Rain came in the night.

  Not hard. Not sudden. Just enough to be noticed.

  Kael woke to the sound of it tapping against stone and broken wood, a soft, persistent rhythm that seeped into his sleep and pulled him back to the surface. The air inside the tower felt different cooler, heavier, carrying the faint smell of wet earth.

  Ash was already awake.

  He sat near the doorway, head angled slightly upward, ears catching every change in the rain’s pattern. He didn’t growl. Didn’t tense. Just listened.

  Kael rose quietly and crossed the tower, careful not to wake Elin. She slept curled on her side, the hide pulled up to her chin. The bed creaked faintly when she shifted, then settled again.

  Outside, the clearing looked smaller under the gray sky. Rain darkened the dirt, flattening dust, pressing the world down into softer edges. The fence stood slick with moisture, rope darkened, posts steady.

  Kael stepped into the rain and let it soak his sleeves.

  The field worried him.

  He crouched near the nearest planted row and brushed wet soil aside with his fingers. Beneath the surface, the earth held together well dark, rich, not washed out. The seeds were still where they’d placed them. That was good.

  But water changed things.

  Too much, and the ground would drown what they’d planted. Too little, and it would harden again. Timing mattered now in a way it hadn’t before.

  Elin joined him a moment later, pulling her cloak tight. “It’s light,” she said. “That helps.”

  “For now.”

  She knelt beside him, studying the soil the way she had the day before. “We should finish planting soon. Before the rain decides for us.”

  Kael nodded. “After this passes.”

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  They didn’t work the field that morning. Instead, they adjusted for the rain digging shallow channels to guide runoff away from the planted rows, reinforcing the lowest part of the fence where water pooled. The work was slower, muddier, but necessary.

  Ash stayed close, paws sinking into the softened ground as he circled the perimeter. Occasionally he stopped, lifted his head, and stared into the forest as if listening for something beneath the rain.

  Kael noticed. He always did.

  “What is it?” Elin asked quietly.

  “Nothing yet,” Kael said. “But rain covers sound. Movement gets closer before you hear it.”

  She glanced toward the trees, uneasy. “So we wait?”

  “Yes.”

  By midday, the rain eased into a fine mist. The sky remained low and gray, pressing down on the clearing. They ate standing near the tower entrance, watching the field, watching the fence.

  Elin broke the silence. “When the plants come up… if they do… what then?”

  Kael considered the question carefully. “Then we protect them.”

  She huffed softly. “That much I guessed.”

  He allowed a faint smile. “Then we learn how much they give. And how much they take.”

  She nodded, thoughtful. “People used to plan seasons ahead.”

  Kael looked out at the half-finished field. “We plan days.”

  “That’s enough right now,” she said.

  In the afternoon, Kael returned to the tower wall and worked loose stones back into place, sealing gaps the rain had revealed. Elin gathered wet straw and spread it thin to dry near the fire, turning it when it smoked too much.

  It wasn’t exciting work.

  It mattered anyway.

  As evening approached, the mist lifted. The forest revealed itself again, dark and dripping, every leaf holding water like a secret. Ash froze suddenly near the fence, body still, ears sharp.

  Kael followed his gaze.

  Nothing moved.

  But the air felt watched.

  “It’s the rain,” Elin whispered. “Everything feels closer after.”

  Kael didn’t answer. He rested a hand on Ash’s head, fingers threading into damp fur. “We’ll finish planting tomorrow,” he said, more to himself than to them. “Before something else decides it wants this ground.”

  Ash let out a low sound not a warning. Agreement.

  Night fell quietly. The fire crackled, steam rising from damp wood. Elin sat near the bed, mending a tear in her cloak. Kael sat opposite her, back to stone, sharpening his knife with slow, steady strokes.

  No one spoke.

  The tower felt smaller with the rain pressing in, but also more solid. Held.

  Before sleep, Elin glanced at the field one last time through the doorway. “It’s strange,” she said softly. “Waiting for things you can’t see.”

  Kael sheathed the knife. “That’s most of life.”

  She smiled at that, then lay down.

  Kael settled onto the straw on the floor, listening to the forest breathe again now that the rain had passed. The seeds rested beneath the soil. The fence held. The tower stood.

  Nothing had come.

  Not yet.

  And as sleep took him, Kael knew the waiting itself was the work now watching, preparing, holding ground that wasn’t fully theirs yet, but soon might be.