Elira's fingers traced the dewy grass as she sat on the riverbank, the woollen shawl barely shielding her from the crisp breath of early dawn. The wind drifted down from the snow-kissed mountains in the north, cool and silent, brushing her cheeks like a whispered warning. Mist clung to the earth, silver and thin, and the air carried the faint smell of damp earth and sheep wool. Autumn had begun to nibble at the summer's edges, and the sky blushed pink and lilac, a palette only the gods could mix.
Behind her, the sheep stirred, their soft bleats rising like sleepy murmurs. They had grazed well the day before and were reluctant to wake. Elira didn't mind. These quiet moments, before the village stirred and the world remembered its burdens, were hers alone. The river flowed beside her, slow and steady, shimmering with the first gold of morning.
She was sixteen — small for her age, with skin sun-warmed from days under the open sky and hair like honey spun with firelight. Life in the hills was hard, but she had grown within it like a wildflower — untamed, resilient, and rooted deeply in silence.
Her mother, Jena, had once been the heart of their small cottage. A woman of laughter and lullabies, of humming while she combed Elira's hair and making flower crowns for no reason at all. She had died bringing Lilin into the world — Elira's younger sister, barely ten now — and the house had never recovered its warmth.
Her father, Toren, was a shepherd like his father before him. Once jovial, age and grief had dried him like leather left in sun. He rarely spoke now, except to give orders or mention chores. Most of his kindness was reserved for Lilin, who had their mother's eyes and none of the burden of memory.
And then there was the second wife — Mara. Quiet at first, but like mold behind stone, she had crept into the heart of the house and soured it. Her sharp tongue was sugar to Toren, but bitter to Elira, who learned quickly how to disappear in her own home.
The water shimmered in silver ripples, and Elira dipped her fingers in, watching the current tug at her skin like an old friend eager to carry her away. The river had no mother to mourn, no stepmother to appease. It flowed free, and that freedom pulled at her heart like the tide.
"Elira!" a voice called, warm and teasing.
She turned, startled, her heart skipping — but only just — as the figure emerged through the birch grove behind her. Tall, sun-browned, his dark hair tousled like he'd run a hand through it too many times, Nicholas looked like a storybook boy wandering out of a dream.
"Brought breakfast," he grinned, holding up a woven basket. "Assuming you haven't already eaten sheep cheese again."
She smiled despite herself. "Only a bite," she said, standing and brushing grass from her skirts. "But I'll trade you for honey."
"Then it's your lucky day."
They sat on the grassy bank, close but not quite touching. Not on purpose. Not yet. He handed her a hunk of soft bread, still warm, and a small jar of honey sealed with wax. As she broke the bread and dipped it, the scent drifted up — clover and summer sun. It felt like a gift too fine for someone like her.
Nicholas was the only son of Lord Harel — once a childhood friend of Toren's, before nobility had lifted one and hardship had lowered the other. He wasn't like the other noble boys. He preferred muddy boots to polished shoes, and sneaking out to the hills over attending court readings.
"How's Lilin?" Nicholas asked between bites. "Still trying to ride the sheep like a pony?"
Elira laughed, the sound surprising her. "Yes. And she almost broke one's leg yesterday. Mara nearly fainted from rage."
Nicholas chuckled. "Remind me never to anger that woman. She terrifies me, and I've only ever seen her from across a field."
"She terrifies everyone. Even the wind goes quiet when she's nearby."
Their eyes met then, laughter fading, and something unspoken hung between them. Elira looked away first, back toward the village that crouched beneath the hill like a secret. Smoke curled from a chimney or two. Morning had broken.
"They'll be collecting names soon," Nicholas said, his voice low. "For the Blood Tax."
Elira stiffened. "So soon?"
"My father said it might come early this year. There's unrest in the east. The vampire lords want to remind everyone who rules."
Elira's jaw clenched. "And taking one of our girls every year proves that?"
"It does to them."
She tore a piece of bread in silence. The Blood Tax was a law older than her grandfather's bones. Every spring, the vampire lords demanded a tithe of blood — a girl from each district, to serve at court as bloodmaidens. Some returned years later, pale and hollow. Some never returned at all.
Nicholas hesitated. "If they ask for Lilin..."
"She's too young," Elira said quickly.
"But that hasn't stopped them before."
They fell silent again. The river sang its endless lullaby, but it sounded more like mourning now.
Nicholas reached into the basket and pulled out a folded cloth. "Here. My mother sent this."
Elira unfolded it — a scarf, soft and blue, stitched with tiny stars.
"She made this?"
"She said winter's coming early. Thought you'd need it."
Elira blinked back a sudden warmth behind her eyes. "Tell her thank you."
He smiled, and for a moment, the darkness in the world faded.
But shadows were patient. And they never stayed gone for long.
A sudden shout echoed from the village below. A bell rang — sharp, urgent.
Nicholas stood. "That's the outer bell."
Elira's heart stilled. The outer bell was rung only for one thing.
The tax riders had come.
And so the morning ended — not with laughter, but with silence heavy as stone.
Elira gripped the scarf tightly, as though it might keep her from blowing away.
Nicholas turned to her, his eyes full of something she didn't yet have a name for.
"Come," he said. "Let's see who they've come for."
But Elira already feared she knew.
The river flowed on, indifferent, as the sun rose fully and the last of the mist burned away.
The hills no longer felt like home.
They felt like a goodbye.