The bundle of barley felt scratchy against her arms. She gripped it tightly, the sweat from her palms blending with the dust from the stalks. This was her first harvest celebration as matron of the land, and the weight of responsibility hung heavy like the sticky summer air. She smiled encouragingly as children brought stalks to add to her bundle. Her heart quivered in her chest. This celebration was a distinct mark across her soul—she was no longer a child, she was no longer independent and free to do whatever she pleased. The fortunes—and misfortunes—of these her people rested squarely in her hands. She was ready.