The little bell by the chapel doorway chimed softly as Dara slipped out, arms full of herbs. Bundles of thyme and juniper knocked together, their scent spreading through the roofed porch. Beyond the lindens came the sounds of preparation for the noon prayers: benches being shifted, hushed conversations, someone humming an old melody about grain.

  Algar climbed the two low steps and paused. Inside, the cool air soothed skin warmed by the morning. Light slipped in through narrow slits small windows just under the roof beams and within those pale bands, specks of dust drifted like weightless seeds. Korvain’s altar stood near the back wall, plain and dark-wooded. On the front panel, a shield twined with grain was carved, and above it a low relief of a sturdy man with a sickle and a horn. At his feet lay loaves, sheaves, and jugs of honey. Candles burned at the sides, with fresh herbs laid beneath them.

  Dara had climbed onto a wooden stool and was tying ribbons over the altar. Her hair was pinned up, but stray strands escaped and tickled her cheek. She worked quickly and surely; she knew every place a wreath should hang and each nail that held a ribbon.

  “Could you set that higher?” She nodded toward a basket of small flowers. “So, it all lines up.”

  Algar came forward and passed her the basket. Her fingers brushed the chapel’s cool mingling with the warmth of skin. He took his place so he could steady the wreath while she tied the knot.

  “There’ll be a crowd at noon,” she murmured, glancing toward the door. “Better to have everything hung right before people start touching it all.”

  He didn’t answer. He took up a second wreath heavier, woven from full heads of grain and red ribbons—and lifted it over his head so she could catch the loop. His gaze snagged on the carved shield. For all its years of polish, it still held the rawness of something made by a hand, not a mold.

  “Korvain guards the borders of the fields,” Dara said, as if reading his thoughts. “Not just the harvest. That’s what the wreaths are for—some for the altar, and some for the boundary after prayers. To remember where ours ends and someone else’s begins.”

  “What about the forest?” His fingers steadied the wreath, but the question slipped out on its own.

  “The forest is Khog’s domain—the great huntsman.” She cinched the knot and leaned in to set the ribbon straight. “You really don’t know much about the gods. The old folk say the huntsman doesn’t hear common sighs so keenly. That’s why people bring more to Korvain when the woods go quiet. And this year, they’ve brought a great deal.”

  She slid a sprig of juniper into place, then took one of the honey jugs and moved it closer to the figurine. Her breathing was steady, her movements unhurried. Algar noticed small mint leaves under the candles. They gave off a fresh, sweet scent that mingled with the wax.

  “It isn’t barter. It’s not as if failing to bring something means punishment straightaway,” she added after a moment. “That’s not the point. It’s about memory. And gratitude.”

  “Or fear,” he said softly, before he could stop himself.

  “One doesn’t rule the other out.” She turned to look at him. She’d known him five years now, since he’d moved to the village, and still kept finding something new in him. “Fear holds people together, too. Sometimes that’s good.”

  Outside, the bell sounded—longer than before. Someone was setting extra benches beneath the lindens. The chapel doors would stay open so those who didn’t fit inside could hear the prayers. Dara bent for a basket of fresh petals and began sprinkling them over the stone threshold in a circle, the way she’d been taught: three times around, small handfuls, no hurry.

  “Are you going to the fair after prayers?” she asked, offhandedly.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Yes.”

  “Mother will set me at the cheese stall, as always.” The corners of her mouth lifted, barely there. “But I might slip away for a moment. I heard they brought cloth from the city.”

  She took the wreath from him and rose on tiptoe, trying to hook the loop higher than she could reach. The stool creaked a little. She flinched at the wobble, and before she could fall, he caught her by the elbow. She was lighter than he’d expected; the tension bled away as soon as she stood firm on the boards again.

  “Thanks.”

  He nodded but didn’t let go immediately; only after a heartbeat did he draw back his hand. She looked into his eyes—briefly, steadily—as if to read something there, but she didn’t reach for words.

  “They say Korvain sometimes comes as an ordinary man,” she said, returning to her work. “He watches who gives from the heart and who gives for show. And he’s said not to like idleness or disrespect for labor.”

  “Who are you thinking of?” He hadn’t meant to ask.

  “All of us.” She hid the smile with a small motion, reaching for a candle.

  He meant to add something, but the bell at the door rang in a different tone—low and short. The priest of Korvain entered. He wore a green robe belted with an embroidered band of grain, his face ruddy as a bread crust, and his eyes lingering on things without haste. He held a censer, and when he raised it, the air filled with juniper smoke.

  He stopped at the altar and regarded the wreaths. For a moment, he was silent—the silence of someone who truly looks at the work of others’ hands.

  “Well arranged,” he said with a nod to Dara. “You have a knack for it.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  The priest turned his gaze to Algar—without curiosity or judgment, simply marking his presence.

  “Will you stay for prayers?”

  Algar shifted his weight from heel to toe. He felt the boards’ coolness under his feet, and the scent of smoke and mint. He nodded.

  “Good.” The priest smiled a little, like someone who knows nothing more needs saying. “Today we’ll ask for measure—not too much rain, not too little. And for borders, that they stand firm, as these wreaths do.”

  He dipped his fingers into a small bowl of flour and drew a thin white mark along the altar’s edge. “After prayers we’ll go into the fields. We’ll set ribbons on the boundary—where the ground runs uncertain.”

  “We should add a wreath by the path to the woods,” Dara put in quietly. “They skipped it last year, and folks said the cattle balked there.”

  The priest nodded slowly. “We will.”

  Smoke from the censer curled in thin threads. The priest walked around the altar in short steps, as if even his gait were a prayer. At the door, he paused. “The doors will stay open. Let those outside hear as well.” He slid the bolt and let more light spill in. On the petal-strewn threshold, he laid a bundle of freshly cut grain.

  “We’ll begin at noon,” he said to Dara. “Finish what needs doing, daughter.”

  He left as softly as he’d come. The smoke settled, leaving a scent like cool mornings along the boundary ridge. Dara straightened the last ribbon and sank onto the stool.

  “Nervous?” The word slipped from him, quiet.

  “Always a little,” she admitted after a moment. “More for the people than for myself. We need to set a good example.”

  “And Korvain hears that?”

  “I think so.” She smiled at the thought. “But maybe it matters more that we hear one another.”

  She took a small bundle of grain, wrapped it with red thread, and held it out to Algar.

  “Take it. Lay it by the shield.”

  He set it down. For a heartbeat, the shield seemed darker, as if a shadow passed through the wood. He blinked. Only the smooth design of grain remained, worn by a thousand hands.

  A swell of sound rose from outside. People were gathering under the lindens. Someone jangled a bell—twice, then three times. Dara stood and brushed off her dress. She looked at Algar.

  “Stay near the door. I’ll see you.”

  He nodded. He had no other answer. He moved under a beam where the light thinned. Dara took her place by the altar, hands folded at her heart—not so much like a priestess as like someone helping to keep the world in order.

  Algar exhaled as he stepped out of the building. It always felt close inside. For some reason, the gods were never his way. He preferred to slip in among the trees and wait out the prayers.

  The priest’s footsteps returned, even on the boards. The bell rang one last time. The chapel door stayed thrown wide. The hubbub of the square fell to a whisper. Inside, the air smelled of honey. Mint cooled the tongue, and smoke traced thin borders in the air.

  The singing faded from their lips as the priest lifted a loaf and broke it over the altar. A few crumbs fell onto the stone, where petals and grain already lay. People’s fingers touched Korvain’s sign in a single motion, as if everyone had agreed on the same breath. Then the bell by the chapel chimed briefly, and the crowd spilled into the square. Algar waited it out beneath the lindens, and when the prayers ended, he slipped into the press of bodies.

  Next: The Market — laughter, rivalry, and a test of temper.