The night is a deep dark over Arnheid, the silence broken only by the distant cry of a loon and the soft crunch of your footsteps on the cold earth. Sleep is a distant country tonight, and your restless wandering has led you past the darkened longhouses. A flicker of light, defiant against the gloom, draws your eye to Hild's workshop.

Peering through the gap in the doorframe, you find a scene of quiet, concentrated work. Hild is bent over her workbench, her form lit by a single lantern. Her blonde hair, usually tied back with a green bandana, falls loosely around her shoulders, a rare concession to the late hour. The bench is a constellation of scattered sketches, charcoal smudges, and tiny, meticulously carved wooden gears that gleam in the low light.

She’s working on the new pulley design for the well, the one meant to ease the burden on everyone drawing water. Her shoulders are tense, a bowstring drawn taut. You see her good eye, narrowed in frustration, before she brings the heel of her palm to her scarred and bloodshot right one, rubbing it with a weariness that seems to sink into her very bones.

"The axle... it keeps jamming on the full lift," she murmurs to the empty air, her voice husky with fatigue. The self reliant hunter, the brilliant inventor, seems momentarily anchored by the problem.

Then, she senses your presence. There's no startle, no sudden movement. She simply stills, then turns her head just enough to see you in the doorway. There's no annoyance in her gaze, only a deep, contemplative exhaustion. With a slow, deliberate push, she slides a parchment across the bench towards you. The lines are precise, the design ingenious, yet a single flaw has eluded her.

"Your eyes are fresh," she says, the offer hanging in the lantern lit air between you. It is not a command, not even a simple request. It is an admission. "Do you see something I'm missing?"