Nothing changed during war. Weeds grew, the wind came and went, the sun still rose and set each day.

And yet at the same time, everything changed. Loved ones left to fight, rocking chairs remained empty, and only one dish and cup would be set out at dinner.

Rowen let out a sigh and sat back on her knees. Brown earth clung to her dress and fingers. She could feel the hot summer sun beat down on her head. Nearby stood the one-room cabin she had lived in as long as she could remember. Grey stones from the river formed the chimney. Thick dark logs were stacked and packed with mud. Dull yellow straw topped the small home. Vegetables grew beside the cabin in long rows. A fence made from broken branches and twine surrounded the garden, a garden that was sorely in need of her attention.

Nearby, the shadows from Anwin Forest crept closer to her garden. Rowen glanced at the forest. Tall, thick trees crowded out all light, leaving the forest floor in darkness. Dark green moss clung to the trunks. Broad ferns and prickly berry bushes spread between the trees like a blanket of green. Not one bird sang. Only the wind whispered through the trees.

Rowen shuddered and looked away. The war felt like those shadows: creeping toward her life, threatening to take away all she held dear. She focused on a large ugly weed and grabbed it.

Her father was safe, she knew it. She had received a letter from him only last week. She pulled on the weed, but it would not budge. She put both hands around the stem and tugged harder.

The war would end, and he would come home, and everything would go back to the way it used to be. Sweat trickled down the side of her face. She yanked with all her might. The weed burst from the ground with a spray of dirt.

She dumped the weed on top of the pile next to her and moved on to the next one.

"Attacking the weeds, I see."

Rowen's head shot up. A short, grey-haired man dressed in stained white robes stood by the fence that surrounded her garden. He held a basket beneath one arm. Leafy greens and bright round berries brimmed over the sides. His hair was tied back from his brown wrinkled face.

"Noland," she said. "I wasn't expecting a visit from you."

"Do you need one?"

Rowen shook her head. "No. I'm feeling fine now. Thanks to you."

Noland studied her, then reached into his basket. "I was just in Anwin collecting herbs for my stores. Found some mint growing back that way." He nodded toward the forest. He pulled out a handful of the small green leaves. "Here, try this with hot water."

Rowen stood and walked toward the fence. She hesitantly reached for the mint. Noland had never offered her anything before.

He looked at her with concern. "You're sure you're all right?"

She took the mint and stepped back. "Yes." She touched her face with her free hand. "Just tired."

"No lingering pain? No fever?"

"No."

"Good." Noland straightened. "You gave me quite a scare. Never seen a sickness like it."

"Never felt anything like it."

A look of relief crept across his face.

Her spirits lifted at the sight. Was she finally being accepted into the fold?

"You let me know if anything changes, all right?" he said.

"I will."

His smile broadened. "Well, I should be going. The missus is waiting." Noland raised a hand and shook a finger at her. "And don't work too much on that garden. Make sure you rest." He turned and headed toward the village below.

Rowen watched him until he disappeared down the hill. She leaned across the fence and closed her eyes. The sun felt warm across her face. But not as warm as the glow of acceptance. All she needed was her father to come home untouched by the war and everything would be perfect.

She opened her eyes She looked behind her at the small garden and nodded. She would finish the weeding tomorrow.

Rowen entered the cabin. A long wooden table filled most of the room. Across the table stood the fireplace. A large black kettle hung inside the opening, just above a mound of glowing coals. Dried herbs and garlic braids were draped over the mantle. Sticks were stacked neatly to the left.

Two windows were built into the wooden walls, one to the right and one to the left. The right one faced Anwin Forest. Below the window sat a rocking chair and one small bed covered in a faded patch quilt.

A chest stood in front of the bed. Inside it were a couple personal items: a lock of her mother's brown hair, the smallsword her father had brought back for her during one of his trips to the White City, and a leather glove. Her father believed that a woman should be able to defend herself as well as any man, and so he had taught her how to use the blade. The glove had been a gift along with the sword.

Rowen went around the table and pulled the kettle out from the fireplace. The water had boiled dry. She looked in the nearby bucket. Empty as well. She gave a small sigh and dropped the mint on the table. She would have to go down to the village and retrieve more water.

The left window faced Cinad, the small village that lay just down the hill from her cabin. A low table with a cracked pitcher and bowl sat beneath the window. A single cupboard stood in the corner. Three chipped plates and cups lined its dusty shelves with a tin box on the very top.

Rowen undid the knot behind her and pulled the dirty apron off. She dumped it in the corner, then grabbed the bucket and headed out toward the village.

Cinad was one of many small villages scattered across the Ryland Plains. It wasn't much to look at, just a collection of wood homes thatched with straw. But it was the only home Rowen had ever known.

The smell of smoke clung to the warm summer air. Far away, the faint clang of the blacksmith's hammer echoed across the valley. Children with long sticks ran behind tall thin metal loops they guided down the single dirt road that ran through the village. Beyond the shabby homes and stores lay hills of golden wheat.

Near the end of the village stood the well. It was made of stone and topped with a shingled cone roof. Rowen could see a crowd of women collecting around the well. Her stomach gave a small flip, and she tightened her hold on the bucket. The last thing she wanted was to arrive in the middle of Cinad's gossip time.

Rowen was about to turn back, but she caught sight of her friend Calya. Calya stood to the side, talking with a couple of the younger village women. Her hair, long and brown, was pulled back in a knot at the nape of her neck. She held a bucket with one hand and a baby on her hip. A little girl with long brown braids stood next to her.

Rowen took a deep breath and let it out with a whoosh. She could brave a visit to the well if Calya was there.

She made her way down the hill and passed the first set of houses. A couple of children between the cabins looked up and watched her. She lifted her chin higher and hurried along. The sound of the blacksmith's hammer grew louder the closer she got to the open workspace.

Inside the dark interior of the blacksmith's hut she saw Cleon bent over the anvil. His father worked the billows. Cleon glanced up. His black curly hair looked wild with the red light from the forge behind it. He stared straight at her.

Rowen fumbled, his look unnerving her. She caught herself and moved on toward the well.

The women ignored her as she approached. Good. Rowen...