Today was the final day of harvest, and the village buzzed with a kind of joyful exhaustion. Tonight would be the great festival — the first one I could take part in as a person rather than a ghost on the sidelines — and the thrill of it settled warm in my chest.

  When I stepped out into the morning light, the sun struck my eyes with its usual sharpness, but for once I did not care. The brightness, the bustle, the smell of cut wheat carried on the wind… it all felt welcoming. I had a place to be, people to work beside, and that was enough to ignore the sting.

  I walked down the narrow dirt lane toward the threshing area. The grass along the edges was trampled flat from days of workers moving back and forth. Winefred spotted me before I even reached the first fencepost. She was hunched with age now, her grey-streaked braid tucked neatly under a kerchief, but her hands still moved with youthful precision as she stitched a torn shirt.

  “Good morning, Drisnil. Off to help with the threshing again?” she called, smiling with bright, wrinkled eyes.

  “Yes. I am ready for a hard day’s work,” I said, returning the smile with genuine warmth.

  Winefred chuckled. “Good girl.”

  The threshing station was already lively when I arrived. More workers had gathered today. The cutting was nearly finished, and the final push of the season drew everyone in. Flails rose and fell in steady arcs, the sound of grain being struck forming a harsh but rhythmic percussion.

  I joined in quickly, falling into place beside Tom. Before long someone began a familiar work song and voices joined one by one until fifteen people were singing in overlapping rounds. From the center of the circle it almost sounded like a trained choir — rough, mismatched, but full of life.

  By lunchtime my arms ached and my shoulders burned pleasantly. I slipped away to my usual spot beneath the large oak beside the temple, grateful for the shade. The air smelled of warm earth and crushed stalks. Sera joined me a moment later, dropping onto the grass with her usual careless flop.

  Illara, however, was nowhere to be seen. She was likely elbow-deep in temple duties.

  “About Ash,” I said once we had taken a few bites of our lunch, “I think you should ask him to dance at the festival tonight. You cannot let those feelings linger forever unanswered.”

  Sera’s face went bright pink. “I know, but it is too embarrassing. And what would Illara think?”

  “How about I go see if she has two minutes to talk? That might help.”

  Before she could protest, I stood and walked toward the temple entrance. Illara was moving between the rows of cots, but she looked up when I waved, concern flashing across her face.

  “Is someone hurt?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I said quickly. “Sera needs some advice. Could you spare a moment?”

  Illara hesitated, weighing responsibilities against curiosity. Then she called over her shoulder, “I will be back soon, Jenna. I am just helping Sera with something.”

  Jenna’s disapproving silhouette appeared briefly in the doorway, but she said nothing.

  Illara followed me back to the oak, where Sera sat nervously smoothing the hem of her dress.

  “Do you have something you wanted to ask?” Illara said gently.

  Sera swallowed. “No.”

  Since she clearly wasn’t going to say it, I stepped in. “Sera wanted to know if it is all right with you if she asks Ash to dance tonight.”

  Illara blinked. “Yes, that is fine. You are friends anyway, right?”

  “No,” I said, unable to resist, “not that kind of dance. She wants to be more than friends.”

  Sera dropped her gaze immediately and fidgeted with a blade of grass.

  “Oh,” Illara said softly. “This is about the confession. I thought Sera had moved on, but I guess not.” Her tone warmed. “Well, I am all right with it. And honestly, I think Ash already has eyes for you, Sera. I do not think you will have any trouble.”

  A spark of hope flickered across Sera’s face.

  “And if you do not ask him to dance tonight,” I added with a grin, “then I will.”

  Sera squeaked in protest.

  Illara laughed and brushed off her hands. “I should go back, but good luck, Sera. Truly.”

  As she walked away, Sera slumped back against the tree and covered her face.

  “Oh gods,” she groaned. “Now I have to ask him. If I do not, Illara will never let me forget it.”

  I grinned into my sandwich. “Exactly.”

  The afternoon’s work went quickly. With so many hands helping now, we managed to finish by mid-afternoon. As soon as the last bundles were loaded onto the carriages, the mood shifted. Tools were set aside, children ran free, and the long-awaited harvest games began.

  The first game was Wolves and Sheep: simple, chaotic, and beloved. The sheep had to cross the field without getting caught, and the wolves had to stop them. I was nominated as a wolf for the first round.

  I caught three sheep within seconds. Children shrieked with laughter and mock outrage as I darted past them through the tall grass like water slipping downhill. Only Cain gave me real trouble; he was faster than I remembered.

  “That’s so unfair!” Illara protested as I tapped her shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed from running. “You shouldn’t go for your friends first. You should go for everyone else.”

  “But wouldn’t that be favouritism?” I asked.

  “You just need to be faster!” shouted Norma from the far side of the field, waving both arms with a grin big enough for two people.

  “No one can run as fast as her. She’s an elf,” Illara complained, hands on her hips.

  Technically incorrect, but explaining the difference between Nhalyri and elf would only complicate things. I let it pass.

  For the next round, I was politely exiled to the sidelines. Apparently I was too fast and too agile. I didn’t mind. It gave me time to enjoy another cup of ale while watching the chaos unfold. Alcohol always tasted better after a day of physical work.

  By evening, I was pleasantly warm and relaxed. The center of town came alive. Lanterns flickered to life, travelers and villagers gathered at long wooden tables, and a feast appeared as if conjured. Platters of pork, mutton, and beef sat beside bowls of mashed roots and roasted greens. The herbs were generous tonight, and everything tasted richer for it.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  It was the best meal I had eaten in decades. I savored each bite slowly.

  I sat with Sera, Ash, Illara, and Derrick. Illara and Derrick were loudly arguing about the superiority of sourdough versus yeast bread, the kind of impassioned nonsense only cheap festival ale could inspire.

  Illara thumped her mug onto the table. “Sourdough has character. It’s alive. You can taste the effort.”

  Derrick waved a dismissive hand. “It tastes sour. That’s the problem. Bread isn’t supposed to fight back.”

  “It doesn’t fight back. It sings,” Illara insisted as if this were the most obvious truth in the world.

  “It sours milk if you store it nearby,” Derrick countered. “That’s not singing. That’s a warning.”

  Sera covered her mouth to hide her giggles. Even Ash’s lips twitched, though he tried to appear stoic. The argument spiraled from there into talk about the moral obligations of bakers, the soul of fermentation, and whether a loaf could reveal the wisdom of its maker. Both of them acted as if the fate of the village depended on the superiority of their chosen bread.

  Once neither side managed to convert the other, and the argument dwindled into friendly grumbling, the musicians began to play. Villagers rose instantly, eager to dance. Laughter drifted through the air, warm and unrestrained.

  Illara elbowed Sera sharply.

  “Go on,” she whispered.

  Sera swallowed hard. “Hey… Ash? Would you like to dance with me?”

  Ash blinked, startled, then nodded without hesitation. He took her hand gently, and Sera’s face lit up with sudden, helpless joy. They slipped into the cluster of dancers.

  Illara turned to me with a bright smile.

  “Drisnil, would you care for a dance?”

  “Hey, I was going to ask her,” Derrick protested. “That’s no fair.”

  Illara did not wait for my answer. She grabbed my hand and pulled me from my seat, dragging me toward the dancers with more enthusiasm than grace. Derrick slumped back at the table, looking betrayed.

  The musicians shifted into a familiar rhythm. Drisnil’s memories stirred. The Lybens Dysonis — an old paired folk dance of these farmlands. I took the lead without thinking, playing the role of the man while Illara played the woman.

  We spun, stepped, and skipped in perfect time. Illara’s laughter was bright, her smile wider than I had ever seen. Lantern light caught her hair as it swayed, her eyes shining with joy.

  For a heartbeat, her laughter felt like something I could live in.

  And for a moment — just one — I let myself forget the part of me that was Drisnil… and simply danced.

  As we danced, I noticed hooded figures slipping into the crowd one by one. Their movements were wrong. Too heavy. Too deliberate. Drisnil’s instincts clenched inside my chest like a closing fist. Illara must have seen the alarm on my face, because she stopped mid-step, her hands still warm in mine.

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice tight with concern.

  “I am not certain,” I said quietly, “but I do not think the people who just arrived are friendly.”

  I tugged her gently toward the darker edge of the square, hoping for even a few seconds to assess the danger.

  We did not get them.

  Around us, the dancers began to slow, their steps faltering as the mood shifted. A few people glanced over their shoulders, sensing the same wrongness I did.

  A man shoved his way onto the stage. He ripped the hood back from his head and grabbed the nearest musician, yanking her against him with a knife pressed to her throat. The other hooded figures drew their blades. People gasped. The music died in a single, strangled note, as if the night itself held its breath.

  Several villagers lurched backward at once, knocking over benches. Someone screamed for their child. A mug crashed to the ground and rolled in a slow arc across the dirt.

  When I looked at the man holding the musician, recognition struck me like a hammer. His ears were missing — brutally cut. His wrists bore the long white scars where steel spikes had been driven into the bone.

  He was the one I had mutilated. The one I had crucified.

  He shrieked in a cracked, furious voice.

  “I am looking for the black elf bitch who did this to me.” He jabbed his blade toward his mutilated ears, then held up his wrists for all to see. “She cut them off. She crucified me while laughing. She enjoyed it. I know she is here. If you do not give her to me now, every one of you dies.”

  The villagers stared at him in horror. Then their eyes turned toward me.

  Disgust. Confusion. Fear.

  Illara’s expression shifted as a dawning understanding washed across her face.

  Before she could speak, one of the hooded men lunged at her with his sword.

  In that instant, everything inside me narrowed to a razor point.

  I let Drisnil take control.

  My world went quiet. My awareness thinned to a distant thread. I watched from somewhere far behind my own eyes.

  Drisnil moved faster than the blade. She caught the attacker’s wrist mid-swing, twisted, and wrenched the sword from his hand. With a single smooth motion she buried the blade in his stomach. He collapsed, gasping wetly.

  Drisnil smiled — slow and delighted. She knew that wound would kill him slowly. She savored that knowledge.

  I understood then that I had unleashed something terrible. And yet it felt like I had not been given a choice.

  The man on the stage shouted at her.

  “Drop the sword, or I slit this woman’s throat!”

  Drisnil snarled back, “Do you think I fucking care?”

  The threat meant nothing to her. Her tone was cold, almost bored.

  The ringleader followed through. He cut the musician’s throat in a single violent pull. Blood sprayed across the wooden boards, and she sagged in his grip before falling lifeless to the ground.

  A wave of screams erupted. Several villagers stumbled back so fast they tripped over benches and each other. Someone wailed uncontrollably. The musicians dropped their instruments and scattered. The festive lanterns swayed violently as people shoved and scrambled to flee the square.

  The other bandits surged forward. Cain and Gareth managed to disarm one attacker, but Derrick was not so lucky. Drisnil saw him impaled by a blade. His eyes went wide with pain. She did not falter. She did not mourn. She did not care. She had prey.

  His sister screamed his name and tried to run to him, but another villager grabbed her arm, dragging her back. Blood pooled beneath him as people scrambled around his fallen body, tripping in their panic.

  Drisnil charged at the ringleader. Before she reached him, a voice cried out the familiar, hated syllables of a spell. Hold Person. There was a cleric among them.

  The magic washed over her. Drisnil’s muscles seized for a heartbeat — but her will was too feral, too vicious. She broke the spell with a snarl and lunged toward the source of the voice.

  She pounced like a starving wolf, knocking the cleric to the ground. One swift thrust drove the borrowed blade through his throat. Blood bubbled up around the steel. Drisnil’s smile grew wider.

  The nearest villagers recoiled from Drisnil as if she were a wild beast. Someone shouted, “Stay back!” Another slipped and fell in the dirt trying to flee, scrambling away on hands and knees.

  Several villagers tried to flee toward the alleys, only to freeze when they realised running meant turning their backs to Drisnil.

  She stood and sprinted toward the ringleader again.

  I heard Jenna behind Drisnil chanting healing spells and saw Illara kneeling over a wounded villager. They fought to save lives while Drisnil sought only to end them.

  The ringleader backed away as Drisnil approached. His eyes were wide, reflecting her grin and the bright edge of the blade. He swung wildly, but she flowed around the strike with effortless grace and sliced cleanly across the backs of his legs. His hamstrings parted.

  He collapsed onto the wooden stage with a heavy thud, screaming as his legs failed him.

  The scream pierced the square, cutting through the din of battle. Even the bandits who were still fighting faltered for a moment at the sound.

  “You cause so much trouble,” Drisnil said. Her voice was soft, almost playful. “How about I remove those hands of yours.”

  Two quick slashes. Both hands dropped onto the wooden boards with a dull, meaty thump. Blood spread in dark lines along the grain of the planks.

  The man shrieked, staring at the stumps where his wrists ended, his fingers still twitching on the floorboards beside him.

  Several villagers gagged or turned away. One man retched into the dirt. A cluster of people huddled near the ale barrels, crying, clinging to one another, too terrified to run but too horrified to look away.

  “Stay where you are,” she told him. “I will deal with your friends first, then the real fun begins.”

  His face twisted with horror. He understood. He tried to crawl, but his ruined legs could not move him.

  Drisnil darted toward another bandit. He barely had time to turn before she cut through his leg. He fell screaming, blood darkening the dust. To Drisnil, his agony was music.

  The last bandit who could still fight turned and fled. Drisnil laughed and ran him down with predatory ease. A precise slash severed his spine. He crumpled, twitching, confused and helpless.

  Drisnil walked back toward the ringleader, smiling with a feverish joy. I could feel her pleasure swelling inside her like a tide, growing stronger with each step.

  Villagers shrank back, forming a trembling half-circle around the stage. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe. It was not the bandits they feared now.

  It was her.

  Jenna stepped between them, her face white but her stance firm.

  Drisnil hissed, “Move or die. Your choice.”

  Jenna did not move.

  Drisnil lifted her blade. The smile sharpened.

  Before she could strike, Illara rushed in front of Jenna, her hands raised, her eyes wide and desperate.

  “Drisnil, please stop. They cannot fight back.”

  Something in her voice broke through the haze. The grip Drisnil had on my mind loosened. Control returned to me slowly, like dragging myself up from deep water.

  I still had that smile on my face, but inside me the pleasure curdled into something hollow and cold. And the disappointment — the sharp, aching disappointment — told me just how close I had come to losing myself completely.

  The square was silent, except for the sound of my own unsteady breath.