whatever message they would convey to him, Ivan ignores it, stepping outside just as the three of them come off the main road and onto the grass, heading for the door.

"Finished with the vegetable garden?" his father asks.

Ivan nods.

"Good lad."

His father walks past him through the door, and Tom follows in his wake, meowing. Dana goes to Artur with her wagging tail, staring at the basket in his hand. 

And Ivan meets Sylfir's eyes with a smile. "Was worried the beast got you out in the woods yesterday when evening came and you hadn't shown up."

"It almost did, but I'm not so easily caught," she says with a nonchalant shrug. 

Ivan's eyes widen with surprise. "You saw it?"

"I did—and the mysterious figure. I still retrieved what Khaliss asked of me, though. At nightfall, I returned, and later she and I completed the warding ritual."

"Almost," Artur says, hiking up the basket of oranges. "Sylf's here to ward our house."

She nods. "The ward Khaliss and I raised encompasses the village and Alfie's farm, but it doesn't extend as far as yours or the Tappers' homes. Khaliss is there right now setting the ward, and I'm here to do the same."

Dana whines, then barks, panting as she looks up at Artur.

"All right, girl!" He looks back at Ivan. "She doesn't even like oranges. I need to get these back into the kitchen."

"Went all the way to the Tappers, did you?" Ivan asks.

Artur shakes his head.

"No, they came to the village. Rosie and the twins. Making sure the village has food enough, still."

Ivan hums with understanding. "Kind of them. Wonder how much convincing it took Old Joe."

"Not much," Sylfir says, "People are refusing to travel the road for anything, given the threat of the beast. The fruit was never going anywhere except the village."

"No one's coming here to trade and none of our people want to go to Wynn's Hold or Amber Hill to do the same for fear of their safety," Artur says, squeezing past Ivan to get through the door. "Lorys sent out letters to the towns, but they don't want anything to do with us right now."

Dana follows him into the house, wagging her tail, blissfully unaware of the troubling words that just fell from his lips. Ivan sighs as he shakes his head.

"It won't be like this forever. We'll rid this village of the beast, sooner or later," Sylfir says.

Ivan looks at her and finds reassuring hazel-green eyes, sharp but somehow soft at the same time. She smiles, and he finds himself smiling, too.

"Want to come inside?" he says, "We were just having lunch."

"I'm not hungry, but I won't refuse the invitation to come inside."

Ivan gestures for her to enter before him. When she walks past the stairs and into the living room, he watches her as she takes it all in, curious eyes scanning the room, though her gaze  soon lands on the bearskin rug that lies at its centre.

"Hunted that yourself?" she asks.

"Not alone. My mother headed the hunt and my brother and I supported."

Sylfir hums and Ivan can tell she's impressed.

"A skilled huntress," she says.

He nods. "Aye, she was."

Ivan walks past her toward the kitchen before he can see the pity in her eyes. As he enters, he finds Erik still at the table, finishing his tankard of ale. Artur has put away some oranges, though he slices one of them with a knife on the kitchen counter as Dana watches eagerly.

Erik looks at him as he enters, though his eyes quickly flick behind him to Sylfir. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve as he stands up and circles the table to reach her with his hand outstretched.

"You must be Sylf. A pleasure. I'm Erik."

She takes his hand in a firm handshake. "The pleasure is mine."

"She's come to ward the house, you'll be happy to hear," Ivan says.

Erik looks at her with curious eyes. "Oh?"

Sylfir nods. "We've already warded the village. Only your property and the Tappers' remain unwarded now."

"And you're sure it'll keep the beast at bay?" Erik says.

Sylfir pauses, the smallest of frowns forming on her lips. "It should. Khaliss has done things like this many times before, and it has rarely ever failed her."

"It'll work, Erik. No need to bother her about it," Ivan says.

Erik draws away, almost apologetic, as he flicks his gaze to Ivan. "Well, I'll be out in the fields if you still want to help."

Ivan nods, and Erik leaves through the kitchen door. Sylfir looks on, that small frown still gently furrowing her brow. It's only exacerbated by the sound of retching, and as she turns her head, Ivan follows her gaze to Dana, who turns her head away from the orange peel Artur holds to her nose.

He laughs, orange juice dripping down his chin. "I told you that you wouldn't like it." Dana whines. He stands up straight again, wiping his mouth, and looks at Sylfir, retaining his broad smile. "I'll mark out a good spot for the shrine."

Sylfir nods as he leaves through the kitchen door, too. With his departure, an awkward silence fills the room.

"Hey," Ivan says, and Sylfir turns to him, folding her arms across her chest, that frown still on those full, scarred lips of hers. "Don't pay Erik any mind. He's always been a worrier."

"Most people were happy to hear we warded the village, but not so your brother. I... suppose I wasn't expecting to encounter a sceptic."

Ivan heads for the counter where the orange slices are, picking two up and handing one to Sylfir. She places her lyre on the kitchen table and takes it, mildly surprised to have it thrust toward her, but lifts it to her lips all the same. Ivan mirrors her, but his eyes are on her as she bites into the fruit's soft and succulent flesh, made so from the early summer climate. He watches as she pulls the flesh from the peel, its juice spilling down her lips and chin and dripping onto her lightly freckled chest. She catches it before it drips past the unlaced neck of her sleeveless, green linen shirt with long, elegant fingers, bringing them to her pink lips and sucking to savour the taste. If it wasn't for the oblivious innocence of her expression, he'd think she was teasing him.

She hums with satisfaction as her eyes flick to the remaining orange slices on the counter.

A knowing smile forms on Ivan's lips. "Good, wasn't it?"

She nods. "Almost as good as the ones from Goldenfields."

"You've been that far west?"

"Only been as far as Womford, but met a travelling merchant there."

He grabs another orange slice, throwing it her way, and she catches it with sharp reflexes. He leans against the counter and watches her bring it to her lips once more, but she doesn't make such a mess this time, unfortunately for him. She only wipes the juice from her chin when she finishes consuming it, shaking it from her fingers, which she then wipes on her trousers. Still, her second, resonating hum of satisfaction is like music to his ears, and he's glad to hear it again.

She takes a seat by the kitchen table, her eyes flicking to her lyre, and she sighs. "I should really prepare for the ritual."

"Does it involve that?" Ivan says, flicking his chin toward the instrument.

"Yes," Sylfir says, "Khaliss says Eilistraee is best venerated through music or dance. Usually both."

"It's beautifully crafted."

"Thank you. My father had it made for my mother. She taught me how to play."

"You two ever play together?"

"We used to when she yet lived. Those are memories I still cherish."

Ivan frowns. "Ah..."

Sylfir raises a hand to stem the flow of words from his lips, wearing a sad smile, though she looks at him through sympathetic eyes.

"There's no need to apologise. Besides, I have a feeling you know what it's like."

Ivan nods. "Aye. Five years ago, now."

"Still raw, then."

Ivan chuckles, though there's little mirth in it. "It still hurts, aye, but I don't know that it's raw—maybe for an elf it would be. Still, I can't speak for the others. The old man takes it the worst, and Erik's not too far behind him." He shakes his head. "It's turned him into a control freak. He's afraid to lose anyone else."

"I'm beginning to understand his earlier scepticism," Sylfir says, "My sister isn't so different—she nearly forbade me from leaving home after our mother died."

"Well, I'm glad you ignored her so that I could enjoy the pleasure of your company."

Her eyes widen—barely, but it's enough to reveal her surprise—and Ivan worries he's mis-stepped, but then nervous laughter spills from her lips, and she shakes her head.

"Oh? More than security my protection offers?" she says.

He shrugs, an easy smile forming on his lips. "Well, that's nice, too."

Sylfir rises from her seat, taking her lyre. As she looks at him, he can't help but notice her growing shyness, just as a soft blush creeps up her neck.

He pushes off the counter, stepping a little closer. "Where are you going?"

"Like I said, I need to prepare for the ritual."

"Shame," Ivan says, and he looks at her with half-lidded eyes, but she turns away. Even so, he can't help but smile at how cagey she is.

"Last I remember, you have work to do, or would you leave your poor brother out in the fields alone?"

He laughs. "Fair point."

"Well, then!" She smiles, then turns on her heels and leaves through the kitchen door.

He lingers in the doorframe, watching her walk toward Artur, who's playing in the distance with Dana where he's marked the ground with a gnarled wooden stick.

It's only as she reaches his youngest brother that he feels eyes on him, and he turns his head to the left to see his father watching him with stern eyes. He only huffs when their eyes meet, though, turning away to inspect the vegetable garden as he mutters to himself, and Ivan draws back into the kitchen without any of the shame his father would have him feel—and why should he? The terrible fate his father seems to think he'll incur from talking to every travelling lass has yet to come to pass.

He walks through the house, leaving through the back door, heading outside and looking at Erik working the fields. He's keeping his head down, working just as hard as he did in the morning, swinging his scythe at the ruined grass stems to cull the blight inflicted by the beast. Ivan heads for the shed, plucking his scythe and crossing the road to join him, readying himself for an afternoon of labour.