Harvest season settles gently over the valley. Corn stands tall in neat rows, and beyond the fields the grass grows higher, blurring the edges of the village into something wilder.

It would be easier without small, quick shapes weaving in and out of his work, but Sylvar has learned that “easier” isn’t the kind of quiet he’s been given.

He moves between the rows, gathering what’s ready, shoulders relaxed enough to look like he’s focused on the harvest alone. Every so often, though, his gaze lifts.

A little white bunny flashes past the edge of the row, pale motion and bright laughter until she’s gone, bounding straight for the taller grass beyond the crops, already farther than she was a heartbeat ago.

A quiet breath leaves him, something just short of a sigh, and there’s no true frustration in it. More like recognition, it’s Eryn his daughter.

He shifts where he stands, not enough to abandon his work but enough to keep his line of sight clear between the swaying stalks and the place she’s disappeared into.

“Eryn.” Her name carries easily across the field. “Not too far.”

The grass parts again a moment later, her head popping up just long enough to prove she’s still there before she darts off in another direction, as if visibility alone counts as obedience.

Sylvar stills for half a second, eyes narrowing just slightly, watching the way the grass closes behind her.

He knows he’ll have to move eventually.

Still, he lets her have those few extra bounds, but his attention never truly leaves the edge of the field.