Her siblings came running up, and her father slipped the coin into his pocket and plastered a smile across his face. They had agreed months ago, without ever speaking of it, that Eoin and Maire were too young to worry about where their food came from, to carry the weight of hunger. He never let them see how hard things were.
Eoin was thin as a reed, ribs pressing against his shirt. His movements were quick, his small hands constantly grubby and scratched from climbing, fighting, and meddling where he shouldn’t.
Maire wore Aoife’s old clothes. Aoife had been a skinny, gangly girl, but even so her old things hung loose on her sister. Younger and smaller than Eoin, Maire’s body was frail, her face pale, the bones of her wrists and elbows too visible beneath the fabric. She was often Aoife’s shadow; Aoife had been the same with their mother. Maire would be a fine healer herself one day if given the chance.
Their father closed the double doors, shutting the forge for the day. Tools neatly lined the walls, but the cold hearth dominated the space. The smell of iron, soot, and sweat hung heavy, the unmistakable scent of him.
They sat at the long wooden table, scarred with scorch marks, scratches, and dents from years of use. Aoife laid out the crowberries and the pignuts. Eoin’s face lit up when she set a piece of smoked fish in front of him.
“Kippers!” he crowed, eyes bright.
Maire wrinkled her nose but ate without complaint. She knew better.
Aoife offered Cormac a handful of berries.
“No, I’ve eaten,” he said.
She gave him a measuring look, but let it go. Pressuring him never worked.
Maire finished her crowberries in seconds flat. “Next time I’ll come with you.” She said in her light, sing-song voice. “I can help carry more.”
“That would be nice,” Aoife said. She didn’t bother to point out that she’d gathered all the berries there were.
Her siblings’ delight rose when she brought out the apples. Eoin bit into his and let the juice run down his chin.
“Don’t waste it!” their father scolded.
Aoife laid a hand on his arm. “He’s a child.”
Her father sighed. The children ate the apples, seeds and all.
As they were finishing their meal, a commotion arose outside.
“What’s going on?” Maire asked. Eoin was already up and out of his chair.
Someone screamed.
Chapter 3
“Stay here,” Aoife told them.
Eoin followed her. “But we want to know—”
“No,” she said firmly. “Stay.”
They grumbled but obeyed. Aoife closed the door behind her.
Out in the square, villagers were congregating around one man. As Aoife and Cormac approached, a woman was led away, crying. Farmer Gowra was at the back of the group, and Aoife tapped him on the shoulder.
“What’s going on?”
Farmer Gowra turned to her, eyes damp. “It’s Dromdara. It’s… Gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” Cormac asked.
Farmer Gowra shook his head. “The farmers down there refused to send any more food. The empire… well, they…” he was struggling to say it.
“They burnt it to the ground,” another man said. “The entire village.”
