The procession began.
Low horns rolled across the valley, and Parandor’s gates swung wide. The stone beyond was dusted with chrysanthemum petals. Lanterns and wheat plaits hung from lintels, strung with copper bells and ribbons the colour of late grain. Doors stood wide with offerings of braided loaves stamped with sun andmoon symbols, jars of honey, and baskets of apples gone sugar-sweet from the season’s turn.
Children trotted ahead, scattering bright yellow marigolds and barley husks; elders touched fingers to brow and breast as she passed. Jingyi moved beside Alexander, accepting gifts with both hands, bowing from the waist, meeting each gaze. Each offering placed weight in her arms. With it, a little more of the air shifted—curiosity softening to welcome, reserve to recognition—until the valley’s cheer was no longer for a procession, but for the woman carrying their harvest to the gods.
Alexander kept half a step behind and to her right, windward, close enough to shield her scent if the crowd pressed in. The cheer of the castle thinned as the slope bit. Drums fell behind, leaving only the sound of their breathing.
He watched the tells he’d learned to read: the grinding at her jaw, the way she set more weight to the left, the tremor in her spine when the path turned uneven. At the first switchback he lifted two fingers to the drummer—slow the cadence—and palmed off a heavy basket to Darion without making a show of lightening her load.
A flat stone slick with chaff tipped under her sole. His hand rose. He didn’t grab but offered the air between them. Her fingers brushed his knuckles, found balance, and kept going. Pride cut through his chest so clean it almost hurt.
When the wind kicked, he moved closer and let his shoulder take it. Halfway, he uncorked the waterskin and held it out. She could take it or leave it. She took one swallow, returned it, breath unsteady for a beat before it evened.
The last rise steepened. He kept the pace she set. She didn’t lean on him. She didn’t need to. And he was glad everyone watching could see who had made the climb.
JingYi—Lady Wulfbane.
At the top of the hill, a long feasting table stood. It was not yet dark, but limyerite torches began to glow. The ceremonial sack—stuffed to bursting with grains, fruits, and roots—sat atop a thick rope at the centre of the open circle, waiting for the game of tug-of-war to begin. Cheers rose as the men formed their lines. Laughter echoed across the golden field.
Watching from the sideline, she spoke softly, not turning to him, “Why do they fight over it? The sack, I mean.”
Alexander’s gaze didn’t leave the gathering lines of villagers.
“It’s calledVirekhal Seldane—The Trial of the Split Sheaf.”
She glanced at him. “A trial?”
“Two teams pull on the same offering—harvested by all, divided by none. It doesn’t end until the sack tears and the contents spill. The belief is simple: if the earth sees the people strain for its harvests, it will repay their hunger with bounty.”
“And the sack’s tearing represents the blessing?”
“It does. If the sack doesn’t break, it’s taken as a warning.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Only once that I remember. The year after my mother died. The sack held.”
“And?”
He gave her a wry smile. “The winter nearly starved us.”
JingYi looked at him fully, eyes rounding.
“It’s supposed to be fun and games before a long winter. But my mother—” He stopped. The words dragged. “She believed in the old meaning. In what the gods give only after they watch us labour for it.”
“What doyoubelieve?” she asked.
His jaw flexed. The laughter of the men filled the air. The game hadn’t yet begun, but the two teams already finished forming.
“I believe most rituals are less about the gods,” he said finally, “and more about what we’re willing to suffer to feel worthy of the blessings.”
JingYi didn’t reply, her eyes glued to the sack. The signal was given, and the men on both sides began to pull. The sack jerked, taut and trembling. They pulled again.
Shouts rang out—good-natured, thunderous. The villagers urged both sides on. The rope creaked. Alexander chuckled when one man slipped in the grass and got up again, chortling. The tension built until the centre of the sack stretched to its limit, the woven fabric beginning to strain and fray. It looked about to rip apart, and then they would all have their cheer, their ceremony, and feast.
That’s when he saw JingYi sway. He steadied her elbow.
“JingYi?”
