The wild grains went into a separate vessel, sorted carefully, rinsed to remove field debris while preserving their essential character. She could feel their history—windswept meadows, mountain rain, the countless seasons they'd survived before being gathered. They deserved recognition of that survival.
The pale green fronds were examined root by root, leaf by leaf. Not all would be used—some were too young, too delicate. Those were set aside gently, placed near the edges of her workspace where they could potentially be replanted. What remained was separated thoughtfully—roots for earth, stems for structure, leaves for brightness.
And then, just barely, at the edge of her awareness...
Something else joined in.
A rhythm that was not hers but was not foreign either.
Ground. Press. Turn. Release.
The pattern came from above, from where the Champion must be working, and it matched—perfectly, impossibly—the motions Marron's hands wanted to make with the grain.
