My eyes cracked open as the first rays of dawn poured into my room. Yesterday had been especially tiring. Farm work, I learnt, is especially taxing. Naturally respect for them, farmers, grew by leaps. Truly they are the backbone of society both here and back there.
'Sigh.'
I pushed myself upright, every muscle protesting like I'd made them run a marathon uphill in wooden clogs. My hands were blistered in spots I didn't even know could blister, and my back felt like I'd been used as a tavern bench for a drunken brawl.
I swung my legs off the side of the straw bed, wincing as my feet touched the cold floor. The room smelled faintly of dry hay, old wood, and a hint of yesterday's sweat — an aroma that, I assumed, would become my new cologne for the foreseeable future.
I stumbled over to the small basin in the corner, splashing water on my face. It was ice-cold, shocking enough to snap the last bits of sleep from my skull. As I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror above the basin, I almost didn't recognize myself.
A month ago, I was a soft-handed city boy. Now? Hair stuck out in awkward angles, dark circles under my eyes, a new constellation of dirt smudges across my face. I looked less like a reborn chosen hero and more like an underpaid stable hand. What a tragedy.
Clang!
The sound rattled down the small hallway followed by a growl of irritation. Looks like Levi is up and is Ruld. Opening the window I flicked my tunic out. A jerk and dust and twigs dislodged themselves. I pulled the tunic over my head, settling it into place. My pants followed.
After washing my face and some oral hygiene I was ready for the day.
Clang!
Another rattling of utensils followed by another belligerent growl reached me.
'I should have kept sleeping.'
Clang!
A third crash echoed through the cottage, followed by a muffled, "Levi! That's not how you—" and then something that sounded suspiciously like a chair hitting the floor.
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
I shuffled down the short hallway, stepping carefully to avoid a stray bucket someone (read: Levi) had left square in the path. In the main room, chaos reigned supreme. Levi stood by the hearth, brandishing a spatula like a sword, face flushed and determined. Beside him, Ruld hovered with all the subtlety of a bear trying to fix a broken beehive, his one good hand twitching every time Levi made a sudden move.
'Maybe I should pester Darnis to get me some magic spell to heal Ruld's arm.'
"Morning," I drawled, leaning against the doorway like a tavern drunk watching a bar fight. "I see we've decided to start the day with a live demonstration of domestic warfare."
"This is your fault." Ruld instantly fired back.
"How so?" I asked, already knowing the answer. If looks could kill Ruld would have ended me here and now.
"You are the one who put him to it." He practically screamed. "It was you who fed him all that crap about learning by trying and now look at him first thing in the morning and the utensils are on the floor." By the time Ruld's tirade ended he was huffing and puffing.
'Darnis I am coming for you the moment I sort this out.'
I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, no need to have an aneurysm before breakfast. Levi, step away from the crime scene."
Levi turned toward me, spatula still raised like he expected me to duel him for kitchen supremacy. His face fell into a pout so fierce it could have curdled milk. "But I wanted to surprise you both! You always say I should try things on my own!"
"Trying things on your own doesn't include converting the kitchen into a battlefield," I said, stepping forward to gently pry the spatula from his iron grip. "Also, that thing is not a sword. Please don't make me teach you about blade etiquette and egg etiquette on the same day."
Levi's shoulders slumped, and he shuffled over to the table, dropping into a chair with all the melodrama of a bard denied his final encore. Ruld, meanwhile, let out a long groan, collapsing into his own chair like a sack of potatoes.
"Next time," Ruld wheezed, glaring at me through half-lidded eyes, "you're supervising his 'learning.' I'm too old to wrestle frying pans at dawn."
"Duly noted," I said, surveying the damage. A scorched pot in the corner, flour on the floor like someone had tried to summon a pastry demon, and a knife embedded in a loaf of bread at an angle that suggested either blind rage or avant-garde culinary artistry.
'And the day has just begun. Maybe I should just overload [Cure Heal] and hope for the best.'
I cleared the worst of it, scrubbing at a smear of egg that had somehow reached the ceiling. Levi watched with wide eyes, as if I were performing high magic rather than just preventing salmonella.
Ruld eventually pushed himself up to pour a cup of tea, muttering curses at every creak of his joints. He watched me over the rim of his mug, and for a moment, something softer than exasperation flickered there — though it disappeared faster than a coin in a gambler's pocket.
"So," he grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "you planning to make us something edible today, or are we rationing Levi's 'surprise' attempts until we starve?"
I snorted. "Don't tempt him; he might try cooking revenge next."
Ruld actually barked out a short laugh at that, startling Levi enough that he almost tipped backward in his chair.
"Alright, enough drama," I said, rolling up my sleeves. "We'll do it properly. Levi, you assist — and by 'assist,' I mean pass me things without attacking them."
Levi perked up immediately, nodding so furiously I feared for his neck. "Yes, yes! I can do that!"
"Good lad," I said, patting his head. "And Ruld, you — sit there and look judgmental. You're already a natural."
Ruld flipped me a rude gesture, but he stayed put, cradling his tea as though it were the only thing keeping him from bodily launching himself into the hearth.
'He really has a foul mouth for an old man.'
The morning unfolded into something almost resembling peace. Levi handed me vegetables, a little too eagerly but at least without throwing them this time. Ruld offered the occasional scathing comment, which I dutifully ignored in favor of not burning the place down.
Soon enough, the smell of proper breakfast filled the room — eggs actually scrambled instead of charred into something resembling volcanic rock, bread toasted rather than stabbed, and a simple soup simmering gently.
When I finally set the plates down, Levi looked like he'd just witnessed the birth of a dragon, and even Ruld stopped grumbling long enough to mutter a begrudging "Not bad."
We ate in relative quiet, punctuated only by Levi's occasional hums of satisfaction and Ruld's suspiciously loud slurps — probably just to mask the fact that he liked it.
Afterward, Levi helped me clear the table, humming some half-remembered tune under his breath. I caught Ruld watching us, his expression softer than I'd ever seen.
When the dishes were finally scrubbed (well, scrubbed enough not to breed new life forms), I set them aside to dry and turned to Levi. He stood there fidgeting, fingers drumming on the table like he was about to launch into a heroic monologue.
"What's next?" he asked, eyes practically glowing with excitement.
I glanced toward the window. Outside, the morning mist had finally lifted, revealing a bright, if slightly threatening, sky. Fields stretched out in every direction — some already cleared, others still standing proud and golden, like soldiers waiting for orders.
"Well," I said, rolling my shoulders and feeling every protest from yesterday echo back like a snarky old friend, "there's still plenty of fields left to tend. Torren's next on the list, remember?"
"However, before that," I moved and stood behind Ruld. His neck twisted as he stared at me. I in turn smiled.
"Now Ruld, my friend don't panic or flail. Alright?" Ruld tensed. As if readying himself to jump from his chair his feet drew closer and his unbroken arm gripped the armrest ready to push him up.
"What are you plotting?" His voice dripped with suspicion as he leaned away from me.
"Carefull there." I warned him. "You might not want to lean further."
"What? What're you gonna do?" He retorted and turned. He paused right at that moment. "What? What is this? What are you trying to do?" He practically screamed his head jerking in my direction.
A small spear of light levitated where his face had been a moment ago. Ruld turned and stared at the hovering spear of light, his mouth opening and closing like a fish dropped on a tavern floor. His good hand twitched toward the table, probably looking for a mug to hurl at me.
"Now. I want you to relax and cooperate." I pulled Ruld back on the chair, his back leaning backrest. "I want you to wear this blindfold and sit for a moment."
"What is the meaning of this?" He asked. "What are you gonna do?"
"Meaning? That's twofold. You have a broken arm and practically contribute nothing but your tools." My hands worked smoothly, the cloth landing on his eyes and a tight knot behind his head while I lectured the old farmer. "Secondly, while I have mostly ignored you foul mouthed comments and ill tempered growls they do get underneath my skin. Besides, a child Levi has no reason to be exposed to such rough tones so early."
"As for what I am going to do? I will blindfold Levi and then try to fix that broken arm of yours." The moment words left my Levi scrambled away.
'Well that also works. Can't go around healing people and scorching their corneas together.'
"Looks like he ran away." I muttered while Ruld relaxed. "So you do care about him. Don't you?"
"Who wouldn't." Ruld replied, his voice soft and subdued. I, too relaxed.
"Don't worry that blindfold is there to prevent you from going blind." My words came out gently this time. "Let's get started."
I latched the door shut and pulled a chair near Ruld's. Taking his injured arm in my hands, I ran my fingers lightly over the splints and the bruised skin beneath.
Ruld flinched, a hiss slipping between his teeth. "Careful, boy—"
"Shh," I interrupted, my tone low but firm. "You've had your turn at commentary. Now it's mine."
His jaw clamped shut. His whole body was tense, every muscle wound tight as a coiled rope, like he expected me to rip the limb off and sell it to a traveling merchant
I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling the faint scent of ash and barley tea still lingering in the air.
Recentering myself, I focused solely on restraining the magic within me, preventing premature spell activation while simultaneously visualizing the complete process of healing.
Bone first — the core of the structure. I pictured it knitting together, fibers re-aligning like fresh rope, smooth and whole. Then the torn muscles and ligaments, weaving themselves back into a unified, functional network. Finally, the skin and veins, the finishing touches on this once-broken masterpiece.
A gentle warmth gathered in my palms, building and coiling like a lazy serpent in the sun.
"Relax," I murmured, though my voice was as much for myself as for him. "If you tense up, you'll make the magic stutter. You don't want your arm looking like a sculptor's first attempt at pottery, do you?"
Ruld snorted — a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl — but his breathing began to slow. Then, I chanted.
"Come forth, Light. Soothing Comfort: [Cure Heal]."
And I let go.
Instantly the room or rather the whole cottage was bathed in a brilliant white light. The brilliance was blinding, even with Ruld's blindfold cinched tight. The old man tensed once more, fingers digging into the chair's arms as though he was about to be launched skyward. The warmth in my palms surged forward, flooding into the broken arm like a river breaching a dam.
I felt it — each crack in the bone sealing shut, each torn tendon stitching together, each stubborn knot of scar tissue dissolving beneath the force of Light. Under my hands, his arm shivered and flexed, as though it were remembering what it meant to be whole.
Ruld's breath hitched in his throat, a sharp gasp slipping free. Then another. And then, silence.
When I finally pulled my hands away, the magic retreated, leaving behind a fading glow that clung to Ruld's skin like the last embers of a dying fire.
"Done," I said softly, not believing what I had just accomplished.
[Cure Heal] is a basic spell in Light magic only capable of mending small cuts and bruises and easing pain. Skilled users might close a wound or two but that's it. What I had just done was surpass the defined limits of the spell. Using [Cure Heal] to mend Ruld's broken bones was a passing thought. However, it had stuck with me and I had pondered throughout breakfast. And the more I thought about it the more feasible it sounded to me.
'Magic, it seems, is something far more fluid than some spells and enchantments.'
I couldn't help but stare up at the ceiling but my mind conjured up the face of an old man, God.
I came out of my reverie to find Ruld frozen in his place. Carefully removing the splint I freed his now healed arm. He moved it slowly, hesitatingly, afraid of the pain but it never came. Both his hands reached for the back of his head and untied the blindfolds.
"Any pain?" I asked, curious and concerned.
"No. No pain." Ruld replied slowly. He tested his arm once more clenching and unclenching his fist, twisting his forearms.
Ruld's gaze dropped to his healed arm, turning it this way and that like a man who'd just discovered an extra limb. His eyes flicked up to me, wide and unguarded for the first time since I'd met him.
"You… you really did it," he muttered again, as though if he said it enough times, reality might crack and reveal it was all a drunken dream.
"Naturally," I said, letting my grin stretch a bit too wide, purely for effect. "I'm not some blonde ponce who, instead of fixing broken bones, makes them disappear."
Ruld didn't reply, too busy marvelling at his newly fixed arm.
******
"So, you are saying that Ruld's arm is now fixed?" Neck asked with an incredulous voice. He looked Ruld up and down a few times then started at me.
"Don't worry I have asked Tharan to come and check up on him and he has graciously agreed." I reassured him. However, Neck didn't believe my claims and I don't condemn him for that. Before today, Rule's arm was in a splint, movement was his enemy but today Ruld stood fine as a fiddle wielding his sickle like it's a sword.
"Tharan is here."
A familiar figure was trudging up the dirt path, staff in hand, his robe flaring with each determined step like a cranky rooster's tail feathers. Tharan — the village's closest thing to a healer, sage, and part-time scold — finally came into view. His beard looked even more like a bird's nest than usual today, as though he'd argued with it and lost. Looks like Lila had accompanied him. The couple made their way towards me.
"How have you been, Ishant?" Lila asked me, she waved.
"Now that I have seen you infinitely better." I replied with an easy smile. Lila giggled a bit while Tharan didn't look amused.
"Stop scowling, I have no interest in taking your wife." I pacified him. Tharan snorted so hard I thought his mustache might detach and fly away.
"You don't like me, Ishant?" Lila asked with a sweet smile on her face. A smile that matched Tharan's intensity. They really are husband and wife. Meanwhile, Tharan shot Lila a look so sharp it could've skinned a boar. Meanwhile, Lila only batted her lashes at me with the sweet, dangerous innocence of a cat about to knock a vase off a shelf.
"Like you?" I scoffed, hand on my chest in mock horror. "Dear lady, I am but a humble worm wriggling beneath the moonlight of your grace. How could I possibly presume?"
She giggled again, a sound that made Tharan's eyebrow twitch hard enough to qualify as exercise.
"Enough of your tongue acrobatics," Tharan snapped, turning to Ruld. He jabbed a bony finger at the old man's newly freed arm. "Show me."
Ruld obediently lifted his arm, rolling the shoulder and flexing each finger as though he were trying to show off at a harvest fair. Tharan moved in, squinting so intensely I thought he might actually set the limb on fire by sheer force of suspicion.
Tharan prodded the arm here, tugged there, twisted it gently, and even pressed into spots that had once made Ruld hiss like an angry goose. But this time? Nothing. Ruld simply shrugged and rotated his wrist, a grin ghosting at the edges of his usually sour mouth.
"Hmph," Tharan grunted finally, stepping back with a huff that suggested the world had personally inconvenienced him. "Seems... whole."
"That's your professional opinion, is it?" I drawled. "I was hoping for something a little more poetic, perhaps 'reborn in the dawn light of new sinew' or some such nonsense."
He looked me in the eye. His grey pupils boring into mine as if trying to dig the answer out of me. He finally asked, "How did you do it?"
"I have exceptional abilities." I replied matching his intensity. Tharan is a stoic man. He takes his job very seriously, some might say too seriously but his intensity lies in the right direction.
"Your Light affinity, while rare, isn't exceptional enough to explain this." He noted and asked once again. "How did you do it?"
"My answer won't change," I replied. "I have exceptional abilities."
Tharan's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, the kind you'd expect to find on a hawk seconds before it dives for a rabbit. I almost expected him to lunge forward and attempt to pry my skull open for answers right there.
"Hmph." He finally turned away with a sharp flick of his cloak, as if dismissing me entirely. "Ruld, if that arm starts rotting or mutating into a tree branch, you know where to find me."
"I'll make sure to come running." Ruld replied, his voice half amused, half relieved, flexing his fingers like a boy who'd just been handed his first real sword.
Tharan snorted again, more like a warhorse than a man, and stomped off toward the barn, muttering under his breath about "impudent youth" and "reckless healings." Lila trailed after him, though she threw me a mischievous wink that promised far more trouble than comfort.
'What a couple, one is overly serious while the other is childishly carefree.'
"Alright," I said, glancing at the tools leaning by the wall. "Now that we've established no one is dying or spontaneously sprouting extra limbs, we have fields to handle. You," I pointed at Levi, "grab the bucket. And you," I jabbed a finger at Ruld, "no more excuses. You're working today."
"Move everyone, we are burning precious daylight." I commanded, the result was immediate. Everyone picked up their tools and moved towards Torren's field tools in hand.
Torren's field looked like a golden sea ready to devour us whole. The stalks swayed under the early breeze, each one gleaming like a tiny soldier standing to attention — proud, stubborn, and absolutely exhausting to deal with.
"Alright, listen up," I said, my voice carrying over the group. "We cleared Ruld's field yesterday, and we'll do the same for Torren's today. We've got 23 of us now—Ruld's back in fighting shape, thanks to a bit of... let's call it creative healing." I shot Ruld a grin, and he snorted, flexing his arm as if to prove it wasn't a dream. A few chuckles rippled through the group, though Gavren's eyes narrowed, still skeptical of my so-called 'exceptional abilities.'
"Here's how we're doing this," I continued, scanning their faces—farmers, wives, sons, all weathered by the fields but bound by necessity. "We work together, one field at a time, same as yesterday. We move fast, we move smart, and we get this done before the rains turn our harvest into mud soup."
I held up a hand, ticking off points on my fingers. "First, we've got eight cutters: Gavren, Torren, Eldon, Brenn, Harnell, Dren, Merrick, and Lorne. You're our scythe-wielders, slicing through the grain like it insulted your mothers. Two per row, moving steady, no racing ahead or you'll trample the stalks."
Gavren grunted, but he adjusted his grip on his scythe, nodding. Eldon's weathered face cracked into a faint smirk, his ancient sickle gleaming in the sunlight.
"Next, binders," I said, pointing to the four wives standing together, their hands already twitching for twine. "Gavren's wife, Torren's, Harnell's, Calder's—you're tying sheaves as fast as the cutters drop them. Joining you are Tomas, Joren, Calder, and Verrin. Eight binders total, keeping pace behind the cutters, making sure every stalk is secured."
Tomas muttered something under his breath, probably about not wanting to share his precious grain, but a sharp look from Gavren shut him up. The wives exchanged glances, their practiced hands ready, and Joren gave a shy nod, relieved to avoid the scythe.
"Stackers," I said, turning to the three teenage boys—Torren's two sons and Garrick's lanky lad, who looked like he'd rather be fishing. "You three—yes, you, stop sulking—are on bundle duty. You grab the sheaves the binders tie and stack them in the cart or pile them neat by the field's edge. No racing each other unless it means faster work."
Torren's boys perked up, their competitive streak from yesterday reigniting, and Garrick's son gave a reluctant shrug, hefting a bundle to test its weight.
"Levi," I called, and the kid snapped to attention, nearly dropping his bucket. "You're on water duty, same as yesterday. Keep those buckets full, keep everyone hydrated. If someone looks like they're about to keel over, douse them. Gently."
Levi nodded so fast I thought his head might roll off, already scampering toward the well with his oversized bucket sloshing.
"And Ruld," I said, turning to the old man, who stood straighter now, his sickle in hand like a warrior reborn. "You're back in the game. You'll cut alongside the others, but don't overdo it—Tharan'll have my head if that arm falls apart again."
Ruld gave a gruff nod, his usual scowl softened by something dangerously close to gratitude. "I'll manage, boy. Don't fuss."
"Finally," I said, stepping down from the stump and planting my hands on my hips, "we work as a unit. Two cutters and two binders per row, four rows at a time. Stackers follow behind, clearing the way. We start at the north end, move south, steady and even, like a good field song. No one lags, no one sprints. If we keep the rhythm, we'll have Torren's field cleared by sundown, just like Ruld's."
I paused, letting the plan sink in. The group shifted, tools clinking, but their eyes were sharper now, focused. Even Gavren's scowl had eased into something like grudging respect. The wives murmured to each other, already sorting their twine, while the boys whispered bets about who'd stack the most bundles.
"After Torren's field, we move to Joren's tomorrow—his land's flood-prone, so it's next in line. Then Gavren's, Eldon's, and so on. We hit the riskiest fields first, make sure no one loses their crop to the rains. Everyone gets their turn, and everyone pulls their weight. If someone slacks," I said, my voice dropping low, "you're out next season. No tools, no help, just you and your field against the weather. Clear?"
A murmur of agreement rolled through them, stronger than yesterday's. They weren't just humoring me now—they saw it could work. Torren's field was their proof, their chance to keep the momentum.
"Alright," I said, clapping my hands again, the sound cracking like a whip in the morning air. "Tools up, rows assigned. Let's move."
The group dispersed with purpose, splitting into their roles like soldiers taking formation. Gavren and Torren took the first row, scythes gleaming as they began their steady swings. Eldon and Brenn paired up in the second, Harnell and Dren in the third, Merrick and Lorne in the fourth, with Ruld joining Merrick to ease into his first day back. The wives followed close behind, their hands a blur as they tied sheaves with practiced precision, while Tomas, Joren, Calder, and Verrin kept pace, their bundles neat and tight. The three boys darted between rows, hauling sheaves to Torren's creaking cart, their banter loud but productive. Levi scampered about with his bucket, splashing water with more enthusiasm than accuracy, but no one complained.
I moved among them, not swinging a scythe—Gavren was right, I wasn't built for it—but keeping the rhythm steady, redirecting a stray cutter here, nudging a binder to pick up the pace there. The air filled with the dry, sweet scent of cut grain, the rhythmic swish of scythes, and the soft thump of bundles hitting the cart. By noon, half the field was cleared, the golden sea shrinking row by row, just as it had for Ruld.
The women broke out bread and dried fruit during a short midday pause, and the group sat in the shade of a lone oak, sweat-soaked but talking now—gruff jokes, complaints about blisters, even a laugh from Eldon that sounded like a creaking gate. Levi darted around, refilling waterskins, while Ruld flexed his arm, testing it with every swing of his sickle, his face a mix of wonder and stubborn refusal to admit it.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the pace quickened, just like yesterday. The last rows fell faster, the cutters and binders moving with a quiet determination that hadn't been there at dawn. The boys raced to stack the final bundles, and by the time the sky burned pink and gold, Torren's field was a patchwork of stubble and neat stacks, the cart groaning under the weight of the harvest.
The group gathered near the cart, passing waterskins and wiping sweat from their brows. Gavren approached me, his hat in hand, his face red from the sun but lacking its usual hostility.
"Joren's field tomorrow?" he asked, voice low but steady.
"Joren's," I confirmed, loud enough for all to hear. "Same time, same deal. Bring your tools, bring your hands. We keep going."
The murmurs were solid now, not just agreement but commitment. They were tired, but they were in. Torren clapped his sons on the shoulders, his lanky frame straighter than I'd seen it. Eldon leaned on his sickle, his crumpled-map face softened with something like approval. Even Tomas nodded, though his eyes still flicked suspiciously to his neighbors.
As the group dispersed, heading to their homes with promises to return at dawn, Levi tugged at my sleeve, his bucket dangling from his other hand. "Did we do it again?" he asked, his voice bright despite the dirt smudged across his face.
I looked out at the cleared field, the stacks glowing faintly in the twilight. "Yeah, kid," I said, ruffling his hair. "Two down. Twelve to go."
Ruld lingered by the cart, his healed arm resting on its edge as he surveyed his neighbor's harvest. He caught my eye, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he gave a single nod, the kind that carried more weight than a hundred words.
I turned back to the cottage, the weight of the day settling into my bones but lighter than yesterday. The stars were just starting to prick the sky, and the air held that same heavy promise of rain. Tomorrow would be another field, another fight against time. But for now, Torren's grain was safe, the team was stronger, and I had a bed waiting that didn't squeak. A good day, all things considered.