Page 64 of Aryn

“Bah, what sort of host would I be if I made you pour for yourself?” She climbs out of her chair and leads me to the kitchen. A kettle and smaller cauldron bubble over the fire, and she grabs both. She pours steaming water into a mug, then spoons vark leaves into a steeping ball. When she drops it in and slides the mug my way, the water is already turning a deep, mossy green.

“Oats for breakfast,” she says as she ladles a generous portion into a bowl, then grabs a handful of berries from a bucket and scatters them on top. “Milk’s in that pitcher. Help yourself.”

I thank her before adding a healthy pour to my drink. The bitter taste makes me smile as it hits my tongue, and I close my eyes for a moment at the flood of memory. “Gods, that’s amazing.”

“We’ve been growing it here for generations,” she says proudly. “Tried to give your orange-haired human a cup, but he didn’t make it past a couple of sips.”

I snicker to myself. “I bet he didn’t. How well did he hide the look on his face?”

“Not well at all. Looked like he’d swallowed a cup of dirt.”

“Well, I appreciate the taste of home.” Small talk flows between us as I eat my oats and sip my vark. Thulga is a talker while Grimhild and Mezie are the silent type, so I gladly pass the time with her, discussing the history of the farm and happenings in the area. I don’t pick up any new information that helps our mission, but I find I enjoy her company.

Once I finish breakfast, I offer to do my dishes, but she waves me off. “What sort of help could I offer around the farm?” I ask. “I understand the others are helping with downed trees, but surely there’s something else I can lend a hand with?”

She chews on the inside of her cheek for a moment before answering. “Well, I’d hate to ask…”

“Please, I insist. You’ve been so gracious with us.”

With a nod, she glances over her shoulder through the window. “Something in the woods has been attacking the kravache. The zarrok do a decent job keeping them off the property, but lately their numbers have increased. We’ve lost two from the herd, and these days, any loss is hard to swallow.”

“Any idea what’s out there?”

“No,” she says with an apologetic shrug. “We’ve found some tracks, but I’m no expert in identifying them. Not too big. Webbed feet, and maybe a tail?”

“You said the river runs close by?”

“A couple of miles away. ”

“Draxyss, perhaps?”

She considers this, tilting her head to the side. “That could be it… though that’s a long way for them to travel.”

I nod my agreement as I glance towards the trees. Draxyss are nasty creatures—waterfolk by nature, fast as sin, and aggressively protective toward their territories. Even though they can spend hours on shore to hunt, they rarely stray far from their homes.

“Are there any smaller paths of water that cut through here? Streams or tributaries where they might’ve made a nest?”

Her hands twist in her lap. “There’s a stream a ways back through the woods. If that’s the case, I wouldn’t ask you to—”

“I want to help,” I interrupt. “Please.”

She nods again, more terse this time, then gestures at my lightweight clothing. “You’ll want to wear something a little more substantial. It’s cold this morning.”

“It’s cold every morning,” I say with a forced smile.

I head back to the room I share with Cato to layer up. The thump of an axe lands outside the window, and I glance out to see him standing beside a pile of fresh logs. I consider asking him to join me, but after he fled the bed this morning, I’m not sure he wants to be around me right now.

I’ll go scout the stream, and if I find anything, I’ll come back and ask for help. Another thump lands, and I pause as I stare at his strong shoulders. Cato would say yes out of obligation, but that’s the last thing I want to be to him.

Maybe by then Ronan and Lillith will be finished.

I shove the thoughts aside and bundle in my coat, gloves, and a thick wool scarf, then slip out the back door of the farmhouse. The cold hits me like a wall, biting at the exposed skin of my cheeks.

Dawn is bleeding its pale orange across the sky, but the woods beyond the farm are steeped in deep shadow. My breath fogs in front of me as I move across the frozen yard and slip between the trees.

The snow is deeper here, untouched by the farm’s activity. Each step sinks to my ankle with a satisfying crunch. I keep my senses wide open, straining to hear any unusual sound while scanning the ground for tracks. After a few minutes, I find them. They’re webbed prints like Thulga described, with the distinctive drag marks of a heavy tail cutting through the snow.

My assumption was correct.