Samson mutters, “Of course he did.”
“I’ll have to take you to the enchanted lake sometime. It’s beautiful. And now that the sword is free, the spell enshrouding it has lifted, so you can’t get lost in the woods and die anymore.”
His body flinches. “What?”
“It’s fine! The code to get out if you take a wrong turn is keep taking lefts. Perfectly safe. If you know that. Anyway.” Knowing how unpredictable Slate can be, I, um, probably should have verbalized that to him in case he saw something shiny and ran off. Hindsight.
Samson’s fingers comb through my hair; I have never felt anything better. “Citrus.”
“Mm?”
“What compelled you to memorize the directions to a magic sword in your old world?”
Mental illness, probably. Instead of saying that, I hum. “I dunno. I’m special?”
His cheek tilts against my head. “True enough.”
I think…I could stay here forever. Safe. Warm. Secure.
I don’t know if this immense feeling of care isloveor not, but it’s certainly the closest I’ve ever gotten to it.
“Your sword isverysparkly,” he says.
“Cozy farming sims have a majority female demographic.”
He begins rubbing my back. “I’m going to pretend I know what that means.”
Right. My gender norms aren’t a thing here. Slate and Pyro would kill for my sparkly sword, no questions asked. I murmur, “Do you like it?”
“It’s impressive. I’ve never seen anything like it. It reminds me of weapons from ages past, stories passed down around campfires. Legends of ancient blessings. The old world of magic.”
“What does that mean? Theoldworld? Magic is still everywhere, isn’t it?”
Samson begins drawing circles over my wing bones. “Magic is still everywhere, but these days people lack the ambition to find it. Even adventurers are no longer a guild built on camaraderie and a thirst for discovery. In my lifetime, they’ve been more like mercenary hires, outsourced to the nobility for protection or monster control. As a society, we’ve lost the wonder for accessing things as dangerous as magic. Children don’t spend their days trying to find out if they’re gifted or blessed anymore. The blessed don’t search for new blessings. It’s all somewhat…stagnant compared to tales of times gone by.”
“That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”
“In some ways—unless you’re someone who would benefit from an insane weapon or an incredible protection blessing—it’s safer, calmer. People naturally gravitate toward ease. As more communities become cities, wonder gets lost in the exchange. There’s always an inevitable sacrifice with change. Whether it’s better or worse is all up to individual perception.”
What a statement.
Trying not to melt away beneath whatever Samson is doing to me, I say, “When you were a child, did you try to unlock abilities?”
He puffs a laugh. “Constantly.” He stretches his arm, peers at his tattoos. “I wanted some kind of reassurance that whatever powers existed were looking out for me. As a teenager, I had theelements inked into my flesh, deluding myself into thinking that kind of commitment might be the devotion the unspoken agents were looking for.” His touch returns to my back. “It wasn’t. But I’ve found my peace with it now.” Sighing, Samson rises and places me on my feet. “It’s getting late.” He cups my chin while I’m readjusting myself to the cold. “I need to feed you.”
Heat flutters to my cheeks. “Needis a strong word. You don’t have to doeverythingfor me. I’m borderline competent at maintaining something like survival in this world by now. Promise.”
His brow arches with all the convince ofnot very. “Iwantto feed you.”
Okay. Well. My heart doesn’t know what to do with that correction. Semantics have never been so hot.
I literally teeter with all the instability of a newborn deer when he drops his hand from my face and sidesteps me. “Put your sparkly sword away and come help me with the chickens. I’ll make an egg bake tonight with the fresh broccoli and spinach from your farm. In another week, they’ll be out of season, so we should enjoy them now.”
Reminding myself how to walk, I toddle after him, stuffing my sword into my backpack as I make it out the front door. “Another week? Isn’t Summer tomorrow?”
He casts an odd look back at me. “Yes? The calendar is based on our tilt toward the sun, which is very far from us. It takes a moment for the heat to stop crossing that distance and shift the weather drastically enough that Spring crops aren’t happy anymore. What did you think would happen? Your entire farm would shrivel up overnight because a human-made calendar decided a new season had begun?”
Innocently, I cough. “L-listen here, mister.”
