The days after the festival felt brighter, as if Greystone itself basked in the afterglow. Ribbons still fluttered from cottage beams, stray notes of music lingered in the air, and children carried stories of who had won which contest, embellishing details with every telling.
For Shithead, the ribbon he had claimed from the climbing pole remained tied around his wrist. It was frayed now, already stained from chores, but he refused to take it off. Every time his eyes fell on the strip of cloth, he remembered the cheer of the crowd, the laughter of his friends, and the heat of victory warming his chest.
But ribbons couldn't silence whispers. He heard them when he went to the well with Elira, when he helped Maren mend the fence, when he carried wood through the square. Words like orc blood followed him like a shadow. He never answered, never gave Garrick or the others reason to sneer. But the weight grew heavier each day.
So he clung tighter to the afternoons by the willow.
Mira had devised a new game — the hunt. Alan and Shithead were to be the hunters, stalking through the grass with sticks as spears, while Tomas and Mira acted as prey, darting and weaving. Lysa, as always, was the judge, declaring who played fair and who had cheated.
They ran laughing through the meadow, the tall grass slapping at their legs. Tomas bellowed like a wild beast, but tripped on a root and sprawled headlong. Mira was harder to catch. She darted through the trees, her eyes always gleaming with sly challenge, daring them to keep up.
Shithead lunged, longer strides carrying him close. She swerved at the last moment, slipping past him. "Too slow!" she called, laughter bubbling from her throat.
Alan gave chase, and together they cornered her at the stream's edge. Shithead swung his stick in triumph, grazing her shoulder. "Caught!"
Mira panted, hair loose around her face. Then she tilted her head, eyes sharp as a blade. "Only because you're bigger than us. Orc blood makes the game unfair."
The words fell light, tossed like a jest — but they landed like stones.
Alan's face tightened. "Don't say that, Mira."
Mira blinked, caught off guard. "It's only a joke."
But Shithead felt the laughter drain from him. His stick slipped from his hand, landing in the grass. The ribbon on his wrist, once bright, suddenly seemed heavy.
He turned away, shoulders rigid. "I'm going home."
Silence followed. Tomas shifted uncomfortably. Lysa reached out as if to touch his arm, but he was already walking, his broad back cutting through the grass.
When he reached the cottage, Elira looked up from kneading dough. "What's wrong, love?"
He shook his head. "Nothing." He climbed to his bed, lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling beams. The word echoed — orc blood — spoken in Mira's voice this time, not Garrick's. It hurt worse, because he had never expected it from her.
Later, when he finally drifted to sleep, the dreams were restless. He ran and ran through tall grass, but laughter followed him, sharp and cold, until even the willow offered no shade.