Page 67 of Forged in Fading

“Are you hungry?” the female asked as she stirred a large, steaming pot full to the brim with vibrant beans and vegetables.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” Alvara lied. “Thank you.” Her stomach, once a staunch enemy of food, now required sustenance at all hours of the day, something she was hardly used to.

The female glanced over her shoulder and pointed with her spoon to a small, weathered table at the center of the room. “Sit. I know a hungry face when I see one.”

Gods knew what possessed Alvara to speak her thoughts aloud, but she said, “You don’t even know me. I could be an Elan spy or a Valonian elf wielding illusions.”

The farmer’s seluri guffawed. “I doubt a spy would trudge out to a farm under the appearance of a Dalvian elf, holding what looks to be a loaf of bread that didn’t quite survive the journey.” She placed a bowl in front of Alvara, the scent of the herbs alone making her mouth water. “Eat.”

Alvara mumbled her thanks and dug into the food, unsure how she had even ended up in this situation. It would definitely be dark by the time she left, but at least she would return to the city with a full stomach.

A sun-kissed hand laid a handful of packets on the table. “We’re far from our best growin’ season, so we don’t have much.” Alvara reached into her pouch for coins, but the farmer shook his head. “Take them. I only have the flower seeds for myself. It’s nice to see someone with an interest in growin’ things.”

“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for…a friend.” She was suddenly using that word much more often these days. “Is it true you grow most of the produce for the food hall?”

“We do. Though it’s been harder ‘cause of the block on trade with Ela in the last few years. We used to have friends there who would give us what we needed, but the king’s been closin’ off trade with the kingdoms that won’t follow him. And with more elves and demi-elves fleein’, our numbers here are only gettin’ bigger each year.”

Alvara had never pondered the other ramifications of King Einar’s reign. There had been less variety at the Vorianta markets in the last few years, but she hadn’t cared since she had no other mouths to feed. “Would it help to have my Elan friend”—there she went with that word again—“stop by to see what she could do?”

“Send her by,” Havur said, nodding. “Elamara knows we can use any help we can get. King Ulivar gives plenty to those who work hard for the refugees, but times are tough.”

They were kind people; anyone could see that. Lilja would gloss over any reservations they held in a matter of minutes. “Thank you.”

Alvara pocketed the seeds, and the farmer’s seluri held out two lumpy bags, piled high with vegetables. “If you’re heading back, will you bring these to the food hall? Keep anything you like.”

Unsure what she would do with what felt like at least fifty potatoes, Alvara hoisted the bags on her shoulders for her walk back to the city. As she suspected, the sun had set, casting a soft sheet of darkness over the path as she groaned under the weight of the food. It was the least she could do after they helped her, but gods, it was heavy.

The trilling of birds and howling of wolves probably should have made Alvara nervous since all she had on her person was her dagger and an obscene number of vegetables, but it seemed tame compared to all that she had experienced in the past few months. She would take a wolf over imprisonment in King Einar’s dungeons any day.

Just when her muscles could stand it no longer, the dim lights of the food hall flickered before her. She fumbled for the door, her fingers almost numb from the cold.

“Doing some light shopping?”

Alvara jolted, and a few errant potatoes rolled to the ground. “Damn it, Boden! You scared me.”

He bent down and gathered the strays. “Sorry. May I help you? You look moments away from dropping whatever it is you’re carrying.”

Alvara dumped the bags into his waiting hands. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I just finished up a rather long day working on the trenches. Are you going to tell me what exactly I’m carrying?” Boden shifted his goods to one hand and pulled the door open, letting Alvara into the warm building first.

“Food.”

“Thank Vitharen, I was worried it was severed body parts. I can see that it’s food, Alvara. What is it for?”

“It’s a long story. I was looking for flower seeds and ended up at a farm. And they wanted me to bring this back to the food hall.”

Isathir eyed their cargo with an excited glint in his eyes. “What have you brought me?”

“We’ve established it’s not body parts,” Boden said as he set his load on the counter.

Alvara ignored him. “It’s from Havur, the farmer. His seluri told me to bring it by.”

The head cook rifled through the contents, examining each item with the scrutiny of a Dalvian jeweler inspecting gemstones, while Boden leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

“They’re for my sister, aren’t they?”

Her ears heated, though why she felt embarrassed for doing something nice, she didn’t know. Perhaps because it was a sign she was becoming more comfortable and adjusted here. In some ways that felt impossibly wrong, knowing her own city lay in ruins. “She just seems to miss Ela so much. I thought it might help. The farmer could use her help too if she’d like. Kat and I have mentioned it before, but she seems unsure.”