The air smelled of pine and impending rain, clinging to the back of Haruki's neck as he reclined lazily atop a grassy hill overlooking his village. His favorite perch. Below, a cluster of wooden cottages clung stubbornly to the slopes, smoke curling from their chimneys like ghostly fingers. The afternoon sun dipped low, casting golden splashes over fields and rooftops, but Haruki was too preoccupied to admire the view. He picked absently at the fraying hem of his silk tunic, his expression marred by a sulky scowl.
"This is boring," Haruki muttered, rolling onto his back and glaring at the sky. Puffy clouds drifted overhead, and he let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Nothing ever happens around here."
A voice from behind made him start. "Perhaps if you paid attention to your duties, you wouldn't have time to be bored."
Haruki twisted around to find his father, Lord Daichi, looming over him. Even in casual attire, the older man exuded authority, his strong jaw set beneath a dusting of salt-and-pepper stubble. His simple brown robe was worn from years of use, yet he wore it with a dignity Haruki couldn't hope to emulate. In one large, calloused hand, Daichi carried a woven basket, filled to the brim with herbs and wild roots.
"Father," Haruki greeted him with a mixture of guilt and defiance, pushing himself up to sit cross-legged. "I'm… resting. Isn't it important to be well-rested?"
Daichi raised an eyebrow. "Resting? While the rest of the village prepares for the harvest festival?"
Haruki shifted uncomfortably. He hated the festival. It was just another reminder of how he never quite fit in, despite his father's status as village chieftain. The villagers barely hid their disdain for Haruki's entitled attitude, and he knew they whispered about how he shirked chores and refused to participate in community traditions.
"The festival's a waste of time," Haruki said, a touch of petulance in his voice. "Dancing around a bonfire, stuffing ourselves with food we can't afford to waste? What's the point?"
Daichi's face darkened, and he set the basket down at his feet. "The point, Haruki, is unity. Tradition. Gratitude for the land that feeds us. You may not understand it yet, but—"
"Maybe I don't want to understand," Haruki interrupted, his frustration boiling over. "You're always talking about duty, duty, duty. Maybe I want more from life than this tiny, backwater village."
Silence followed his outburst, thick and heavy. Daichi's stern expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed almost sad.
"You don't realize how much you have," his father said quietly. "This village is your home. These people, no matter what you think, are your family."
Haruki's jaw clenched. He wanted to argue, to say that he'd never felt like he belonged, that he was tired of living in his father's shadow. But instead, he averted his gaze, pretending to be interested in a beetle crawling across a nearby rock.
"Come," Daichi finally said, picking up the basket. "Help me bring these herbs to the healer's hut. It's time you learned more about the medicine we use."
Haruki stood reluctantly. "Can't the healer just teach her apprentices?"
"Her apprentices," Daichi replied, "don't need to learn the ways of our ancestors. You do."
Mumbling under his breath, Haruki followed his father down the hill. The village pathways were bustling, as they always were before the festival. Villagers carried baskets of ripe vegetables, repaired woven decorations, or laughed as they shooed chickens back into their pens. Everywhere, there was a sense of anticipation that Haruki found oppressive.
A boy his age, Takeo, jogged past, balancing a long pole topped with ribbons. He shot Haruki a mocking grin. "Oi, Haruki! When you're done playing lordling, maybe you'll finally get your hands dirty!"
Haruki bristled, fists clenching, but Daichi placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "Ignore him."
"But—" Haruki protested.
"Let it go," Daichi repeated, his tone firm. Haruki swallowed his retort and stomped forward, trying to shake off the humiliation. No matter what he did, he was always the spoiled chieftain's son, soft and useless. The villagers' contempt was like a nettle sting, one he couldn't escape.
They arrived at the healer's hut, where old Lady Mitsuko was sorting dried leaves into neat bundles. She looked up and smiled, her lined face warm and kind. "Lord Daichi, Haruki. Come in, come in."
Daichi set the basket down, and Mitsuko began inspecting its contents. Haruki hovered awkwardly by the door, wishing he could be anywhere else.
Lady Mitsuko glanced at him. "Haruki, come help me with these herbs."
"Me?" Haruki echoed, dismayed.
"Yes, you," she chuckled. "These old hands can't sort forever."
With a sigh, Haruki approached, and she guided him through the process of separating herbs for poultices and teas. The work was tedious, and he fumbled more than once, but Mitsuko was patient. Her gentle manner surprised him, and he found himself relaxing, if only a little.
"So," Mitsuko said, not unkindly, "are you looking forward to the festival?"
Haruki frowned. "Not really. It's just… not my thing."
Mitsuko studied him with knowing eyes. "Ah, you're at that age. Wanting something more, something different. I suppose we all felt that once."
Haruki's hands stilled. "Really?"
"Oh yes," she replied with a wistful smile. "But the world outside this village isn't as kind as it seems. Sometimes, the greatest adventure is learning to love where you are."
Haruki was about to respond when a commotion erupted outside. Shouting voices. The ground trembled beneath his feet. His heart jumped into his throat as the door burst open, and a man stumbled in, his face pale with terror.
"Lord Daichi!" the man cried. "There's… there's something in the forest! A monster, bigger than any bear we've ever seen. It's coming this way!"
The air grew heavy, charged with sudden fear. Haruki felt his pulse hammer in his ears, and he looked to his father, who had gone rigid.
Daichi's face was grim. "Mitsuko, gather everyone inside. Haruki—"
He turned to his son, and in that moment, Haruki saw something in his father's eyes that made his blood run cold: worry. True, bone-deep worry.
"Stay close," Daichi ordered, his voice steady but tense. "And whatever happens, do not run."
Haruki nodded, his stomach twisting with dread. The lazy afternoon had fractured, and something dark and terrible was on the horizon.
For the first time in his life, Haruki wondered if boredom had been a blessing.