The chill of early September had settled over the Don steppe like a thin veil of frost, the kind that clung to the edges of dying leaves and whispered of winter's approach. In the distance, the villagers moved like shadows through the golden fields, their backs bent beneath the weight of the last harvest—bundling hay into thick, prickly stacks, their hands raw from twisting jars shut, sealing away pickled cucumbers and tomatoes and peppers that would taste of summer in the depths of February's bite. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, of apples rotting sweetly in the tall grass beyond the orchards.

Stepan had returned at dawn, his horse's flanks streaked with sweat, his saber still smelling of gunpowder and something darker, something metallic. The raid had been a success—another band of settlers driven back from the borders of Cossack land, another handful of trinkets and silks to be divided among the men. A good haul. A clean one. He had not lingered in the stanitsa, where the women would cluck over the new fabrics and the elders would nod in approval. Instead, he had ridden out to the edge of the small grove two versts from the village, where the trees grew sparse and the sky stretched wide and unforgiving.

The falcon circled high above, a dark speck against the pale morning, its wings cutting the air with a precision that made Stepan's fingers itch. He nocked an arrow, the bowstring creaking as he drew it back, his breath steady, his aim unwavering. The bird dipped, then rose again, oblivious. He allowed himself a smirk—just a flicker of satisfaction—before tightening his grip.

A hand on his shoulder, sudden and insistent, yanking him backward. Stepan whirled, his arrow slipping loose harmlessly into the underbrush, his free hand already reaching for the knife at his belt. But it was only that girl from the village, the one who trailed after Ulyana like a second shadow, the one who always seemed to be laughing at some secret joke. She stood there now, her cheeks flushed from running, her skirts damp with dew, her eyes too bold for a girl who had just ruined a perfect shot.

"What do you want?" His voice was rough, the words bitten off like the end of a whip. "Can't you see I'm busy?" His dark brows drew together, a storm gathering in the lines of his face. The falcon screamed overhead, a high, mocking sound, as if it, too, knew the shot was lost. And Stepan—well. Stepan was left standing there, his bow useless in his hands, staring down at a girl who had the gall to interrupt him and the nerve to look utterly unrepentant about it.