The knock on the door jolted me awake, sharp and insistent. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The room was dim, the faint glow of dawn filtering through the small window. Then the door creaked open, and Rorik's silhouette filled the frame. His voice was low, firm, and left no room for argument.
"Get up," he said. "If you're staying here, you're working."
I blinked, disoriented, then glanced to my side. Emery was still curled up beside me, her breathing soft and steady, her face peaceful in sleep. I hesitated, but Rorik didn't give me time to respond.
"Five minutes," he said, already turning to leave. The door shut with a dull thud, and I let out a long breath, running a hand over my face.
I slipped out of bed quietly, doing my best not to disturb Emery. She stirred slightly, murmuring something under her breath but didn't wake. I dressed quickly, pulling on the simple tunic and pants Inga had given me the night before, and stepped into the chilly hallway.
---
The cold hit me as soon as I stepped outside, the morning air sharp and biting against my skin. The sky was a deep navy, the first streaks of orange just starting to show on the horizon.
The barn loomed ahead, its wide doors open and waiting. Rorik stood just inside, his broad shoulders framed by the glow of the lantern hanging from a beam. He held a pitchfork in one hand, his stance relaxed but purposeful.
"Took you long enough," he said, his eyes scanning me critically.
I frowned, glancing at the barely lightened sky. "It's been less than five minutes."
"Exactly," he said, already turning toward a towering stack of hay bales. "You've wasted four of them."
---
The first bale of hay was heavier than I expected, and the coarse straw scratched at my hands as I hoisted it onto my shoulder. Rorik had made it sound simple—move the hay from one end of the barn to the other—but the task was grueling. The bales seemed endless, each trip across the barn sapping more of my strength.
Rorik worked alongside me, his movements steady and efficient. He didn't speak much, only offering the occasional grunt of approval or correction, but his presence was a constant reminder not to slack off.
By the time the sun was fully up, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, my arms were burning, and sweat soaked through my tunic. My breath came in ragged bursts, but I didn't stop.
Outside, I caught a glimpse of movement. Bjorn and the others were heading down the path, their weapons strapped to their backs, their laughter carrying faintly on the wind.
I leaned against a stack of hay, watching them disappear over the hill. They were so confident, so strong. Everything about them screamed purpose.
I gripped the pitchfork tighter, the ache in my arms fading beneath a surge of determination. I had to get stronger. I had to protect Emery. After today, I'd start training. No matter how tired I was, I would make time.
---
The hours blurred together in a haze of lifting, carrying, and stacking. The barn smelled of hay and dust, and the scrape of the pitchfork against the wooden floor was the only sound that broke the quiet.
Finally, when the sun was high in the sky, Rorik called for a break. We headed back to the house, my legs barely carrying me.
The kitchen was warm, the scent of fresh bread and stew wafting through the air. Emery was there, her cheeks pink as she helped Inga set the table. She smiled when she saw me, a flicker of amusement in her eyes.
"You survived," she said, handing me a cup of water.
"Barely," I muttered, sinking into a chair.
Inga set a steaming bowl of stew in front of me, her kind eyes glancing at my dirt-streaked face. "Eat," she said simply. "You'll feel better."
I didn't need to be told twice. The first bite was heavenly, the rich flavors soothing my tired body.
"How was your morning?" I asked Emery between bites.
She shrugged, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Inga's been spoiling me. I tried to help, but she wouldn't let me do much."
"She's modest," Inga said, smiling as she sat down. "She was a great help in the kitchen."
Emery ducked her head, clearly pleased by the praise. "It's nothing, really."
The conversation flowed easily over lunch, the warmth of the food and the company easing the strain of the morning. Emery seemed lighter, her laughter ringing out softly as Inga shared stories of Ingrid's childhood.
---
After lunch, it was back to work. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon by the time we finished, the last bale of hay stacked neatly in the corner of the barn. Rorik surveyed my work with a critical eye, his expression unreadable.
"Not bad," he said finally, his tone gruff but not unkind. "You'll do."
I nodded, too tired to respond, and followed him back to the house.
---
Dinner that evening was a quieter affair, the long day leaving everyone subdued. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth filling the room as we sat around the table.
"You've done well today," Inga said, her voice gentle as she looked at me. "But you'll need your rest. There's more to do tomorrow."
I nodded, glancing at Emery, who stifled a yawn. She caught my eye and gave a small smile, her exhaustion clear.
"Come on," Inga said, rising from the table. "I'll show you to your rooms."
---
The room was simple but comfortable, the bed neatly made with a thick quilt folded at the foot. The flickering light of a candle cast soft shadows on the walls as I sat on the edge of the bed, my body aching from the day's work.
A soft knock broke the quiet, and before I could respond, Emery slipped inside. She hesitated by the door, her arms crossed over her chest.
"I can't…" she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't sleep alone."
I sighed, motioning for her to come closer. "You don't have to be," I said simply.
She crossed the room, climbing into the bed beside me. The silence between us was heavy but comfortable, the warmth of her presence grounding me.
But as Emery's breathing evened out, signaling her descent into sleep, my mind remained restless. The memory of Bjorn and the others leaving that morning replayed in my mind, their strength and purpose a sharp contrast to my own exhaustion.
I had to be better. Stronger. This farm was temporary—a place to regroup. But the real work started now.
As the candlelight flickered and dimmed, I stared at the ceiling, my resolve hardening. I wouldn't let Emery down. Not here. Not ever.