"Hey, bring your old man's secret booze tonight!" The shout cut through the peaceful afternoon air.
Anton turned to see Calmo, another shepherd from the eastern fields, waving enthusiastically from atop his pony. The man's red beard caught the sunlight like copper wire.
"Yeah, I'll try," Anton called back with a half-smile. He watched Calmo ride off, whistling some tavern tune that carried on the breeze.
The "secret booze" had become something of a legend among Anton's circle of friends. His father, Thonar Weyland, had begun distilling whiskey as a mere hobby three winters ago. What made it special wasn't just the recipe—it was the ingredients. Thonar collected millet grown in soil enriched with manure from beasts of the Malor Forest, combined with a peculiar earth he gathered from somewhere deep within the woods. He never revealed the exact location, treating it like a treasure map that only he possessed.
What had started as an old man's pastime had yielded surprising results. The earlier batches had been harsh—liquid fire that burned all the way down and left men coughing and red-faced. But each new iteration grew smoother, more refined. The latest batches did something strange: they left the drinker feeling invigorated, able to carry heavier loads, and wake the next morning without the usual hangover fog.
"Might make distillers of us yet," Thonar had mused last week, studying the amber liquid in his glass with the critical eye of an artist. "Once I'm satisfied with a batch, I'll take it to the alchemists in the fortress."
Identification by the fortress mages didn't come cheap. Twenty silver pieces at minimum, a small fortune for a farming family. Thonar was prudent enough to perfect his craft before investing such a sum.
Anton guided the sheep into their pens, securing the gates with practiced motions. Meeks circled the enclosure once, ensuring no stragglers remained, before sitting at Anton's feet with expectant eyes.
"Good work today," Anton said, kneeling to ruffle the dog's thick fur. "Rest now."
With the sheep settled, Anton made his way across the property to the cow barn where his mother and sister would be finishing their afternoon work. The sweet, hay-scented air enveloped him as he entered the spacious structure.
His mother, Orla, stood beside a large brown cow, her weathered hands moving with rhythmic precision as she extracted milk into a wooden bucket. Nearby, his sister Muri was mixing feed, her chestnut hair bound tightly in a practical braid.
Orla had been born to this life. Before marrying Thonar, she had worked her family's dairy farm south of Kirkvalor. She knew every aspect of animal husbandry—from the optimal feed mixtures to how to birth a calf during the most complicated deliveries. The cows responded to her touch like she was one of their own.
"Need any help?" Anton asked, leaning against a post.
Orla looked up, wiping perspiration from her brow with her forearm. "We're nearly finished, but you could carry these milk pails to the cooling room."
Muri turned at the sound of his voice, her face brightening. Though only eight, she carried herself with the confidence of someone much older. She had been helping with the farm tasks since she could walk, and Anton often marveled at her competence.
"Anton! Did you see any deer today? Lina told me her brother spotted a white stag near the eastern creek." Muri's eyes gleamed with excitement as she approached, wiping her hands on her apron.
"No white stags today," Anton replied, lifting two heavy milk pails. "But Meeks did chase a fox from the southern pasture."
"A fox?" Alarm flashed across Orla's face. "It didn't get any lambs, did it?"
"No, Mother. Meeks is too quick for that."
Orla nodded, her expression softening. "That dog is worth his weight in gold." She finished with the last cow and straightened, pressing her hands against the small of her back. "Muri, fetch fresh water for the calves before we head in."
As Muri darted off to complete her task, Anton helped his mother clean the milking equipment. They worked in comfortable silence for a few moments before Orla spoke.
"You seem odd today," she observed, her eyes studying his face with maternal perception. "Something troubling you?"
Anton hesitated. How could he explain the strange restlessness that had taken hold of him? "Just thinking," he said finally.
By the time they finished in the barn, the sun had begun its descent behind Kirkvalor's walls. Anton washed himself at the stone basin in the backyard, scrubbing away the day's sweat and dust. The cool water revived him, clearing his mind of the afternoon's unsettling thoughts.
The family gathered around the oak table for dinner—a hearty stew of root vegetables and rabbit that filled the cottage with rich aromas. Thonar, broad-shouldered despite his fifty years, broke bread and passed it around the table with calloused hands.
"Father," Anton began, accepting a steaming bowl from his mother, "Calmo asked about your whiskey. The men at the tavern have been talking about the last batch for weeks."
Thonar's eyes crinkled with pleasure. "Did they now?" He stroked his gray-streaked beard thoughtfully. "Well, timing is fortuitous. I believe I've finally perfected it."
"Really?" Anton leaned forward. "The last one feels like it's burning in our throat."
Thonar laughed, a deep rumble that filled the room. "This one's different. Smooth as river stones. I think I've found the right balance with that forest soil."
"Where exactly do you get that soil?" Muri asked, her curiosity piqued.
"A wizard never reveals his secrets," Thonar replied with a wink.
Orla shook her head indulgently. "Just be careful in those woods, old man. Beast Tide or no Beast Tide, the forest has its dangers."
"I'm always careful," Thonar assured her, though the gleam in his eye suggested otherwise. He turned back to Anton. "I'll give you a bottle to share with your friends—Calmo and Rubus would give honest opinions. And tomorrow, perhaps I'll visit the alchemists in the fortress. Time to ask them to cast identify spells and find out what makes this brew special."
After dinner, Anton helped clear the table while Muri washed the dishes. When the kitchen was tidy, Thonar beckoned to Anton.
"Come, let's get that bottle before you head out."
Father and son descended the narrow stairs to the cellar, a cool chamber dug beneath the cottage. Shelves lined the walls, holding preserved foods for winter, tools, and—in the far corner—Thonar's distillery setup. Glass containers, copper tubes, and wooden barrels created an alchemical laboratory that seemed out of place beneath a shepherd's home.
Thonar moved to a small rack where bottles of amber liquid rested. He selected one, holding it up to the lantern light to inspect its clarity.
"This one," he said, handing it to Anton with the reverence of a priest passing a sacred relic. "Tell me what they think, every detail."
Anton nodded, carefully tucking the bottle into his satchel. They climbed back up to the main floor, where Thonar headed to the porch to enjoy his evening pipe.
Anton was fastening his cloak, ready to depart for the tavern, when a sound froze him in place—the sharp, aggressive barking of Meeks from behind the house. Not his usual alert for wildlife, but something more urgent, more threatening.
Anton and his father exchanged glances. The beast warning runes placed around the property's perimeter hadn't activated, which ruled out beasts from the forest. Still, something had alarmed Meeks enough to set him barking like that.
"Thieves, perhaps," Thonar muttered, already moving toward the weapon rack.
They grabbed their arms—Anton his crossbow and a stack of rune papers purchased from the Kirkvalor's mages, Thonar the old hunting sword that had accompanied him on countless forest excursions. The rune papers were expensive but vital protection for those living outside the walls—basic offensive and defensive magic that even non-mages could activate.
"Orla," Thonar called, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Take Muri to the cellar. Bar the door until we call."
Orla appeared in the doorway, already ushering Muri toward the cellar stairs. "Be careful," she urged, fear etched in the lines around her eyes. "Don't be heroes."
"We'll just look," Anton assured her. "If there's real trouble, we'll sound the horn for the guards."
Suddenly, Meeks' barking cut off with a pained yelp that sent ice through Anton's veins. The silence that followed was worse than the barking.
"Go," Thonar whispered to his wife and daughter, then nodded to Anton.
Together they moved through the cottage, weapons ready, toward the rear door. Anton's heart hammered in his chest, drowning out the evening sounds of the farm. What waited for them beyond that door? What had silenced faithful Meeks so abruptly?
Anton took a deep breath, exchanged one final look with his father, and reached for the latch.