The morning dawned like any other, though I would not realize its significance until much later. I rose before the suns, the house still wrapped in the hush of sleep. The air was cool, the kind of crispness that promised a hot day to come. I dressed quickly, braiding my hair back, and crept past the sleeping forms of my younger siblings.
In the kitchen, Mother was already at work, kneading dough with practiced hands. She glanced up, offering a tired smile. “You’re up early, Lily.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admitted, reaching for the milk jug. “Jarek said the north field needs weeding. I thought I’d get a head start before the heat.”
Mother nodded, her eyes lingering on me a moment longer than usual. “You work too hard.”
I shrugged, pouring myself a cup of milk. “There’s always work to be done.”
Outside, the world was painted in the pale blue of pre-dawn. The fields stretched out, neat rows of green and gold against the dark earth. I found Jarek already at work, his hat pulled low, humming a tuneless song. He grinned when he saw me.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
We worked in companionable silence, the rhythm of our movements as familiar as breathing.
***
As I pulled weeds, my mind wandered back to a morning years ago, when I was much younger and the world felt even larger. It was the first time Father let me walk the north field alone, a rite of passage in our family. The sun had barely crested the hills, the dew still clinging to every blade of grass. My hands were smaller then, clumsy and eager, and the basket I carried seemed impossibly heavy.
I remember stumbling over a tangle of roots, landing hard on my knees. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I bit them back—crying was for the house, not the field. I was determined to prove myself. Father watched from the edge, arms folded, his shadow long and patient.
He waited until I stood, brushing dirt from my dress, before coming to kneel beside me. “You’re stubborn, Lily,” he said, his voice gentle in a way it rarely was. “That’s good. This land rewards the stubborn. But it also tests us. Sometimes the test is heavier than we expect.”
I looked up at him, blinking away tears. “What if I can’t do it?”
He smiled, the lines around his eyes softening. “Then you ask for help. Or you rest and try again. But you never turn your back on what’s yours to care for.”
I nodded, not fully understanding, but the words settled deep.
That night, as I lay in bed, I overheard Father and Mother talking in hushed tones by the fire.
“She’s marked for something,” Mother whispered. “I saw it in the way the hawk circled today. You remember what the old stories say.”
Father’s reply was a low rumble, words I couldn’t quite make out. But I heard the worry in his voice, and the pride.
***
The memory faded as the sun crested the horizon, painting the fields gold. I straightened, feeling the weight of the day ahead, and something else—a sense of waiting, of being watched by more than just my family.
The others joined us as the suns climbed higher—Father, gruff and steady; the twins, full of mischief; Rose, trailing after me with a basket for weeds. It was an ordinary day, full of ordinary tasks.
Yet, there was a restlessness in the air, a sense of waiting. I caught Father glancing north more than once, his brow furrowed. At midday, a hawk circled overhead, its cry sharp and lonely. I watched it, shading my eyes, and felt a shiver of foreboding.
That evening, as we sat down to supper, Father spoke of rumors—strangers seen on the road, travelers from the Northlands. “Nothing to worry about,” he said, but his eyes told a different story.
After dinner, I wandered to the edge of the fields, drawn by some nameless urge. I stood there, watching the horizon, the sky ablaze with the colors of sunset. My hand tingled, faintly, but I ignored it, thinking it merely the ache of a day’s work.
I could not have known that by the next night, everything would be different.
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