(Lysander POV)
The morning was thin and clear, sky washed pale by frost. Smoke from the bakery flue curled into shapes that scattered with the wind. I hauled sacks of flour from the wagon when shouting drifted from the lane — rough, grating, too sharp for this hour.
Elira's voice dropped as she glanced through the window. "That'll be Garren again."
"Who?"
"Our neighbor." She sighed, wiping flour off her palms. "He's harmless, mostly. But when his fields flood, he blames the whole street. You'll see."
She said it like apology, but something inside me stirred anyway — an old reflex that once responded to threats by ending worlds. Now, I only breathed.
I stepped outside with the last sack balanced on my shoulder. Across the fence stood a man broad‑shouldered and gray‑templed, mud up to his knees. His boots dripped onto the stones as he motioned toward the trough lining our wall.
"You overflowed the wash barrel again! Look at that mess!"
His hands were big, calloused; they trembled, not from fear, but from years of holding anger too tight.
The path between us was only ten steps, yet I measured each one deliberately before speaking. "The barrel leaks, not floods."
"Leaks?" He barked a laugh. "My yard's half drowned. Your dripping's killing my seedlings."
I studied the soil behind him. It was saturated, clay bleeding through grain roots. The water clearly came from the uphill side — from his own irrigation ditch. But saying so outright would only deepen shame into pride.
Elira hurried out, cheeks flushed from heat and nerves. "We'll fix it, Garren," she said kindly. "Lysander can patch it today."
The neighbor grunted. "You better."
He turned to go, muttering something under breath. I caught the words — wandering brat, too proud for dirt.
For a breath, the air thickened. Muscles remembered battle, remembered what it felt like to end arrogance with a thought. My pulse sharpened, steady as a drawn blade. Then I exhaled. The frost around my boots melted. There was no need for war here.
I spent the next hour mending the old barrel, using pitch and rope to reseal its cracks. Sweat traced down my neck despite the cold. The rhythm of work cooled the fire within.
Elira watched quietly from the threshold.
"You didn't say a word to him," she murmured.
"What would words do?"
"Teach him manners."
"Manners don't last half as long as silence."
She smiled faintly at that but didn't reply.
When the patchwork held, I tilted the barrel to test the flow — clean and contained. Water obeyed gravity again, not emotion. I straightened, wiping hands on my trousers, and looked at her. "Fixed."
By dusk, scripture‑orange light draped across the cottages. I stepped to the doorway and saw Garren again, staring at the channel bordering his yard. The water had already diverted, soil drying clean.
He noticed me watching. For a heartbeat, embarrassment softened the creases around his mouth. "Guess it wasn't your barrel after all."
"No harm done," I said.
He hesitated, digging toe into mud. "Got extra kindling if you need. Apologies."
I nodded, accepting without ceremony. "We'll trade a loaf tomorrow."
The corner of his mouth twitched — agreement, small but genuine. He left with awkward wave.
Back inside, Elira handed me a mug of warm milk. The bakery smelled of cooling bread and ash. "You scared me for a second," she said quietly.
"Why?"
"That look in your eyes. The one before you said nothing. Most men in this town would've thrown a punch."
"I almost did," I admitted. "But not with hands."
She blinked, uncertain what I meant, then smiled anyway. "Whatever you did, it worked."
I sipped slowly. The warmth traveled down my throat, thick and steady. "Conflict is a flame," I said finally. "Sometimes you win by refusing to feed it."
Her gaze softened. "You sound very old again."
"I am," I murmured, staring into the mug, where the surface caught flickers of oven light. "Too old for anger. But not too old to learn peace."
***
Nightfall
The village quieted early. Somewhere beyond the hills, dogs barked once and fell silent. I sat on the bakery's porch, watching moonlight silver the repaired barrel.
Every ripple on its surface mirrored the stars. Once, I ruled over light like this — commanded it. Now, I only admired its reflection in a puddle.
And for the first time in a long, long series of eternities, that felt like enough.