The letter had arrived gilded in pomp, an invitation to Yeren for the First Furrow celebration. Metheea accepted it with dutiful grace, though a part of her heart tightened. She knew what awaited.
When they arrived, the estate was awash with splendor. Lanterns burned even in daylight, long tables sagged under the weight of food, and wine flowed as freely as riverwater. Musicians played until their fingers cramped, dancers whirled in bright costumes, and laughter shook the air.
Metheea stood among it, smiling as was expected, but her gaze drifted often to the hills beyond. For every roasted stag and jeweled cup spilled on the grass, she thought of houses that sagged in disrepair, of roofs patched thin against the coming rains. All this revelry could have built three villages. Yet here it was consumed in a single night.
