The aroma of simmering fruit and sugar filled the air, wafting through the open windows of the community kitchen. Lance, a lean and agile eighteen-year-old with a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes, peered cautiously around the corner of the stone building. The Arinitic Mountains loomed majestically in the background, their snow-capped peaks a stark contrast to the verdant valleys below. This serene and picturesque setting in the northwestern part of the Empire of Elaria was home to a small farming community preparing for the annual spring festival.
Lance’s heart raced as he took a deep breath, adjusting the frayed cap on his head. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The kitchen was off-limits to anyone not helping with the festival preparations, especially boys like him who had a penchant for trouble. But the allure of the freshly made fruit jam, thick and glistening in large pots, was too much to resist.
The plan was simple. Get in, grab a jar, and get out before anyone noticed. The sweet tang of strawberries and rhubarb made his mouth water. He scanned the kitchen, spotting a row of glass jars cooling on a wooden rack near the door. Perfect.
With the stealth of a cat, Lance slipped inside, his worn boots making barely a sound on the stone floor. He reached for a jar, his fingers just grazing the cool glass, when the sound of footsteps made him freeze. He held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as Mrs. Everly, the head cook, walked past, muttering to herself about the festival preparations. When she finally disappeared into the pantry, Lance seized his chance. He grabbed a jar, tucking it under his shirt, and darted for the door.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
“Lance!” a voice called out, startling him. He spun around, his eyes wide with guilt. There, standing in the doorway, was Farmer Thorne, a grizzled man with a stern face and a heart as big as the mountains they lived in. Thorne’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, the jar of jam now clearly visible under Lance’s shirt.
“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” Thorne’s voice was low and firm.
Lance’s mind raced for an excuse, but none came. He hung his head, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I just wanted a taste,” he mumbled, avoiding Thorne’s gaze.
Thorne sighed, rubbing his temples as if dealing with Lance was an all-too-familiar headache. “You know better than this, Lance. Stealing from the community is no way to repay their kindness.”
Lance winced at the word “stealing.” It sounded so much worse when said out loud. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thorne. I didn’t mean any harm. I just... I just wanted to feel a part of something.”
Thorne’s expression softened slightly. He knew Lance’s story well. An orphan taken in by the community after his parents died in a landslide, Lance had always struggled to find his place. “You are a part of this community, Lance,” Thorne said gently. “But you need to earn that place through hard work and honesty, not by sneaking around.”
Lance nodded, the shame weighing heavily on him. “I’ll make it right,” he promised.
Thorne nodded approvingly. “See that you do. Now, put that jar back and come with me. We’ve got work to do if we’re going to be ready for the festival.”
As they walked out of the kitchen, Lance let out a sigh of relief. He had dodged some serious trouble.