Chapter 5 – Steps into the Day

The smell of thin porridge reached her first—warm, plain, and a little smoky. Elena opened her eyes to the soft morning light. It slipped through the crooked shutter and drew pale lines across the clay wall. Her side ached, a slow pull under the bandage. She breathed carefully and pushed herself up on one elbow.

A soft knock. The door opened with a small creak.

“It’s me,” a woman whispered. She had a braid down her back and a calm face. Elena remembered her from the night of pain—the steady hands, the cloth pressed to the wound. “Hessa from next door,” the woman added, as if to make it easy. She carried a wooden bowl and a cup.

Elena swallowed. “Thank you.”

Hessa set the bowl on a stool and checked the bandage with gentle fingers. “No fever. Good. Healer’s still away by the river settlements, but you are holding.” She offered the cup. “Water. Small sips.”

Elena drank, the coolness easing the dryness in her mouth. The porridge was thin—mostly water with a few grains, a pinch of salt. It still felt like a gift.

“Your father woke before dawn,” Hessa said quietly. “I told him to save his strength. He wanted to come in, but his legs aren’t steady. I’ll bring him a bowl after you.”

Elena’s chest tightened. Father. She had never met him, yet he was hers now, because this body—Saren’s—was his child. “Can I see him?” she asked.

Hessa hesitated. “A little while. Sit first. Breathe. You bled much.”

Elena ate slowly. Every spoonful was a reminder of how little there was. On the shelf, she counted two clay jars, both low. A bundle of herbs, dried to shadows. A loaf end, hard as stone. Hunger lived in the corners of the room like a quiet animal.

After a time, Hessa helped her stand. Elena’s legs shook, but she found the wall and held it. Together they crossed the small space to the next room.

Her father lay on a straw mattress, propped on a roll of cloth. His face was thin, cheeks hollow, hair streaked with gray though he was not old. When he saw her, his eyes filled, soft and wet.

“Saren,” he breathed. His voice was rough, like a door that hadn’t been opened in a while. “Little bird.”

Elena’s throat closed. She knelt carefully beside him and took his hand. It was warm but weak.

“I’m here,” she said. The words felt both true and not. But his fingers tightened on hers, and that grip made the choice for her.

“I should have kept you safe,” he whispered. “I should have…” He trailed off, shame pulling the words away.

“You’re here,” Elena said. “That’s enough.”

Hessa set the bowl on a small crate and slipped out to give them space. For a while, there was only the sound of their breathing and a rooster calling far off. Dust hung in the light like tiny seeds.

“Pain?” her father asked at last.

“A little,” Elena said. “Less than before.”

He nodded, relief loosening his face. “The boys brought you home. Hessa stayed. The healer will return when he can. We gave what we had to pay him last time. I’ll find something for this time.” He looked away, ashamed.

Elena glanced at the room—the patched blanket, the empty jar, the thin bowl of porridge—and understood what “find something” meant. He had nothing left to trade.

“Eat with me,” he said.

She helped hold the bowl while he sipped. His hands shook. She wanted to tell him about soil and seed and water, about how to coax life from tired land—but she swallowed the words. Not yet. Not while she was still a stranger behind familiar eyes.

Outside, the village grew louder: feet on packed dirt, the knock of a bucket against the well, small voices arguing, then laughing. Elena stood, steadied herself, and moved toward the door.

“I’ll just look,” she told her father. “Only a little.”

He smiled as if the sight of her standing was medicine. “Only a little.”

The morning air met her with the scent of smoke and damp earth. Women lined up by the well with clay jars, shifting their weight as they waited. A pair of boys dragged a bundle of sticks, faces set in brave, serious lines. A man passed with a hoe over his shoulder, the metal edge chipped to a crescent tooth. Chickens scratched at the dust, quick feet lifting tiny clouds.

Elena watched the fields beyond the huts. The furrows were shallow. The plants were too close, fighting for the same small drink of water. The soil looked tired—pale and tight, like skin pulled too thin. She could almost feel it under her nails: powder on top, hardpan beneath, no breath between.

Two women at the well spoke in low voices. Elena caught a few words as the wind pushed them her way.

“Tribute… next moon.”

“Already? The bins are near empty.”

“Hush. The King’s men hear everything.”

The words pricked her skin. Tribute. King’s men. The weight that pressed on the village was not only the sky and the season; it had a face and boots and a ledger. Elena pictured grain measured with cold hands, the best taken first, the rest left to the poor to stretch. She tucked the thought away. A seed. A warning.

Hessa came to stand beside her, following her gaze to the fields. “Dry,” she said simply. “No storm in weeks. The old well by the willow is sour. We make do.”

Elena nodded. “Do people rest the plots? Move them?”

Hessa shook her head. “Land is small. Bellies are many.” She glanced at Elena’s bandage. “You should sit.”

“I will,” Elena said. But she kept looking—at the small errors that added up to hunger, at the habits born from fear of empty bowls. She could see small changes that would help. Wider rows. Mulch from straw and leaves. A shallow trench to catch the rare rain. A small pit of ash mixed into the poorest beds. Nothing that needed coin. Just time. Just trust.

A bell clanged from the square—one heavy strike. People paused, then went on. No danger, then, just a call. A notice board leaned near the post, a fresh scrap nailed to it with a crude seal pressed in wax. Elena could not read the words from here, but she knew the shape of a demand when she saw it.

She turned back toward the doorway. “I should sit with Father.”

Hessa nodded. “I’ll bring him tea. Willow bark, for the pain.”

“Thank you,” Elena said. The words were simple, but they carried more: for saving me, for seeing me, for not asking too many questions.

Inside, her father had drifted into a light sleep. Elena sat and watched the rise and fall of his chest. In the quiet, her mind laid out small plans like rows in a field. She would learn the names of the soil here. She would watch where water ran after a rare rain. She would listen. She would not rush. You can’t force a seed to sprout by pulling on it.

She pressed her palm to the bandage and breathed through the ache. Outside, the village beat its steady drum. Beyond the hills, the King’s men counted what did not belong to them yet. Between these two worlds—earth and crown—she would find a path.

“Little bird,” her father murmured in his sleep, the words soft as a blessing.

Elena smiled and let the morning last a little longer.

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