Sun warmed the garden beds.
The air smelled of damp soil, mint, and thin smoke from cooking fires.
On the surface, it was a peaceful day.
Elowen knelt with her hands buried in the earth.
The soil was cool and alive.
It hummed under her skin.
She brushed a root with her fingertips.
Thirst. A small, quiet fear of drying out.
The plant's need pressed into her chest like a tiny hand.
"It's all right," she whispered. "You're not alone."
The herb didn't speak.
But its feeling was clear.
Her heart answered, warm and steady.
Empathy was normal in Thrakwhisper.
People cared for crops, for trees, for neighbors.
Feeling everything this sharply was not.
That part was hers.
"Talking to the plants again?" Thalor Rootwhisper rumbled from the path.
She looked up.
He stood under a great oak, staff in hand.