Spring (2)

Days blurred into a pleasant whirlwind of training. A week had flown by since Dad started our tri-weekly sessions, and true to his word, he pushed us relentlessly—mana control drills at dawn, precision exercises until our muscles screamed in protest. But the shared laughter during water breaks made every ache worthwhile. Who knew bonding could come from pure exhaustion?

"Release on three, Fleda!" Dad's voice boomed across the field.

"Take this!" My sister's battle cry pierced the air as a pebble shot from her palm. The projectile didn't just fly; it tore through our scarecrow's wooden head like wet parchment, leaving a fist-sized crater where its painted smile used to be.

Watching Fleda these past days had been equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying. While my use of Law was a raging, untamed river, hers was surgical steel—precise, calculated, and lethally efficient. 

Dad claimed no one in Ercangaud could match her mana allocation. Where I brute-forced my way through with raw power, Fleda’s scripts hummed with a quiet, mathematical elegance, achieving the same devastating results with perfect calibration.

A cold dread coiled in my gut during her demonstrations. What if some scheming noble learned of her gift? 

My fingers dug crescent moons into my palms. Over my dead body, I vowed silently. No one would ever exploit my sweet, cinnamon-roll of a sister. Not while I drew breath.

"Kids! Time to eat!" Mom's call shattered my dark musings.

"Already?" Fleda wiped sweat from her brow, the morning sun glinting off her golden locks.

We collapsed beneath the porch oak where Mom had laid out bowls of her legendary pram. The golden rice pudding steamed invitingly, its caramelized crust crackling as we shattered it with our spoons.

"I could easily down twenty of these," I mumbled through a stuffed mouth.

Fleda's giggle morphed into a cough as she inhaled a cinnamon sprinkle. Between greedy bites, I gazed out at our family’s fields—endless waves of amber wheat dancing in the breeze. Soon, these stalks would become Mom's honey-nut loaves, filling our cottage with that irresistible Sunday-morning scent.

"Drink up, my little warriors." Mom placed mugs of herbal tea by our empty bowls. "Need to grow strong like your old man."

"Yes, Mom!" we chimed in unison.

We clinked our clay mugs as the sun dipped low, gilding the grain fields in molten gold. The tea's warmth spread through my chest—a sharp ginger kick mellowed by wildflower honey. 

In this perfect, fleeting moment, with Fleda's feet kicking mine under the table and Dad retelling his rat-hunt saga again, I made a silent, desperate wish: Let this last forever.

***

The morning sun had yet to burn off the dew when I led Fleda through the barley stalks, our laughter mingling with the soft rustle of the wind. The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sweet perfume of wildflowers. 

Our sanctuary lay just a ten-minute walk from home, past the old millstone sentinel: a vibrant, hidden carpet of chrysanthemums that never failed to steal my breath away.

Today, however, the blossoms trembled with a particular urgency, their petals fluttering like anxious butterflies around my sniffling sister. Fleda's cornflower-blue dress was smudged with tear stains.

"I told her it was an accident!" she wailed, kicking a pebble with frustration. "Does Mom really think I wanted to break her favorite bowl? It's not like I—" Her voice trailed off, her small shoulders slumping with guilt.

I let her rant, plucking stems as we walked, my fingers deftly weaving the delicate flowers together. With each step, I felt the tension in her shoulders ease, the beauty of our surroundings working its slow magic.

"Look up," I murmured, crowning her with a chain of sunshine-yellow blooms. Their vibrant color was a stunning contrast to her golden braids. "Behold! The goddess of Ercangaud's fields!"

Her reflection in my cupped hands—a tear-streaked face framed by a chrysanthemum halo—finally coaxed a wobbly smile from her lips. "Do I really look…?"

"Like summer incarnate," I declared, settling a crown of my own askew on my head. "Now, let's make one for Mom's doorstep. By sundown, she'll forget that bowl ever existed."

Her eyes sparked with renewed mischief. We set to work, the meadow coming alive with the hum of bees and the distant chirping of birds. Each flower we picked seemed to absorb our laughter, transforming our worries into something light and joyful.

"Maybe we can even make a few for Fram and the others," I suggested.

Fleda grinned. "And we can tell them they're from the goddess of the fields!"

As we continued to weave, the sun climbed higher, casting a golden hue over the meadow. In that moment, I knew that no matter what troubles lay ahead, we would always find solace in this place.

***

Thwack!

The crisp sound of palm on shoulder blade echoed through the meadow as Alphonse's victorious shout sliced the air. "Fram's it!"

His gangly frame weaved through sun-bleached grass, straw-colored hair catching the light like a wheat stalk set aflame. 

Fram stumbled, his usual mask of mischief slipping to reveal the calculating glint he reserved for chess matches. Then he was off, a comet of flailing limbs and exaggerated growls that sent Rosalind squealing.

Our ragtag crew was a living ecosystem. Alphonse's brash energy fed Fram's theatricality, which sparked Hilda's competitive fire, all tempered by Rosalind's quiet pragmatism. Even the breeze conspired with us, carrying the tang of impending rain that made our game feel urgent.

"Not fair!" Fram lobbed the complaint over his shoulder, vaulting a mossy stone wall. "How are you so much faster than me, Al?"

Alphonse's answering cackle was cut short as Fram executed a tackle that would make a mountain troll proud. 

Both boys tumbled into the creek, soaking the edge of Albert’s parchment. Our resident genius didn't look up from his sketches, merely shifting so the droplets inked new constellations across his diagram of the village aqueducts.

The old millhouse, our second home, loomed ahead. Inside, the clack-clack of river stones marked another round of Fleda's campaign to master Three-Shell Gambit. "Focus on the gaps, not the shells," Rosalind murmured, her voice barely rising above the rustle of drying herbs.

"Don't coddle her, Roz! Let the squirt learn—hey!" Hilda yelped as Fleda's triumphant smirk appeared, her sneak attack sending Hilda's tokens scattering.

I leaned against the splintered door frame, watching the scene unfold. Twilight painted everything in honeyed light, gilding the dust motes that swirled around Albert's still form by the window.

"They'll tear the roof down before harvest," Fram's voice appeared at my shoulder. He smelled of wet dog and the mint leaves he chewed to impress Hilda. "Bet you thirty zilver Al breaks that wall first."

I elbowed him, nodding toward where Alphonse now balanced on the mill wheel's rusted axle. "You'd be bankrupt by sundown."

The truth, however, lingered unspoken between us—this fragile equilibrium couldn't last. 

Albert's coughs came more frequently, his parents' whispers about "city doctors" growing urgent. Hilda's hands were becoming her mother's, calloused and ink-stained. Even the millhouse stood on borrowed time, its north wall bowing like an old man's spine.

As Fram melted back into the chaos, I pressed my palm against the sun-warmed stone. 

The elders called it rubble. We'd made it a throne room, a war council chamber, a vault for dreams too big for Ercangaud’s narrow lanes.

Alphonse's whoop sliced through the twilight as he "accidentally" upended the shell game, sending Hilda into mock-fury. Fleda’s flower crown sat askew as she lectured Rosalind on "proper sabotage techniques." Even Albert’s lips quirked upward at Fram’s antics.

I committed it all to memory: Rosalind’s telltale ear tuck when she lied; Alphonse’s nostril flare before a prank; the exact shade of blue the sky turned when Hilda truly laughed. 

These fragments, these precious moments, I wove into an invisible cloak, stitching them together with threads of Law only I could see—a ward against the creeping dread that adulthood would soon scatter us like dandelion seeds.

The first raindrops fell as we raced home, Fleda's hand warm in mine. Behind us, the millhouse stood sentinel in the gathering dark, its broken windows glowing like watchful eyes. 

For tonight, it was enough.

***