The sky was a quilt of gray and bruised purple as the winds began to whisper their warning across the fields. Galan stood at the edge of his wheat, boots sunk deep into the soft earth, eyes tracing the distant line of clouds rolling in like an oncoming tide. The air was thick with the scent of rain, laced with the faint metallic tang of a storm brewing just beyond the hills. His auroram, Bramble, stood by his side, its glowing horns dimmer than usual as if sensing the unease in the air.

The land needed preparation. A storm could be a blessing, bringing water to thirsty roots, or a curse, tearing through crops with the fury of untamed skies. Galan exhaled slowly, brushing his calloused fingers over the leather strap of his tool belt before heading toward the barn.

Inside, the familiar smell of hay, wood, and animal musk greeted him. The barn was dim, lit only by the soft amber light filtering through its slatted walls. He ran a hand over the sturdy beams he’d repaired last season, reassuring himself that they would hold. The aurorams shifted restlessly in their pens, their glowing coats flickering like distant stars. Galan moved among them, murmuring quiet words of reassurance, his voice low and steady.

He gathered his tools—a hammer, nails, and a bundle of thick ropes—then strode back into the fading light. The wind had picked up, tugging at his loose linen shirt and tousling his hair. Clouds churned above him, their edges gilded by the last rays of the sun, which sank quickly behind the hills as if retreating from the storm’s advance.

Galan started with the wheat. The golden stalks swayed violently in the gusts, bending but not yet breaking. He knelt at the edge of the field, driving stakes into the earth and stringing ropes between them to create a barrier against the worst of the winds.

By the time he finished, twilight had deepened into a dusky gray. He stood, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and surveyed his work. The ropes stretched taut across the field like a web.