The morning sun had barely risen above the horizon when the open grounds between Hillford and Lowmere began to stir with life.

What had once been an empty stretch of disputed land was now filled with movement—ropes stretched across marked boundaries, wooden poles driven into the earth, and clusters of people moving back and forth with tools in their hands. The sound of hammering, voices calling out instructions, and the occasional argument blended into a strange rhythm that echoed across the field.

It was not harmony.

But it was no longer hostility either.

Eric stood at the center of it all, sleeves rolled up, a piece of charcoal in his hand as he crouched near the ground, sketching out boundary lines over a roughly drawn map. A few volunteers hovered nearby, watching as he adjusted markings and gave out quick instructions.

"No, move that line a little further out," he said, glancing up briefly. "If it’s too close, people will trip over each other during the tug of war."

One of the Hillford men frowned but obeyed, dragging the rope a few steps back. A Lowmere youth, standing nearby, opened his mouth as if to comment, then paused before simply nodding and helping secure the new position.

It was small.

But it was something.

Not far from them, a group had gathered around a set of wooden targets propped against hay bales. Arrows struck unevenly, some missing entirely, drawing sharp remarks and louder laughter in return.

"You call that aim?" A man scoffed.

"Better than yours," Came the immediate reply, followed by another arrow flying wide.

A few steps away, two men locked hands over a makeshift table, their arms trembling as others circled them, shouting encouragements and jeers in equal measure.

"Come on! Don’t lose to him!"

"I’m not losing!"

"Your hand says otherwise!"

The tension was still there—lingering in the edges of their voices—but it no longer sharpened into something dangerous but rather loosened.

Near the far end of the field, Nico and Leo darted between groups, far more energetic than they had any right to be after the previous day’s work. One carried a bundle of cloth strips while the other dragged a wooden stake nearly his own height.

"You’re putting it wrong!" Nico declared loudly, pointing at a confused farmer.

"No, you are!" Leo shot back immediately.

The farmer blinked between the two before sighing. "Then you two do it."

The twins froze.

Then, with identical determination, they crouched down and began fixing it together—arguing the entire time.

Eric glanced up at the scene, the corner of his lips lifting slightly before he returned to his work.

From where he stood, he could see both sides of the field—the people of Hillford and Lowmere moving within the same space, still separated by instinct, but no longer by distance. There were still moments where voices rose a little too sharply, where glances lingered a little too long, but they no longer stepped away from each other.

Not anymore.

A shadow fell beside him.

Eric looked up to find Drac standing there, arms folded, gaze sweeping across the field.

"Everything’s going according to your plan," Drac remarked.

Eric hummed softly, straightening as he dusted his hands. "For now."

His eyes drifted across the workers—watching the way a Hillford man passed a tool to a Lowmere farmer without a word, the way another corrected a knot before stepping back without comment.

"They haven’t forgotten anything," Eric continued quietly, "but they’ve started choosing not to act on it."

Drac didn’t respond, but his gaze lingered a moment longer before shifting away.

Not far from them, a rope slipped loose from one of the poles, the structure tilting slightly as a few people cursed under their breath.

Eric exhaled softly.

"Looks like we’re not done yet," he said, already stepping forward.

And as he moved, the field shifted with him—not as a command, not as an order, but as something subtler.

People followed.

Not because they had to.

But because, for now they were willing to.

The Lowmere fields stretched out beneath the late morning sun, the earth turned and marked in careful sections for the upcoming harvest challenge. At a glance, there was activity—people moving about, tools striking soil, voices calling out across the land—but beneath it all lingered something quieter, something heavier.

Frank stood at the edge of the field, his hands clasped behind his back as his gaze swept across the land.

From afar, it looked promising.

Up close, it told a different story.

The topsoil had been loosened and worked through in preparation, but even from where he stood, Frank could see the unevenness in its color—the way patches of earth remained dull and dry beneath the surface, resisting the moisture that had only recently begun to return.

A few farmers moved through the rows, testing the soil with practiced hands, breaking apart clumps, pressing down, checking how far the dampness reached.

Not far from them, a man knelt, scooping up a handful of soil before letting it fall slowly through his fingers.

"It’s better than before," he muttered.

Another gave a short nod. "But not enough."

Frank’s eyes lingered there for a moment longer.

Not enough.

He stepped forward, boots pressing into the softened ground, the faint give beneath his weight unfamiliar compared to the firmer lands of Hillford. The air carried the scent of damp earth, but it was thin—like something that had arrived too late and in too little measure.

He tried to picture it.

A season of waiting.

Watching the skies. Watching the river.

Watching the land dry, knowing that no matter how much work you put in, it would not be enough.

His jaw tightened slightly.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a narrow channel cutting along the edge of the field—freshly cleared, guiding the newly restored flow into Lowmere’s lands. The water moved steadily now, but it was not strong. The flow was still weak.

As though it had been rationed for too long.

Frank’s gaze followed the stream for a moment before drifting back toward the workers. There was no bitterness in their movements now—only focus, urgency... and something else.

Relief.

Fragile, but present.

He exhaled slowly.

If it had been us...

The thought came unbidden.

If Hillford’s fields had been the ones to dry. If their people had been the ones waiting. If their children had watched harvest after harvest fail-

Would they have endured it quietly?

Or would they have done the same?

His eyes flickered briefly, the answer already clear.

They would have done worse.

Frank closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again, his gaze steadying.

Behind him, the faint sound of footsteps approached. One of the Hillford men slowed as he drew closer.

"Elder Rovers," the man greeted. "The others are gathering near the east side. We were going to discuss the preparations."

Frank gave a small nod but did not move immediately.

His eyes remained on the field.

On the soil that was still not ready.

On the water that was still not enough.

On the people who were working as though it might finally be.

"...Gather them," he said at last, his voice even. "I’ll be there shortly."

The man hesitated, sensing something in his tone, before nodding and stepping away.

Frank remained where he was.

For a moment longer, he simply stood there, watching.

Then, slowly, his hands clenched behind his back. He knew this wasn’t how balance could be achieved, if they delayed any longer than they would just go back to the arguments and bitterness again. And Eric’s efforts of bringing them together would go to waste.

Frank turned at last, his steps measured as he began making his way back toward the gathering point.

His decision had already been made.

Now, he would have to make the others see it too.

The Hillford men had gathered near the eastern edge of the grounds, where the land sloped slightly upward and the noise from the central preparations dulled into a distant murmur. A few stood with arms crossed, others leaned against tools or rested their weight on one leg, but all of them turned as Frank approached.

The earlier energy of the preparations was absent here.

In its place was restlessness.

"Elder Rovers," one of the younger men spoke first, "you called for us?"

Frank gave a small nod, his gaze sweeping across the familiar faces. Men he had worked alongside for years. Men who had endured the same seasons, the same struggles.

That was precisely why this would not be easy.

"We need to talk about the channels," Frank said plainly.

The shift was immediate.

A few exchanged glances. Others stiffened.

One of the older farmers frowned. "What about them?"

Frank did not look away. "They need to be closed."

Silence followed but then came a quick and firm reply.

"No."

A younger man stepped forward, his jaw set. "We dug those channels ourselves. No one helped us then."

Another added, "And now that the river flows again, we’re supposed to just give it up?"

Frank’s expression remained steady, but his voice lowered slightly. "It’s not about giving it up. It’s about restoring balance."

A scoff came from the side. "Balance?"

"Where was that balance when our crops were failing?" someone shot back. "When we had to figure things out on our own?"

Murmurs of agreement followed.

Frank let them speak.

Let the frustration surface.

Because he understood it.

"I went to Lowmere," he said after a moment.

That slowed them.

A few brows furrowed.

Frank continued, his tone quieter now. "Their fields are not ready. Not yet. The water has reached them, but it’s not enough. Not for what they’ve lost."

A man clicked his tongue. "That’s not our fault."

"No," Frank agreed. "It isn’t."

He took a step forward.

"But it will be, if we continue like this."

That drew sharper attention.

Frank’s gaze hardened just slightly. "The channels we dug... they take more than they should. You all know it."

No one answered.

Because they did.

"They were necessary before," Frank continued. "But things have changed."

"And what if they change again?" the younger man shot back. "What if the river drops in summer?"

"What if Lowmere doesn’t share then?" Another added.

"What if we’re the ones left dry next time?"

The questions came faster now, overlapping.

Fear, laid bare.

Frank did not interrupt this time.

He let it settle.

"If we keep those channels open," he said slowly, "then nothing has changed."

The words cut through the noise.

A few fell silent.

"You think this peace will hold?" Frank continued, his voice steady but firm. "You think they won’t find out?"

That made a few shift uncomfortably.

"We’re working beside them now," he went on. "Eating from the same land. Preparing the same festival."

His eyes moved across them, one by one.

"And all the while, we keep taking more water than our share?"

No one met his gaze.

Frank exhaled quietly.

"This isn’t about fairness from before," he said. "It’s about what happens next."

A long pause followed.

"...We need time," one of the older men said. "Just a little longer."

Frank’s jaw tightened.

Time.

That was exactly what Eric had warned against.

"We don’t have it," Frank replied.

The younger man shook his head. "Then we take the risk?"

"Yes."

The answer came without hesitation.

That startled them.

Frank’s voice did not waver.

"We take the risk," he repeated. "Because if we don’t... then this will break again. And next time—"

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

The image was clear enough.

Still, resistance lingered.

Not gone.

Just... shaken.

A few steps away, half-hidden behind a stack of unused wooden planks, a figure stood frozen.

The Lowmere youth had come searching for Frank, sent to call him back toward the fields where the others had begun marking the harvest lanes.

He had not meant to listen.

But he had.

Every word.

His fingers curled tightly at his sides, nails pressing into his palms as the meaning settled in.

Channels.

Taking more than their share.

His breath grew uneven.

So this was it.

This was why.

Why the river had thinned.

Why their fields had dried.

Why they had waited.

Worked.

Endured.

While—

"They were necessary before..."

The words echoed, twisting into something sharper.

Necessary?

His jaw clenched.

Necessary for whom?

He took a step back, then another, the voices behind him fading as something hot and heavy surged in his chest.

His thoughts raced, each one louder than the last.

They stole water.

They all purposely let Lowmere’s fields go dry.

His chest rose sharply as he turned, his steps quickening into a run.

Back toward Lowmere.

Back toward the others.

The fragile calm that had begun to settle over the land was about to shatter.