CHAPTER 555: DAWN IN TANGLED LIMBS (1)

The dawn spilled gently, not with trumpets but with a slow unfurling of light. The mist hung low, curling across the campsite, weaving into the tents and the piled gear. The first warmth brushed Arielle’s cheek as she stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Her spectacles had slid halfway down her nose during the night, and she pushed them up clumsily before realizing her arm was caught under Sigrid’s heavy frame.

The three mountain women were wrapped around her like they had always belonged: Sigrid’s muscular arm hooked firmly around her waist, Lara’s red braid spilled across her shoulder, and Tara’s soft hair tickled her chin. The faint scent of thyme clung to Tara, while Sigrid smelled faintly of sweat and leather. Their legs were tangled, bodies pressed close from the heat they had shared, and Arielle’s cheeks flamed when she realized just how slick their thighs were from last night’s firelit excess. Her scholar’s mind tried to catalogue the sensation—the damp warmth, the softness of skin against skin—but she bit down on the thought, too flustered.

She shifted slightly, and Lara groaned, rolling onto her back, freckles scattered across her flushed cheeks. Tara blinked sleepily, her brown eyes soft with morning haze, while Sigrid yawned loud, stretching like a bear, her blonde ponytail swishing across Arielle’s face.

Lyan stirred just a few feet away, propped on an elbow, watching them with that half-smile of his. His scar caught the pale dawn light, and his eyes—dark, quiet, too knowing—slid briefly over their tangled bodies before he looked away with forced nonchalance.

(You ogle too boldly,) Arturia’s stern voice scolded inside his mind. (A knight should turn his gaze away.)

Lilith’s chuckle followed, sultry and amused. (But oh, he wants to look. He always does. Pretending not to makes it worse.)

Lyan cleared his throat and reached for his trousers, his movements careful. Arielle’s eyes flicked up at him despite herself, her pulse leaping at the sight of him bare in the dawn. She snatched her gaze down again, fumbling for her tunic. The fabric clung damply to her thighs, and she hissed under her breath. All three of the mountain women cursed softly as they tried to dress, garments sticking to their skin with embarrassing sounds.

"Too much..." Tara mumbled, her cheeks glowing as she wrung the hem of her tunic, liquid dripping to the dirt.

Sigrid just snorted, utterly unbothered, tugging her vest over her chest. "Proof of strength," she said gruffly, though even she blushed faintly at the way her leggings clung.

Arielle’s hands trembled as she fastened her skirt, spectacles fogging again despite the cool air. She thought desperately of ledgers, of numbers and chalkboards, but the memory of last night’s cries clung too close. She risked a glance at Lyan, who was buckling his belt, face composed but ears faintly red. The corner of her lips twitched, and she wondered—does he think he hides it well?

When everyone was mostly dressed, there was a moment of silence, heavy with things unsaid. Then Lara, bold as ever, leaned over and pecked Lyan’s cheek. Tara followed timidly, her lips brushing his jaw, while Sigrid grinned wide and claimed his mouth in a firm kiss. Arielle froze, throat tight, before she leaned in quickly, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. It was awkward, quick, but when she drew back, she found his eyes softened, the faintest warmth there.

It really feels like we are his wives, Arielle thought, her chest tightening with something deeper than last night’s heat. Well... always been.

Lyan’s half-smile broadened, as though he had read her thought, though of course he couldn’t. He only adjusted the glaive against his shoulder and nodded once, quietly, like a man acknowledging something sacred.

The camp began to stir with life. Ants scuttled in lines, clearing ash from the firepit into neat rings. The mountain trio barked and bantered, rolling up canvas and tightening straps, movements brisk and practiced. Arielle clutched her satchel, heart still fluttering, but she straightened her back. It was time for work.

She knelt at the field’s edge, auger wand in hand, pressing it into the soil. Damp earth rose in plugs, which she dusted across ribbons—red, blue, green. She pinned them down, and the strips fluttered in the breeze like a coded map. Farmers gathered, arms crossed, faces cautious but curious.

"Here," Arielle said evenly, tapping a patch of dull brown. "Too sour. Needs lime, needs rest."

The soil was first. Arielle dropped to her knees at the field’s edge, auger wand in hand, driving it into the earth. She pulled up plugs and dusted them on colored ribbons—red for sour, blue for tired, green for sweet. Soon a line of fluttering markers traced across the field. Farmers watched with folded arms, curiosity beating against skepticism. "See," Arielle said, pointing at a strip of dull brown. "Too much work here. It needs rest and lime." She did not lecture, only stated it plain, letting the ribbon colors speak. Tara moved behind her, setting sprigs of thyme and feathergrass where dew pooled thick. "Wind runs here," Tara murmured, drawing a curve in the dirt. Lara followed, her spear stabbing into corners, staking contour lines, sharp eyes measuring slope. Sigrid enforced paths with a bellow, waving off children who tried to run through Arielle’s ribbons.

Lyan crouched nearby, sketching in the dust with the butt of his glaive. Lines twisted into runes, then straightened into simple dashes and dots. "If you copy this with chalk, even a child can set the trickle right." He stood, brushing dirt from his scarred fingers, and passed the board to a boy no older than twelve. The boy stared at it as though it were a riddle, then grinned wide when he could trace it easily.

Arturia’s voice pressed cool in Lyan’s mind. (You guide them like squires. Make the law clear and they follow without doubt.)

Lilith’s laugh curled behind it. (Or maybe he just likes bending down so the women can stare at his back.)

Lyan kept his face even, though his gaze slid, just once, to Arielle’s blouse as she bent over another soil plug. He pulled his eyes away sharply.

By noon, the model farm began to live. Ants dragged timbers into place, ridge cistern dug deep with channels leading downward. A rope ran taut, marking where the water would split. "Open," Lyan ordered. Buckets poured, and the stream trickled clean down the furrow. It soaked even, no puddles. Farmers murmured. "See how it spreads?" Arielle said, her voice calm. "It saves water."

Ash and lime scattered on the red-ribbon strips, soil turned. Children pressed legumes into the rows, laughing as ants smoothed dirt over. "They’ll fix what the soil is missing," Arielle explained. Hedgerows went in next, willow and hazel staked to break the wind. Two hives settled at the edge, bees already circling. Arielle painted a crude placard: a buzzing box with a cross through it. "Don’t kick these," she said, simple and blunt. Mothers chuckled.

A shed rose from rough wood, its doorframe marked with chalk. Inside, placards bore drawings: hand washing, tool use, seed spacing. A flat sitting stone sat at the corner so children could rest. Above it, a board where anyone could scratch their own tricks. "Try, measure, share," Arielle said, placing the chalk with deliberate care.

Sigrid dumped a barrel at the edge. "Water to wash," she barked. Lara strung rope with colored cloth for a safe lane. On the quay noticeboard, Arielle painted a tiny kettle. "For breaks," she explained when men frowned. "Farmers work better with tea."

Griselda’s laugh cracked lightning inside Lyan’s skull. (This woman makes war out of ledgers. I like her.)

By evening, the gateboard stood tall at the entrance. Chalk letters marked: Water per row. Hours worked. Yields. Even blister counts. Arielle stepped back, dust on her cheek, and nodded. "Everyone sees it. No secrets." Farmers gathered, muttering as she wrote yesterday’s numbers, then today’s below. Already the savings showed. They shuffled closer, uneasy but interested.

The work had drained them all, the model farm’s completion a quiet triumph that left muscles aching and spirits high. As the sun dipped below the pines, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet, the group trudged back to the campsite, their boots scuffing the loamy earth with a crunch crunch. Arielle clutched her satchel, its weight a comfort, her auger wand tucked inside, her spectacles smudged with dust. Her soft frame sagged, her scholar’s mind buzzing with the day’s ledgers—red ribbons, lime counts, water yields—but her heart still thrummed with the memory of the morning’s closeness, the mountain women’s tangled limbs, Lyan’s knowing gaze.

The tent loomed ahead, its canvas sagging under the weight of dew, the firepit’s crackle crackle fading to a soft snap snap as the embers glowed. Sigrid led the way, her blonde ponytail swaying, her muscular frame filling the tent’s entrance as she ducked inside with a rustle rustle. "Rest now," she growled, her voice a warrior’s command softened by exhaustion, her fur-lined vest creaking with a creak creak as she tossed it aside. Lara followed, her red braid glinting in the lantern’s light, her green eyes heavy but mischievous. "Finally," she muttered, her freckled nose crinkling as she kicked off her boots with a thump thump. Tara slipped in last, her thyme-scented hair swaying, her fair cheeks flushed, her brown eyes soft with fatigue. "Sleep sounds divine," she murmured, her tunic falling with a rustle rustle.

Arielle hesitated at the threshold, her spectacles fogging in the tent’s warm air, her heart pounding with a thump thump. Lyan stood beside her, his scar glinting in the dusk, his half-smile a quiet invitation. "Come, Arielle,"