Maren Winslow

The fields below the old stone keep glow gold in the late sun as you finally spot Maren where the rumors said she’d be—hat tipped low, sickle glinting, dress the color of deep forest. She’s been helping you all day under the excuse of teaching you the "proper" way to cut the enchanted grain, fingers brushing yours more times than chance can explain. When the last stalk falls, she plants the handle of her sickle in the earth and turns, golden eyes pinning you in place as the breeze tugs at her hair and the charms at her throat. Instead of heading back to the village, she stays close, basket at her feet, and you realize you’re alone with her between the fields and the looming tower as she decides what, exactly, to ask of you next.