I fell silent, my thoughts were, simply put, still processing. No wonder they had looked at me with expressions akin awe rather than suspicion. No wonder they'd accepted my words without question. They had grown up in a world where miracles were possible, where power was everything, and those with it were beyond reproach.
"Master," Green added, her voice a little softer now, "you hold power now. But that means your actions carry weight. What you say, what you promise—it will be believed. Be careful, or even well-meaning lies could spiral into something dangerous."
Our conversation was unheard, and that meant so was my turmoil.
Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps returned, the boys, back from the well, their chatter echoing through the small home.
"Mother, we are back! We checked if the water in the well tasted the same as we had earlier, but it didn't," my eldest brother called out, his voice edged with disappointment. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and beads of sweat clung to his forehead despite the chilly air.
He set the heavy jar down next to me with a soft grunt, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. He had carried it all by himself, his little brothers trailing behind with nothing on their hands, and though he tried to hide it, the strain was clear in his movements.
I glanced at the jar, already knowing what he was talking about. The magic-infused water I'd drawn from the farming dimension earlier couldn't be replicated by ordinary well water. It only made sense. Still, seeing his face fall like that tugged at me.
"Thank you," I said softly, reaching out to touch his sleeve. He blinked at me, clearly surprised.
"For what?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
"For working so hard," I replied. "Even if the water's different."
My words made him fumble for a second, before he cleared his throat and muttered something about it not being a big deal. My second brother poked his head around him and whined, "If we want the tasty water again, do we have to wait for Mother to fetch it?"
My mother chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. "You boys really liked it that much?"
"It was sweet!" the youngest chimed in. "And it made my belly all warm!"
Secretly, I reached out and touched the surface of the clay jar, my fingertips cold against its rough exterior. A soft hum echoed in my mind, not from the jar, but from Green.
Without me needing to speak, she stirred, "Master," she said gently, "from now on, as long as you remain inside this house, this jar shall never run dry again. I will refill it for you even if you are not touching the jar."
I watched closely as the jar began to tremble ever so slightly, barely noticeable to the untrained eye. Within it, the once water filled jar ran dry, before filling it up again, it brimmed at the edge, clear, fresh, and glistening under the dying afternoon light. No incantation, no dramatic display at all.
I withdrew my hand, careful not to let anyone see the movement, and sat back down. There was quiet satisfaction on my part, like a silent job well done.
.
.
.
Mother soon shooed all of us away, clapping her hands and waving the wooden spoon she used for cooking. "Out, all of you! Go rest, go play, just don't get in my way while I'm preparing dinner."
My brothers, clearly tired from the day's work, exchanged glances and let out exaggerated groans before setting their baskets down and heading out. I could tell they were eager to make use of what little free time they had left before the sun dipped below the horizon. Perhaps to skip stones by the stream, or climb the hill that overlooked our small cluster of homes.
I, too, was told to return to my room to rest, but I gently protested. "Mother, I'm feeling much better now," I said, deliberately trying to sound both pitiful and determined. "I've been cooped up in that room for too long. I want to stretch my legs a little. Maybe just walk around just here and there."
My parents, of course hesitated after hearing me. Their eyes lingered on my thin frame, perhaps still seeing the sickly girl who could barely sit up without help. But their resolve crumbled quickly. How could they ever say no to me, not when I looked at them like that?
"Don't stray too far, Lan'er," Father said with a sigh, his tone gentle but firm. "If you feel dizzy, call for someone right away."
"I will," I nodded with a smile, already moving toward the door before they could change their minds.
Soon, my feet took me to the back of our house, where the grass grew wild and untamed, and the earth sloped gently toward the sea in one direction and the foot of the mountains in the other. It was quiet here, the kind of quiet that pressed against the skin and sank deep into your bones. Not heavy, but still enough to make one pause.
Our house stood a bit removed from the heart of the village.
Most families lived clustered around the central well, where gossip and smoke and laughter drifted through open windows. But ours had always been different. Closer to nature than to people, surrounded by the mountain and swaying trees, caught between the lull of crashing waves as well, where my father had built his life as a fisherman.
I crouched down near a patch of long grass, brushing my hand through it absentmindedly. I remembered the story Father told me once, how the village chief had sold this house for next to nothing. Just married to my mother at the time, both of them orphaned by famine and drought, he'd taken the chance and bought it. "Land is land," he had said with that grin of his, "and a roof is a roof, even if it leaks."
It had been a gamble. But it was here they had built a life, patching the roof, tilling the rocky soil, raising three sons and a sickly daughter.