After breakfast, Khael and Lord Lito walked toward the family's fields. The air smelled of damp soil and wind—clean, but heavy with quiet disappointment.
The once-lush crops now bowed low under the pale sunlight, their leaves withered at the edges. Khael knelt, brushing the dirt between his fingers.
"Our harvest…" he murmured.
Lito nodded beside him, his voice steady but laced with fatigue. "Sadly, it wasn't good this year."
A crow cawed from the far fence post, black wings cutting through the silence. Khael lifted his gaze toward it.
"A crow," he said softly.
Lito's eyes followed his. "An omen, perhaps. If it weren't for your older siblings sending supplies from the military, things would've been difficult this season."
Khael's hand tightened on a stalk of brittle wheat.
(So this is how fragile this world still is… Even after all the battles, all the heroes—something as simple as bad soil can break peace.)
