The sun had already passed its peak when Gunnar drove his hoe into the earth for what felt like the hundredth time. He was breathless, the muscles in his arms taut beneath the sun, sweat dripping down his neck in thick beads, mixing with the scent of warm soil.

  "Going to pass out before you fill that basket, Johan?" he teased, casting a mocking glance at his cousin, who struggled to keep up.

  Johan, red as a ripe tomato, muttered through gritted teeth, “I’m just giving you time to daydream about Ada while you pretend to work.”

  Gunnar let out a sharp laugh.

  "If I stand still, you complain. If I work too hard, you still complain. What do you want me to do — plant potatoes or write you poetry?"

  Without waiting for a reply, he tossed a handful of dirt at Johan. His cousin dodged nimbly but tripped on a root and nearly hit the ground.

  “Gunnar!” shouted Brann, their uncle, from the far end of the field. His voice was coarse, like stone dragged across stone. “If you’ve got energy for fooling around, you’ve got energy to haul sacks from the barn!”

  “Motivation is essential in farming, Uncle!” Gunnar called back with a grin bordering on insolence. “If fun were a crop, I’d be the king of Caer Myrr!”

  Brann only grunted, returning to his work with the shovel, his calloused arms driving into the soil in stubborn rhythm. But Gunnar kept glancing toward the horizon. He always did. As if the wooden fences around the farm were never quite enough for him.

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  The hours crawled by in a haze of heat, tools, and silence — until hoofbeats shattered the routine. All three froze. Gunnar was the first to raise his head, squinting against the sun.

  “Someone’s coming…”

  The rider dismounted before the horse even stopped. It was Olaf, the village blacksmith, alone. His face looked like cold forge ash.

  “Brann, I need to speak with you.”

  Brann wiped his hands on his apron and stepped closer. Gunnar and Johan followed, curiosity piqued.

  “If it’s about that sickle I sent for repair, blame Gunnar,” Brann said, awkwardly.

  “It’s not about tools. It’s about Ortrus,” Olaf replied, his voice weighted.

  The name dropped like a stone in their stomachs.

  “What happened?”

  “I got word from Trowell. Skirmishes on the border. They say troops have been spotted near Durnhal. And… rumors it’s not just about land.”

  Brann closed his eyes, jaw clenched. Johan swallowed hard.

  “Could be just gossip, right?” Gunnar offered, trying to ease the tension. “One of those noble feuds they settle over wine.”

  But Brann looked at him in a way that killed the joke.

  “I’ve already lost two sons to Ortrus,” he said quietly, firmly. “I won’t lose anyone else.”

  When Olaf left, the silence hung heavier than the sun.

  By day's end, Gunnar and Johan sat beneath the barn’s shade, bodies sore, skin caked with dust.

  “We should call the Tower mages,” Johan said suddenly. “They could burn Ortrus down and be done with it.”

  Gunnar raised an eyebrow.

  “Tower mages? They don’t lift a finger unless it’s to light candles in their own halls. If they show up, it’ll be after half the kingdom’s already burning.”

  “If I were one of them—”

  “You’d trip on your own staff,” Gunnar cut in, shoving Johan with his shoulder. His cousin retaliated with a clump of hay.

  Later, back at the house, Aunt Brígia waited with red eyes. The medallion bearing the faces of Lars and Erwin dangled from her fingers.

  No words were spoken.

  Lying in the dark, silence lingered like dust in the air.

  “I miss them,” Johan whispered. “They were everything to us.”

  “I miss them too,” Gunnar murmured, turning on his side. “But if they were here, they’d tell us to quit whining and start training — get ready for the next beating.”

  Johan let out a low chuckle.

  “Lars would try to be a hero. Erwin… he’d try to act smart. And fail.”

  “As usual.”

  They laughed together. And for a moment — just a moment — the shadow of Ortrus seemed farther away.

  “And Ada?” Johan asked with a grin in his voice. “You gonna keep staring at her or actually do something?”

  “Go to sleep, Johan.”

  “Bet she likes you better when you’re quiet.”

  “Shut up.”

  The pillow hit its mark, muffling the laughter that followed.