The morning is uncommonly chilly for the summer, plagued with rolling grey clouds that blot out the rising sun. As Ivan looks at his father across the kitchen table, he almost believes the man summoned them just from the sullen look on his face.

He wore the same expression after returning from the village yesterday. He didn't utter a word when he arrived home, not even at dinner, and Ivan and his brothers didn't dare break the silence for fear of incurring his wrath. They do the same now over breakfast. The awkward tension is almost unbearable.

The scraping of Erik's chair against the cold stone floor scratches Ivan's ear like nails against glass, the noise sharp and crisp as it cuts through the silence. It almost makes Ivan wince. He looks on as his brother abandons his half-eaten breakfast to start his day early yet again, snatching his short cloak from the back of his chair and leaving the kitchen.

Ivan and Artur share a knowing look, a small acknowledgement that things might fall apart again, but they break eye contact quickly, returning to their facsimile of normal life.

Artur whistles. "Here, girl!"

Dana comes to him with a wagging tail from her spot in the kitchen, her drooling tongue lolling when she sees the remnants of Erik's breakfast in Artur's hands. He places the plate on the floor and she quickly goes to work cleaning it.

The sound of her chewing fills the room as they sit together at the kitchen table, avoiding eye contact, but when Ivan looks at his father, he recognises the distant look in his eyes. It makes him wonder what happened in the village yesterday. There are only a few times he's seen his father like this, and only relating to one thing.

He wouldn't dare ask, though. And it seems he wouldn't have had the chance. His father sluggishly pushes himself to his feet, turns his back on the kitchen table, and leaves; like Erik before him, he leaves half his breakfast behind.

Ivan huffs ironic laughter. "Dana's eating well today."

"She'll be eating like a queen for a good few days, I think. I've a feeling this beast will be sticking around for a while longer," Artur says, chewing on a piece of near-stale bread.

"What makes you so certain?"

"You saw how he was when he came back, didn't you? He hasn't looked that sour since..."

Ivan looks away, gingerly eating the remnants of his breakfast, bread and cheese, just like his brother's. "I know, but what has that got to do with any of this?"

Artur shakes his head. "I don't know, but Father wouldn't go to the Wanderer for something trivial. One of Lorys' girls came to get him, or didn't you see?"

Ivan shrugs. "I suppose I got distracted."

"Anyway, it's obvious it was important. A council meeting or something—it could only be about the beast. Old Joe would have been there," Artur says.

"...And you think he said something?"

"As if you have to ask."

Ivan shakes his head. "The old man's a bastard, but I'd like to think he'd have more sense than to offend the man who brings in his wheat, barley, and rye."

Artur scoffs. "He's got nothing but beer sloshing around in that thick skull. It's practically dripping out of those ears. If he ever had sense, he drank it away years ago."

Ivan frowns. "I won't claim he has the wits of a scholar, but that's a bit harsh."

"You're right. He schemes too much to be that stupid, but he's too stupid to realise that we all know he's scheming." Artur shakes his head. It's rare to see his usually gentle brown eyes so hard or hear such bitterness in his tone, but Ivan can't blame him. He feels much the same way.

Ivan folds his arms across his chest. "He can throw Rosie at us all he likes. It won't change anything."

"He's not throwing Rosie at us, Ivan, he's throwing her at you."

"Maybe now, but when he realises I won't take her, he'll try for Erik, then you."

Artur laughs, but there's no humour in it.

"What?" Ivan says.

"You sound so sure, but it only takes Rosie a single bat of her eyelashes before you're smiling."

Ivan furrows his brow, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I know what's at stake here just as much as you. I won't be the reason Old Joe gets his hands on our farm."

Tension lingers between them for a moment, but Artur's sigh soon releases it. "I believe you. It's just... the old bastard's persistent. Just look at Alfie."

"I know, but his situation was different. After his brother died, he was alone. I don't think he cared what marrying Anna really meant after that."

Artur cleans the rest of his plate just as Dana raises her head, her keen nose sniffing the air. She circles the table until her eyes fixate on the plate Ivan's father left behind, and her wagging tail somehow moves even faster as her nostrils flair. Ivan smiles as she looks at him, as though she would ask him for permission if she could speak.

"Sit," he says.

She sits.

"Good girl."

He takes the plate and places it on the floor beside him, and Dana goes to him on ageing limbs to eat her fill again.

The scraping of wood against stone turns Ivan's head toward his brother again, seeing him rise from his seat and take the remaining plates from the kitchen table.

"I'm working the fields today," he says, "Someone needs to go to the Moores—icehouse is getting empty."

"You realise they probably won't have much to give, all things considered?"

"I know, but there's no harm in trying, and you can always offer a helping hand in payment. Wouldn't be any different from what you'd be doing here."

Ivan considers his words for a moment. "...Fair point. All right, then. Won't be long."

"See you," Artur says.

Ivan finishes the last of his breakfast, stuffing a chunk of bread in his mouth and petting Dana before he gets up, almost as sluggishly as his father did earlier. He turns his back on the kitchen table, leaving through the living room, then into the landing by the stairs where he unhooks his cloak from the wall. He slips through the eastern door into air that is cool and crisp, and he takes a deep breath as he takes to the main road.

To the north, he sees Erik keeping his head down, hard at work in the golden fields. His father is uncharacteristically idle in the ruined meadows to the south, however, gazing out to the winding river beyond, and the Tappers residence. He suddenly turns to reveal a look of bitter disgust twisting his features, and he locks eyes with Ivan but barely acknowledges him as he heads for the shed.

It surprises him. Not a word of contest from his father, no questioning where he's going or why, and no scolding for perceived abandonment of his duty. And of all the reactions Ivan could have, he's surprised to feel his brow knit together and his lips curl downwards in a frown; a part of him waits to be scolded.

But it never comes. It seems his father simply doesn't have it in him today. He keeps walking toward the village, taking a languid pace on the main road, illuminated by the cloud-dimmed light of early morning, and focuses on the movement from the village.

The first farmers are crossing the road to reach the fields, beginning their work for the day—the same old monotonous but vital chore of damage control, ensuring the blight doesn't take the entire crop. He waves at them and they wave back, though they lack their usual cheery enthusiasm. It's been the same song and dance since the tragedy, only it's amplified tenfold by the poor weather. Ivan can already feel himself being dragged down by it.

He picks up the pace, long legs lengthening their stride, his feet planting firmly into the packed dirt with every step, and his cloak flapping softly in the gentle headwind. As he gets closer to the village, he sees the first villagers resuming their routine of clean-up, tiny figures growing larger with decreasing distance until he's walking past the first ruined house. It's been seven or maybe eight days since the attack, and barely anything has changed. It's not a routine he cares to get used to.

He weaves through the village, taking the long route, nodding and waving his greetings to his neighbours. He does it as much for their benefit as his own, providing a small morale boost to begin the day, though with each day he does it, its effect seems to diminish. There's only so much strife these people can take.

But there's nothing Ivan can do about it now. He continues onward, passing the church as it opens its doors, from which a priest emerges to greet those who collect there. When he passes the cemetery, however, he slows, his eyes locking onto an all-too-familiar tombstone.

He looks away and keeps walking, lest he lingers there overlong. The day is already solemn enough. The uncut grass of the meadow slows him down as he walks to the sleepy farmhouse, the sound of rustling grass reaching his ears as the wind picks up just a little.

Soon, he breaks free from the long grass, reaching the front door, which he knocks with a light tap of his knuckles before stepping back. It takes some time for someone to answer the door, though he can hear voices deeper within the house, as someone calls for something. He hears loud barking next, and after that, all he can hear is the sound of approaching footsteps.

The door opens to reveal the petite, rounded figure of Rosie and Charlie with his wagging tail beside her. She seems surprised to see him, just as he is her, but her surprise soon gives way to a warm smile. Ivan smiles, too, almost from mere instinct, in the same way that he can't help but take in the soft, sloping curves of her form. They're half-concealed by a warm shawl, but such a thing has never stopped him staring, as he knows she knows all too well.

He also knows she always enjoys the attention, and it prompts her to finger a silvery-blonde curl as she leans in the doorway, looking at him through her lashes.

"Ivan."

"...Rosie," he says, his voice growing soft with her disarming gaze.

"Come on in. Anna's making breakfast."

She beckons him to follow with a nod of her head, turning her back on him. Charlie ambushes him before he can follow her inside the house, though, and he ruffles the fur on his head to appease him, if only so he can pass. The border collie soon relents, and Ivan finally follows Rosie into the spacious living room, his boot soles softly slapping against the wooden floor as she leads him to the kitchen.

The room is well-decorated and well-lit. In the spaces between wide windows, the walls are adorned with modest hunting trophies and ornaments, relics from generations of Alfie's family gone by. On the floor lies a wolf-skin rug that softens Ivan's footsteps, and embedded in the west wall rests the fireplace opposite the cushioned chairs and a low, broad coffee table.

None of it holds his attention as much as Rosie's swaying hips, though. He almost thinks she does it on purpose—she's a little too deliberate in her movement to be authentic. He holds the urge to sigh. That he should find her here at her sister's house after his conversation with Artur... it makes him wonder if Old Joe has a crystal ball.

They soon reach the kitchen where Annabel diligently mans the stove. Her sons sit at the round kitchen table, eagerly awaiting breakfast, though Ivan can tell from their tired faces they've yet to rid themselves of the vestiges of sleep. Still, they light up when they catch sight of him.

"Ivan!" Darcy says, his warm brown eyes lighting up. Ivan smiles as he goes to the boys, playfully ruffling their hair.

"Morning, bedheads."

"Pleasant surprise, to have you call on us so early," Annabel says, "I can always make a little more breakfast if you're hungry."

Ivan grins. "I've never been one to say no to a second breakfast."

Annabel tuts, but there's a huff of laughter, too. "You and your bottomless stomach. Still, you're a working man—wouldn't want you to run out of steam in the middle of the day. Take a seat."

He does as he is bid, sitting beside the boys, while Rosie takes her seat behind him. Her presence is like a naked flame that burns too close to his skin. It makes him uncomfortable, but only because he knows his nature—he might as well be dry kindling. He's glad they're not alone. 

Even better, Charlie provides a playful distraction as he goes to Ivan, seeking affection, nugding his nose into his leg.

"Alfie's not awake yet?" Ivan says, half his attention focused on Annabel as he pets the border collie. His eyes go to the pancakes she flips in her pan.

"He'll be down in—"

The kitchen door opens and Ivan turns his gaze to the slight man that walks through, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his wide, upturned nose.

"Thought I heard your voice," Alfie says, a wan smile on his lips. "Morning."

Ivan nods. "Morning."

"I'm guessing this is more than just a social visit," Alfie says, taking a seat opposite him, beside his sons. Charlie goes to him with a lolling tongue and wagging tail, eager for affection, which Alfie gives freely in the form of a scratch behind the ears.

"Icehouse is getting empty."

Alfie frowns. "Ah... it's been harder to get people what they need since the attack."

"I'm willing to put in a little work for whatever you can spare," Ivan says.

"That's a good lad," Annabel says, bringing a plate stacked with pancakes to the table. Rosie hurriedly gets up to help her sister set the table, but Darcy reaches for a pancake before he even has a plate.

His father pushes his hand away. "How many times do I have to tell you, boy?"

He sulks, and Ivan has to suppress his laughter lest he hurts the boy's feelings. Rosie and Annabel soon return with plates and cutlery, a pitcher of weak ale, and a small pot of honey before taking their seats.

"Honey?" Ivan says, "Still living well, eh?"

Alfie shakes his head. "This is the last of it. Not even sure it'll last for breakfast. We've been stretching it thin since it became obvious no trader would go near here."

"I can go without," Ivan says.

"Nonsense," Rosie says, "There's no way it's going to last beyond today. You might as well have some before it runs out."

She takes his plate and forks a couple of pancakes on it before scooping out some honey and spreading it across them. The act spurs everyone else into action, Darcy and Ewyn grabbing pancakes with their eager hands before Alfie and Annabel pile their plates.

"Here," Rosie says, holding the plate in her hands. Ivan takes it from her, careful not to let their fingers brush.

"Thanks."

"So, what is it exactly that you're looking for?" Alfie says, forking some food into his mouth.

"Cheese, milk, a little meat if you can spare it, but we can go without if needs be," Ivan says between mouthfuls. He already knows Alfie's answer just from the look on his face.

"Not sure about meat—half my livestock is gone, and even then, I'm more fortunate than the villagers who had pigs and goats of their own. Milk and cheese... sure. I think I can spare some in exchange for some help ploughing the land—need to get it ready for the crop in autumn."

"You're not worried it'll rain today?" Ivan says.

"There's a lot of cloud cover, aye, but it's not enough to warrant rain, I think," Alfie says.

Annabel smirks. "Don't be trying to worm your way out of it, lad."

Ivan picks up on her humorous tone, making a mockery of indignation. "I would never!"

"Don't forget, I still remember when you were a little lad. Almost as bad as my boys, you were back then," Annabel says.

"That's not fair!" Darcy says, and though his indignation is earnest, it's undercut by the frail whine of his high-pitched voice.

Ewyn crosses his arms over his chest, looking stroppy. "We're not like Ivan! We do our chores!"

Rosie, Alfie, and Annabel laugh, and though Ivan does too, his mouth is agape with surprise.

"What have you been telling your boys about me? I know a hard day's work better than they ever will."

"That's not true!" Darcy cries.

"All right, all right, he's only teasing, lad," Alfie says, patting his son on the shoulder. "We appreciate your hard work."

Darcy calms upon hearing his father's words, but Ewyn still seems agitated. "Does that mean we get to ride Bob?"

Annabel frowns. "That's not up to me, little lad. We'll have to ask Sylf when she comes this way again."

Ivan hums curiously. "Promised the boys a ride, did she?"

"Aye, but that was before she—well, something else came up and she's busy seeing to it," Alfie says, "Who knows when next she'll be free."

"But she promised..." Ewyn mutters.

"Don't worry. She'll keep her word," Rosie says, "Just give her a little time."

"What's she doing?" Ivan says.

"She'll probably be in the church library with Khaliss. They're trying to rid the forest of the beast's corruption," Alfie says, "Make sure that we can still use the land, too." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, having cleaned his plate, and he gets up. "Why don't you come and check the land with me? Your father's people will be there soon, if not already."

Ivan nods and gets to his feet, too.

"You didn't finish," Darcy says, looking up at him with big brown eyes full of anticipation.

Ivan grins. "I'm full. You can have the rest."

The boy smiles with his teeth as his sticky hands reach for the plate.

"Share with your brother," Annabel says.

Darcy huffs, but shares the plate with his brother, albeit begrudgingly. When Charlie whines, lifting his wet nose toward the table, Darcy has no problem sneaking a few torn pieces of pancakes to the needy border collie, though.

Amid their distraction, scrapping for the biggest share of food, Alfie leans down to kiss Annabel. "Thank you." He turns his gaze to Ivan and beckons him to follow with a flick of his head as he heads for the kitchen door, and Ivan is about to follow until he feels fingers gently press into his arm. He turns to see Rosie smiling at him.

"I'll see you later."

Like always, Ivan returns her shallow affection. "See you later, Rosie."

He lets her touch linger longer than it should before pulling away and following Alfie, who's already gone from the kitchen. Ivan only catches up with him at the back door of the farmhouse, which is open wide to reveal the cattle and sheep grazing on the commons.

"Come on," he says, waving him over. "Looks like one of my men's already out here."

Ivan steps out of the house and walks with Alfie past the stables and through the commons, approaching the cropless fields that stretch along the main road leading toward the river and the Tapper's brewery.

"You're getting that distant look in your eye, lad," Alfie says, "Don't worry. I'll only have you do half a day's work. I'll pay you in money and see your icehouse full... or as full as it can be, all things considered."

Ivan chuckles. "Always a man of integrity."

They continue walking, and as they do, Ivan fixes a lone figure with his gaze, a man he recognises as one of his father's stalwart workers. He's too immersed in surveying the land to notice them, his hands on his hips and his back turned to them as his head swivels this way and that.

"So... how's the old man?"

Ivan breaks away from the worker as his attention diverts to Alfie again. "He's... distant."

Alfie sighs. "Damn."

"What happened yesterday?" Ivan says.

"Had a council meeting. Called in by Sylf. Was supposed to be civil, but these things rarely are when your father and Old Joe are in the same room.

"That, and we've never faced a problem like this beast. Old Joe cracked, and your father got sick of his whining. Words were exchanged, but I won't repeat them." Alfie hums, a sound laced with regret. "I'd hoped they wouldn't cut too deep, but..."

Ivan shakes his head. "Things like that usually go both ways."

"Aye, your father hit Old Joe where it hurt, too. 'Course, that means poor Rosie got caught up in this mess as well. Had to let her stay the night."

Ivan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. "This beast is going to be the death of us, and in more ways than one."

"You can say that again."

This close to the fields, the worker can't help but hear their approach. He turns around, catching sight of Alfie before tipping his cap in his direction.

"Boss."

"You don't need to call me that, Lou. It's good to see you," Alfie says.

"It's your land. An' likewise," the man says, though he seems happier to see Ivan as his bright green eyes look him up and down, a wry smile curling his lips. "Ivan? Pop's finally decided te kick ye out?"

Ivan laughs. "Not yet."

"An' here I was thinkin' I'd won a bet."

Ivan shrugs. "Lady luck is a fickle mistress."

"Don't need t'tell me twice. Anyways, the land looks good, not too hard fer ploughin'. What say we get the geldings out?"

Alfie nods. He looks at Ivan and gently claps him on the shoulder. "Ready to work?"

Ivan hums with subtle but ironic laughter. "Always."