Morning in Ashira was never truly silent. The air rang with the rhythm of iron striking iron, and the scent of warm bread drifted from hearth to hearth like a gentle spell. No one here spoke of wealth or want—the granaries forever brimmed, overflowing with the grace of the land. Even when the rains came, Ashira never lost its warmth; the village itself seemed to breathe, alive with quiet wonder.

In the middle of the market, Elira crouched before a rack of apples, her long black hair falling over her face as she examined them seriously.

“You’re taking forever,” Raka grumbled, his basket already filled with fruits and vegetables. “They all look the same.”

“They’re not,” Elira said, lifting one apple. “The wrinkled ones taste sour—like your face.”

Raka snorted. “Then you carry this basket.”

“Nice try. That’s your job, guard.” Elira stuck out her tongue, unbothered by Raka’s sharp blue-eyed glare.

Since childhood, the two had been inseparable—bound by constant bickering. Everyone in Ashira knew: where Elira was, Raka wouldn’t be far behind. Whether they were arguing, racing through the fields, or helping with village chores, they were two halves of one story.

Ten years ago, Raka had been found crying alone in the forest after losing both his parents. Baran—the village chief—had taken pity on the boy and brought him to live in Ashira.

“If your father gets angry because we’re late, I don’t want to hear you whining,” Raka muttered sourly.

Elira only giggled, walking lightly as if his warning meant nothing. The morning air buzzed with market chatter—vendors closing their stalls—and from afar, three chimes of bamboo bells rang out. The sound Elira always awaited at the start of each month.

Her heart fluttered. A smile bloomed on her lips, and without realizing it, she began to run toward the village hall.

The Kamura caravan had arrived.
Villagers crowded the square, cheering as the travelers entered.
Even though the Kamurans’ faces looked cold and weary, Elira never failed to greet them with a smile.

Since the time of their ancestors, Kamura Village had come every month, bringing harvest goods, silk, and food for Ashira.

At the front of the hall, Baran greeted the Kamura envoy with dignified warmth. He raised both hands and declared,
“Blessed be Ashira and its granaries! Let us give thanks, for next month we will celebrate the Fire Harvest Festival—our grandest celebration of the year!”

Cheers erupted. Drums thundered, and children scattered petals into the air.

Elira whooped loudly, turning to Raka beside her. “The Fire Harvest Festival! You’ll join the archery contest, right?”

“No. I’m busy.” His answer was curt, his expression darker than usual.

Elira pouted. “Why? You promised last month.”

Raka shrugged and walked off through the thinning crowd. Elira trailed behind, still complaining about a promise he didn’t remember making.

She only stopped when they reached home.
“Father!” she called, smiling brightly at Baran, who sat on a stone chair. “Did we get grapes?”

Baran looked up from his papers. “Of course. They’re in the kitchen.”

Like a duckling, Raka followed Elira to the kitchen. Her eyes sparkled at the sight of a table piled high with food—grapes included.

“Father says Kamura’s land never disappoints,” Elira said, plucking a grape. “I’d like to visit someday. Maybe meet a young man from there.”

Raka set the basket down, still frowning. “And then marry him? Poor guy—he’ll go broke feeding you.”

Elira glared, cheeks puffed with grapes. “At least I’m pretty, unlike someone who looks perpetually grumpy.”

Raka’s lips twitched. “I’m going hunting with Kael. Don’t cause trouble.”

Elira shot daggers at his back with her eyes—if looks could kill, Raka would’ve dropped on the spot.

Outside, the village was alive again—preparations for the meat feast had begun. Villagers carried Kamura’s harvest to the granaries and gathered firewood.
The scent of burning wood and roasting meat wafted through the air, making Elira’s stomach rumble.

She dashed out to join the village girls brewing tea. Sena, her best friend, waved from afar.

“I’ve already designed your outfit for the Fire Harvest dance!” Sena said, eyes gleaming with excitement.

Elira crushed leaves on the wooden table, smiling. “If it’s your work, I’ll have no doubts.”

“You’ll look stunning,” Sena continued, pouring water into a bowl. “Half the village boys will want to marry you after the festival!”

Elira paused, stirring the tea. “There’s no one interesting in this village. If I ever marry, it’ll be someone from outside.”

Sena laughed. “Really? I think Raka’s pretty interesting. If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.”

“Tsk!” Elira clicked her tongue. “You wouldn’t last five minutes with him.”

The girls burst out laughing—talking about the village boys was always a favorite pastime. Elira knew Sena was only teasing, just as the rest of the village did.

Their chatter died down when Baran arrived at the hall with the village elders. He was greeted like a hero returning from war. The carved wooden table at the center was reserved for Baran and the elders, who sat in a circle.

Afternoons at the start of the month were never dull. Every villager gathered at the hall to receive meat—some to take home, some to share in the feast. Elira loved these days. The warmth, the laughter—it always felt like Ashira would never know hunger or sorrow.

By nightfall, the lively village grew quiet again. Flames in the roasting pits dwindled to embers, leaving only a few villagers resting nearby. The elders had long gone home.

Elira hugged a wooden bowl to her chest, peering toward the forest’s edge.

“Kael!” she shouted, running as soon as she saw the tall hunter emerge. “You’re back! Done hunting?”

Kael frowned, meeting her eyes with his usual cold stare. Without a word, he brushed past her.

Elira sighed. Kael was never friendly—with her or anyone, except her father and the elders. Maybe the burden of serving the chief was too heavy for him.

Half annoyed, half uneasy, Elira hesitated near the forest’s edge. She knew entering it alone was a bad idea.

“What troubles you, Elira?”

She turned. The gentle, aged voice belonged to Samara—the village elder and healer, a figure Elira had long seen as a mother.

“Oh, Elder Samara! It’s nothing. Don’t worry,” Elira said quickly.

Samara smiled softly. Despite the deep lines of age on her face, her expression always carried peace.

“You two fight every day,” Samara said, voice calm but knowing, “yet the moment Raka disappears, you grow restless. Be careful, my dear—don’t rely on him too much.”

Elira’s cheeks flushed crimson. She shook her head, ready to protest—but Samara merely tilted her chin toward the forest.

Elira followed her gaze. A tall figure stepped out from between the trees. She gasped and dashed forward.

“Raka!” she cried, poking his chest. “You missed the feast!”

Raka stepped back, avoiding her poking fingers and endless chatter.

Elira crossed her arms. “Where’s your catch? Why come back empty-handed?”

Raka reached into his pocket and pulled out a small white cloth. Inside were tiny purple fruits. He held them out.

“Berries!” Elira exclaimed, instantly forgetting her anger as she snatched the bundle.

The two walked slowly back toward the village. Elira studied the berries in her hands, her earlier frustration forgotten.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” She stopped, holding out the wooden bowl she’d been carrying. “Here—this is for you. I fought through a crowd of meat-hungry villagers for it!”

Raka accepted the bowl, glancing down briefly. His lips parted as if to thank her, but only a breath escaped.

“Don’t eat it all at once,” Elira said with mock sternness. “That meat is precious.”

Raka raised an eyebrow. “You’re waiting for me to say thank you?”

Elira grinned. “At least you noticed.”

They walked home together through the quiet streets. The last embers from the hearths glowed faintly against the cool night air.

But as the wind blew from the forest, Elira turned instinctively.
The darkness between the trees seemed to whisper her name. She shivered and quickened her pace.

“What is it?” Raka asked.

“Nothing,” she murmured, hugging herself. “Just felt like someone was watching me.”

Raka glanced toward the forest, then back at her. “It’s just your imagination. But remember—never go there alone.”

When they reached her house, Elira opened her mouth for a teasing reply—but the seriousness in Raka’s blue eyes silenced her.

“Okay,” she said softly, smiling despite the unease that lingered in her chest. “Good night.”

She turned and walked to her room, leaving the night to its quiet secrets.