"Come forth, Wind! Dry Breeze: [Loo]"
As the word left her mouth, the clothes hanging on the drying wire fluttered as though caught in a sudden seaside gust—drying not just faster, but with the smug efficiency of someone who'd skipped the laundry line altogether. Elze crossed her arms and gave a curt nod of satisfaction. "There. Magic and chores—two birds, one spell."
I blinked, still clutching the wooden bucket like some medieval intern. "So… that's magic?"
"Wind magic to be precise." Linze supplied kindly.
We stood in the backyard, sun catching on the rippling linen like sails mid-voyage. Honestly, it felt a bit like cheating. Back home, I used to put off laundry like it was a moral stance. Now here I was, watching nature obey voice commands like some kind of elemental Siri.
"Alright," Elze said, turning to me with an expression that made me regret being a slow learner, "Your turn."
"Wait, I get to try magic?"
"No, practical boy. It's your turn to dry your laundry." Elze nudged my ribs with the handle of her wooden pole—what was once a mop, now clearly a disciplinary tool of justice.
"Right, right." With that I made my way for the line, hung my clothes and got out of the way for our resident drier, Micah to do her job. Taking a deep breath she re-chanted.
"Come forth, Wind! Dry Breeze: [Loo]"
My now hung clothes fluttered, my tunic waved at me like it was drunk while my breeches clung to the line with the desperate grip of someone not ready to die. I stared, half-impressed, half-disturbed. "That... is unsettlingly effective."
Micah beamed. "It works best with light fabrics. Not so much for, you know, heavy armor or emotional baggage."
I coughed, unsure if that was a joke or a targeted attack. Let's just ignore she said anything.
"Hey, can I do magic?" I asked, curious as a kitten.
"Sure. If you have an aptitude for it. Unlike people you can't charm your way into magic." Elze answered, her tone half challenging and half curious.
Linze tilted her head thoughtfully, like a scholar amused by a fool but still willing to tutor him. "We'll need to check your affinity. That's the first step."
"Affinity?" I echoed.
"Yes affinity. Under what rock have you been living till now, if you don't even know that?"
The answer to that my dear Elze, is concrete but you shall not know.
Linze, ever the responsible one, brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and motioned me toward the bench beneath the apricot tree. "Sit. We'll determine your affinity."
"Before that, let me guess. There is Light, Dark, Fire, Water and Earth as the other affinities." I guessed confidently. After all, from my conversation with God and general understanding. This world is very similar to the ones featured in video games.
"You missed Null. However you got the rest correct." Linze said, while before going back inside the inn.
"At least you know that much." Elze remarked, sitting opposite to me. Meanwhile Micah wrapped her little magic show and also went inside the in.
Elze leaned back, hands behind her head, and gave me a look that was part smirk, part squint. "You're either a genius in disguise, or someone who's spent way too much time talking to himself in his room."
"I prefer the term 'self-taught sage,' thank you."
She snorted. "More like a self-taught slacker."
Before I could retort with something devastatingly witty and mature (read: petty), Linze returned carrying a small, palm-sized pouch. Which on opening revealed six small translucent stones- crystals. All of them were of different colours.
"This is…"
Linze sat down between us, careful not to let the pouch spill, like it contained either magical reagents or gourmet jellybeans—either way, precious.
"These are Affinity Crystals also called Spellstones," she explained, holding one up between finger and thumb. "They react to the magical energy in a person. Each color corresponds to an element. If you have an affinity, the matching crystal will react to your magic."
"I see," I said, then deadpanning. "But I also don't see."
"Uh, what?"
Elze facepalmed with the kind of weariness only an older sibling—or a long-suffering babysitter—could master. "He means he's confused, Linze."
"I got that," Linze muttered, but her tone had softened to gentle exasperation. "Look. Just pick anyone and recite after me. Don't overthink it."
"Alright, sure."
Hmm, light is one of my affinities. Wait-do people have more than one?
"Can someone have more than one affinity?" I ended up asking.
"Yes. I, myself have three. Light, Fire and Water." Linze answered. "Everyone has some amount of magical energy, however it is useless if they don't have an affinity."
"I see. Then…" Following her instructions, I picked up a crystal. It was unlike the others, it was completely transparent with a small glint inside it. "Let's start with this one then."
"Alright. Now, listen carefully then repeat." Linze said seriously. "[Come forth, Light]"
"[Come forth,….. wait," I stopped. The crystal didn't. It reacted immediately as if it's going to miss a train and began to emit a bright light. "Uh, is this safe? Cause I love myself."
Linze blinked. "It's not dangerous. Just surprising. That's the Light crystal—it's responding very strongly. Too strongly some might say."
"No kidding," I said, squinting as the crystal now looked like it was trying to audition for the role of miniature sun. I held it at arm's length just in case it decided to evolve into a flashbang.
Micah popped her head out of the inn's doorway. "Did someone set something on fire again, or is that just raw talent burning our eyes?"
"Apparently, he's got affinity with Light," Linze called back, shielding her eyes. "A strong one."
"How strong are we talking?"
At my question Linze sighed. Am I that bad a student? "Strictly speaking, magical affinity cannot be assigned a numerical value as in it cannot be measured. But if I have to say. With ten being a godly or divine levels of affinity. You would be somewhere between eight or nine. And judging by the intensity you also have an impressive quantity as well."
Micah let out a low whistle. "Well, well. Look at Mr. Divine Lantern over here. Guess we're bunking with a minor deity now."
"Can we not jump straight to divine status?" I asked, still keeping the crystal at arm's length. "I haven't even figured out how to write properly."
Elze folded her arms, staring at me with a kind of grudging suspicion. "You're telling me this guy—who had to be shown how to use a quill without dropping it—has near-divine light magic potential?"
"Magic doesn't check for common sense," Linze replied dryly.
"Clearly. If the Spellstone's reaction is anything to go by.."
The crystal slowly dimmed as I placed it back into the pouch like it was radioactive. I still could see a glow emanating from the pouch, so it is radioactive. "Alright. So Light magic's a go. Should I try the rest too?"
Linze hesitated, like a teacher debating whether to let the class clown play with the chemistry set. "You can. It might be… enlightening. Or catastrophic. But enlightening."
"Sounds like my early attempts at cooking," I muttered, reaching for the next crystal. This one was a deep, rich blue—like it had stolen a piece of the ocean and bottled it up with attitude.
"Water," Linze said helpfully. "Let's see what it does."
I held it in my palm and repeated after her. "[Come forth, Water.]"
We waited with bated breath and … nothing. Nothing happened.
"So, no water."
"Yes, no water."
"Right onto the next."
"The next it is."
Just how awkward can this be? It's already enough to sell for a pretty penny.
I reached for the red crystal next—Fire. It pulsed faintly, like it was waiting for someone dumb enough to tempt fate.
"Alright, spicy rock, let's see what you've got." I held it up and repeated after Linze, trying to sound confident and not like a man about to become a cautionary tale. "[Come forth, Fire.]"
The result? Nothing. The crystal didn't even heat up.
I narrowed my eyes at the fire crystal. "Nothing? Really? Not even a spark? I've seen more fire from microwave popcorn."
"What's a microwave?" Elze immediate picked up at my slip up.
"Nothing worthy of your attention, Madame." Instant deflection.
Linze shrugged, already fishing out the next Spellstone. "Not everyone gets multiple affinities. Some have one. Some none. You've already got Light, which is rare and powerful. Let's keep going."
I took the brownish crystal—Earth. It looked like a polished pebble from a Zen garden. Calming. Grounded. Hopefully not judging me.
"[Come forth, Earth.]"
The stone sat there like a disappointed parent. Not even a twitch.
"Maybe it's just shy," I said, trying to maintain a shred of dignity.
"Or maybe it's not into you," Elze offered. "Like most things with standards."
I made a mental note to move her bedroll near the window in case of unexpected midnight rainstorms. Vindictively.
Next came the green one. Wind.
"[Come forth, Wind.]"
The air around me did exactly what air always does: absolutely nothing worth writing home about.
"Guess you're not breezy," Micah quipped from the doorframe, munching on an apple now. "Shame. I was hoping for a dramatic hair-blowing moment."
"I was too," I said, holding the lifeless stone up like it had betrayed me. Which, emotionally speaking, it had.
Linze offered the last stone—pitch black, like a drop of night caught in a gem. It was heavier than the others. A little ominous. Maybe it would respond.
"[Come forth, Darkness.]"
Everyone leaned in slightly. I squinted at the crystal, waiting for a twitch, a flicker, a whisper of movement. Anything.
The crystal responded with the sheer force of utter indifference. I may as well have just whispered sweet nothings to a rock.
"…well?" I asked, holding it up.
"Still nothing," Linze confirmed, gently taking it back with the kind of pity usually reserved for orphaned puppies.
"Congratulations," Elze said with a mock salute. "You're basically a human lantern. All beam, no edge."
"Let's not forget he's a very bright one," Micah chimed in. "Useful for dark caves and blinding enemies with his optimism."
"I'll take it," I said, holding my hands up in mock surrender. "One powerful affinity is better than none, right? I mean, I could've pulled a full goose egg."
"You almost did," Linze said with a teasing smile. "But Light affinity of that strength is exceedingly rare to practically unheard of. Most nobles would kill for what you just did casually."
"Wow. So now I'm basically a walking LED that royalty might want to assassinate?"
"LED?" I slipped again. Man, magic will the end of me.
"Oh! You know a very bright light." Suspicion deflected. Phew.
"Exactly," Micah said. "Sleep tight!"
"Great," I muttered, flopping back against the bench. "From magic-challenged to a living lantern with a target on his back. Living the dream."
Linze chuckled as she put the crystals away, tucking them into her pouch with care. "You've got one hell of a head start. And now that we know your affinity, we can begin actual training."
"Training?" I asked, already tired.
"No," Elze said, standing and stretching, "This was the test. Now comes the part where you don't accidentally wake up the outhouse by sneezing too hard."
"Wait, what about Null magic? Why is that poor chap being left out?" I asked, my hopes reigniting.
"Null... that one's a bit different from the other elements. It's mainly composed of spells unique to the caster. Sis can use Fortification magic, which is a good example." Linze replied, her face was that of a troubled mother as she wonders how to break her child's belief in
Santa Claus.
"You can use magic?" I on the other hand was flabbergasted.
Elze grinned, cracking her knuckles like a schoolyard bully preparing to "demonstrate" the scientific method. "Of course I can. Who do you think's been practicing her punches since forever? Linze's brain and I bring the brawn."
Linze sighed, placing the now slightly glowing pouch back into her satchel. "Yes, Elze's magic is mostly body enhancement—strength, speed, resilience. Fortification magic, as I said. It's a type of Null."
"Null magic is basically the grab bag of 'everything else,'" Micah added, now lying flat on the porch railing like a cat with no sense of urgency. "If the basic elements are the main dishes, Null is whatever the chef improvised when the menu ran out."
"So it's like… DLC magic?" I asked.
All three girls gave me the same look: confusion with a side of concern.
"Don't mind him," Linze said quickly. "He's from a very… special region."
"Must be." Micah muttered. "Next, he'll say he learned to read from moving pictures."
"Don't tempt me," I warned, as I stood up and dusted off my pants. "So if Null magic is unique to each person, can anyone use it?"
"In theory," Linze replied, standing too. "But it's unpredictable and hard to learn. Most Null spells aren't taught—they're discovered. Often by accident."
"Sis, here learned it when she fell in a pitfall in our childhood."
"…She what?" I asked, my brain slamming the brakes.
Linze shrugged with the casual air of someone who still bore emotional scars from the event.
"Tripped into a pit. Came out glowing and angry. Pretty sure she punched her way out."
Elze winced at the memory. Followed by a small but righteous tirade. "Hey don't go bringing those things up. Unlike this doofus I have a dignity to consider."
"Hey now! Why am I catching strays just so you can maintain your sarcastic dignity." Naturally, I have the right self defence. So I did.
"It's better than yours Mr. 'I-don'-have-spare-clothes'." She shot back instantly.
Elze's jab hit home, and the others snickered. I raised a hand, trying to maintain what remained of my public image. "Okay, fair, but it's not my fault medieval laundromats don't do same-day delivery."
That instantly quieted the mood. As three girls looked at me like I was some rare creature in a zoo. Now that I think about it, I am. Oh shi-.
"You know. For someone who is on his second day of learning to read and write, you've used some interesting words." Micah noted with a dubious expression.
"Interesting? Is it the good kind?" I asked. Oh
God above fish me out of this.
Micah raised an eyebrow, smirking like she'd just caught a kid claiming tax exemptions for their imaginary friend. "It's the suspicious kind."
Elze crossed her arms again, leaning against the bench like a judge who already had the verdict but was just waiting for the entertainment. "What exactly did you mean by 'same-day delivery'? That doesn't sound like any merchant I've ever met."
I flailed. Verbally. "Oh, you know, like… when the laundry lady is really fast and gives it back the same day. Like… boom. Speedy wash. Premium service."
"Uh-huh," Linze said, unconvinced.
Micah narrowed her eyes, slowly crunching her apple like a private investigator with a fruit-based interrogation technique. "And what exactly is a 'premium service'? Because around here, that usually involves extra soap and a smile."
"Right! Exactly!" I latched onto that lifeline like a drowning man to a suspiciously convenient barrel. "Soap! Smiles! Lightning-fast folding techniques. You know, the usual."
Elze tilted her head, skeptical. "Do your laundresses also fly and grant wishes?"
"…Only on Tuesdays," I muttered.
"Hmm." Linze was eyeing me now like I was a particularly tricky riddle written in smudged ink. "You're oddly well-spoken for someone who just learned the first four letters yesterday."
I forced a laugh. "It's a gift. Verbal agility. Born with it. Besides, it's the local language here I am unfamiliar with."
"What do you mean? Local language. This is the language everyone throughout the world speaks." Elze asked with a stumped and dubious expression on her face.
"They do?"
Just great, I dug my own grave. They didn't laugh. Or blink. I was now the proud recipient of three piercing stares, the kind that could peel paint or truth from walls.
Micah leaned in, lazily dragging out her words. "You're hiding something, glowy boy."
"Oh, come on. Don't tell me a guy can't be mysterious anymore without being put on trial by snack time."
Elze stepped forward, expression deadpan. "You've used at least three to four words since morning that I've never heard anyone say before. And I once spent a week translating an accounting ledger."
I pointed dramatically. "That sounds worse than what I'm doing."
"Not the point!" she shot back.
Linze held up a hand, signaling for calm… or maybe for a magic spell to suppress the nonsense. "Let's not jump to conclusions."
Micah nodded. "Right. Let's give him a fair chance… after lunch. When we're properly fed and more emotionally equipped to interrogate him."
"Elze, fetch the feather duster of truth," Linze deadpanned.
"I knew we'd need it," Elze said, already turning toward the inn.
I stood, arms raised in mock surrender. "Alright, alright! I may be from… a very different place. Culturally. Maybe even… geographically incompatible. But does that really matter?"
"Yes," all three answered simultaneously.
"Fantastic," I muttered. "Glad to see democracy in action."
"Democracy?"
Linze sighed, visibly restraining a smile. "Let's just focus on your training for now. We'll deal with your… unique vocabulary later."
"Thank you," I said, relieved.
Micah narrowed her eyes again. "Still watching you, Laundry Prophet."
Elze grinned. "Get ready, magic boy. Tomorrow, you're starting with actual spell practice. And no, 'premium service' isn't a spell."
"Yet," I whispered.
They groaned.
***********************************************
"Then menu doesn't swears fealty to you Ishant." Micah barged in my zone as I was busy concentrating.
"If I look in it's eyes and pierce it's soul. Then maybe it will." i replied off-handedly.
"Though, I am curious why are you having a staring contest with the menu." She asked again. Guess I'll have to humour her.
"After a bit of whi- convincing, yes, convincing Linze I had her write down all the thirty-seven letters and their pronounciations." I began.
"Did you whine?" Micah interrupted.
"Anyways, I am looking through as many words as possible to see their use and patterns, construction, syntax-" Ignoring her query I continued only to be interrupted.
"Wow. You are one smart cookie."
"Something like that. I have gone through a few pages from my own notebook and now the nemu while I wait for din-"
"And you are hard working."
"Woman I dare you interrupt me once again and I'll riot-" I said righteously. It's as if Micah thrives in my misery, she smiled undeterred and dropped a bomb. "Then no dinner for you tonight."
"Right." That shut me up real quick. Am I a pushover? No, that can't be. This is not me being a pushover, this is strategic retreat. Yes, that sounds better.
Micah smirked like a cat who'd just kicked over the last domino and was watching the collapse with popcorn. "That's what I thought," she said smugly, walking past me with a theatrical swish of her cloak—wait, apron? Whatever it was, it was smugly swished.
I turned back to the menu, which now seemed to be mocking me with its static script. Honestly, I'd swear the characters were dancing just out of comprehension range. Maybe if I stared harder—
"You're doing it again," Micah called over her shoulder.
I grumbled. "I was on the verge of decoding the linguistic structure."
"You were on the verge of drooling into the menu. Don't romanticize it."
Touché.
Still, I couldn't let her derail me. I was making progress. Thirty-seven letters, each with context-specific pronunciation—thank you, Linze—and several repeating patterns. A couple of root symbols seemed to morph based on sentence positioning. Some letters fused, others mutated. This wasn't a language—it was a linguistic Rubik's cube that occasionally burst into flames.
"So, what do you think?" Micah asked suddenly, leaning over my shoulder like some chaos deity of distraction. "Does this look like 'bread' or 'brick' to you?"
I glanced at the menu. The word was briekh. It could easily be either. "I want to say bread, but based on this inn's history of culinary crimes... I'm leaning toward brick."
"Har har," Micah rolled her eyes. "That's my handwriting, genius."
I raised an eyebrow. "Well then, I'll be sure to chew it respectfully."
"You're impossible."
"And yet," I said smugly, flipping my notebook closed, "here I am. Attempting to decode a completely foreign language from scratch, in a world where people use magic to heat their bathwater, while being heckled by a woman who withholds dinner like it's wartime rations."
She gave me a flat look. "You forgot charming."
"I was being generous."
She snorted and walked away, muttering something about cooking dinner before she actually made good on her earlier threat. I heard pots clattering a moment later, which I took as a sign of temporary peace.
I leaned back in my chair and sighed. The firelight flickered gently, casting a warm glow over the room. My notes were slowly but surely taking shape. Vocabulary, sentence structure, pronouns, verbs—I was starting to grasp the fundamentals. And I knew something else too:
If I could master this language... I could eventually break the deadlock between my finances and I. But first—survival.
I tiptoed into the kitchen. "Micah?"
"What?" came the reply, sharp as a paring knife.
"I was thinking... maybe we both deserve dinner tonight. You know, as a reward for putting up with each other."
She turned slowly, ladle in hand, one eyebrow raised like a guillotine in waiting.
I put on my best, most strategic grin.
"Well, I suppose." She replied lackadaisically.
"Hey! I'll have you know. I am a paying guest at your inn. Is this how you treat a guest? Martha will hear this." I said. Time for some payback.
"You wouldn't dare." Micah said with poison in her tone. Looks like my guess was right. She, Micah fears her aunt, Martha. Hehe, now I also have some munition.
"Try me." I said boldly.
Just then she calmed down instantly and smiled. Uh oh.
"I am sorry, Ishant. You are a paying guest. Of course you'll get dinner. We can't have you going hungry."
That did not bode well. Where are you when I need you Martha? Save me from your niece before she poisons me.
"Right." I said with a voice strained ever so slightly and beat a hasty retreat. It was a retreat not surrender. Mind the difference.
****
Dinner was served with the fanfare of clattering dishes and a suspiciously angelic smile from Micah, who had even gone so far as to place a sprig of something vaguely green atop the stew. Either garnish or foliage—unclear.
I sat down, wary but determined. Hunger had clawed its way past my better judgment. Whatever petty war we were waging, surely even Micah wouldn't commit outright culinary sabotage. Would she?
The moment the first spoonful hit my tongue, my tastebuds screamed.
"GAHHH—!!"
The spoon clattered from my hand as I nearly shot backwards out of my seat. "What in the sodium-packed hell was that!?"
Micah turned from the stove with the serenity of a saint and the mischief of a gremlin. "Oh? Too salty? Must've slipped."
"Slipped?" I hacked, gulping water as if I'd just tongue-kissed a salt mine. "Micah, the ocean called. It wants its personality back!"
She shrugged, utterly unfazed. "I thought paying guests enjoyed rich flavor profiles."
"This stew doesn't have a profile—it has a criminal record! I'm going to start sweating brine!"
Micah walked over, took a bite herself, and even she winced. "Huh," she muttered. "Okay. Maybe I was a bit... overzealous."
"Oh really?" I croaked, scraping my tongue with a piece of bread that might actually be a brick after all. "So glad we reached that scientific conclusion after my kidneys filed for divorce."
"I'll make a new batch," she offered, already reaching for the pot. "One that doesn't threaten to fossilize your organs."
"Appreciated," I said, regaining the will to live. "Also, I'll be requiring a formal apology and possibly a new tongue."
She rolled her eyes. "You'll live."
"For now," I muttered.
I slumped back into my chair like a man who had just seen the edge of culinary mortality. The fire crackled in the hearth as I watched Micah start again, this time measuring things like someone actually intending to nourish a human and not salt-cure them for winter storage.
"You know," she called out without looking, "Martha does say I need more practice cooking."
"And she was right," I said solemnly. "This was not dinner. This was vengeance in liquid form."
Micah snorted. "If I was going for vengeance, you'd know. That was just... a warning shot."
My stomach whimpered.
And somewhere deep inside me, the linguistic analysis of the menu continued—because clearly, if I didn't learn this language fast, my survival depended on knowing how to read "safe to eat."
****
I sat hunched over the second, significantly less vengeful bowl of stew, spooning it into my mouth with the cautious reverence of a man defusing a bomb. Thankfully, this version didn't taste like betrayal—just slightly overcooked lentils and a suspiciously smoky undertone that whispered "I am edible. Probably."
Micah hovered nearby, arms crossed, watching like a chef awaiting feedback from a notoriously harsh food critic. I gave her a slow thumbs-up without breaking eye contact. "It's no longer an act of war."
"High praise," she said dryly. "Should I frame that?"
"Right next to the first bowl," I said. "Label it: 'Exhibit A in the Case of the People vs. Culinary Recklessness.'"
She grinned and sauntered off, apron swaying like a curtain closing on the opening act of this tragicomedy. I leaned back with a sigh and resumed flipping through my notes. My linguistic work continued, somewhere between digestion and desperation.
The menu's script was finally starting to reveal its secrets—like a jealous lover, reluctantly giving up context after prolonged, uncomfortable eye contact. I'd mapped out the most common food-related terms and categorized them by taste, preparation, and potential danger to internal organs.
"Micah," I called, licking the last of the stew off my spoon, "I've cracked the code."
"Oh?" she replied from the kitchen. "Tell me you didn't just eat a piece of the menu."
"I mean I've figured out how to navigate the food listings," I clarified, holding up my notebook triumphantly. "No more playing 'Gamble With Your Guts' every mealtime."
"Tragic. That was my favorite game."
"Well now you'll have to find a new form of entertainment. May I suggest harassing Linze for a change?"
Micah poked her head into the room. "She cries when I tease her."
"So do I! But do you stop?"
"Fair point."
I looked back down at the menu and grinned. The linguistic skeleton had flesh now. I could parse verbs from nouns, detect past tense from food poisoning. It wasn't just words on a page anymore—it was survival tactics. One step closer to independence.
One step closer to not being at Micah's mercy.
"You're smiling," Micah said, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm allowed to smile."
"Yeah, but it's your 'I've-got-a-plan' smile. Should I be worried?"
"Possibly," I said cryptically, tapping my pen against the page. "Depends on whether you think 'breakfast autonomy' is a declaration of war."
"Oh gods, he's trying to cook for himself."
"I will have you know I once made an entire dish unsupervised."
"What was it? A salad?"
"We all start somewhere."
She walked over, leaned down to eye my notes, and let out a low whistle. "You're actually doing it. Huh. I thought all that menu staring was just your brain frying itself."
"Haha," I replied flatly. "Let it be known, this moment will be remembered in future history scrolls. 'Here lies Ishant, breaker of language barriers, slayer of stew trauma.'"
"And humble, too."
"The humblest," I said solemnly.
She shook her head and chuckled, returning to the stove where tomorrow's breakfast was presumably in the early stages of being threatened.
But I wasn't done yet.
I flipped to the next page and began drafting my First Culinary Lexicon of the New World. Words like toasted, undercooked, ambiguous texture, and not death were getting their rightful places. Once I was done, this inn would no longer be a minefield of menu-induced migraines.
Micah was humming now. A little off-key, but oddly soothing. A rare moment of peace.
Naturally, I ruined it.
"Hey Micah," I said suddenly.
She paused. "What?"
"Just so we're clear—if I die from anything in this inn, it'll be your stew. I'll make sure to haunt your salt shaker."
She didn't miss a beat. "Joke's on you. I don't measure my salt."
Terrifying.
****
That night, with a full stomach, a completed page of notes, and a lingering aftertaste of briny trauma, I sat by the fire and felt... oddly accomplished. I wasn't just surviving this world anymore.
I was starting to understand it.
Maybe tomorrow I'd try using some of the language in real conversation. Or maybe I'd simply ask Martha to teach me how to make toast without accidentally summoning a smoke elemental. Either way, progress was progress.
And, maybe just maybe… if I try hard enough, I might return home.
Or maybe, if I learn enough, I won't need to.
Either way—I'll need better stew first.
And as I drifted off to sleep with my notebook tucked under my arm, one final thought danced through my mind:
If Micah ever opens a restaurant... may the gods have mercy on us all.