The high summer sun beat down on the fields surrounding Caer Lunden, turning the air thick with the smell of warm earth and ripening grain. It was a smell of profound, simple peace, a stark contrast to the iron and ozone stench of the year before. The wheat, a hardy strain coaxed from near barren ground by shared toil, stood tall, its golden heads nodding in the gentle breeze. The first harvest of the Covenant was ready.
But the peace was a thin veneer. The memory of the ghost at the old fort had faded, replaced by a more immediate, human tension. The harvest was not just food; it was a test. It was the first great shared labor, and the question of how to divide the fruits of that labor hung over the settlement like a coming storm.
Marcus stood at the edge of the field, his shoulder long
