Theudifara

Days blurred together in a whirlwind of training. A week had flown by since Dad started our tri-weekly sessions. True to his word, he pushed Fleda and me hard—mana control drills at dawn, precision exercises till dusk. My muscles protested constantly, but our laughter during water breaks made every ache worthwhile. Who knew bonding could come from shared 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 tore through our scarecrow's wooden head like 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 magic resembled a raging river, hers flowed like surgical steel—precise, calculated, deadly efficient. Dad claimed no one in Ercangaud could match her mana allocation skills. Where I brute-forced spells with raw power, Fleda's scripts hummed with mathematical elegance, achieving similar results through 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 exploit my cinnamon-roll of a sister while I drew breath.

"Kids! Chow time!" Mom's call shattered my dark musings.

"Oh shoot, 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 her legendary pram. The golden rice pudding steamed invitingly, its caramelized crust crackling as we dove in.

"Twenty bowls," I mumbled through a stuffed mouth. "Could easily down twenty."

Fleda's giggle morphed into a cough as she inhaled a cinnamon sprinkle. Between greedy bites, I glanced our family 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 herbal tea by our empty bowls. "Grow strong like your old man."

""Yes, Mom!""

We clinked clay mugs as the sun dipped low, gilding the grain fields in molten gold. The tea's warmth spread through my chest—ginger sharpness mellowed by wildflower honey. In this perfect moment, with Fleda's feet kicking mine under the table and Dad retelling his rat-hunt saga (again), I made a silent wish: Let this happiness last forever.

***

The morning sun had yet to burn off the dew when Fleda and I slipped through the barley stalks, our laughter mingling with the soft rustle of the wind. The air was crisp and fresh, filled with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sweet fragrance of wildflowers. Just a ten-minute walk from home—past Dad's sprawling wheat fields, where the golden grains swayed gently in the breeze, and beyond the old millstone, which stood as a silent sentinel of our childhood adventures—lay our sanctuary: a vibrant carpet of chrysanthemums that never failed to steal my breath away.

Today, however, the blossoms trembled with a particular urgency, their gold, blush, and ivory petals fluttering like anxious butterflies around my sniffling sister. Fleda's cornflower-blue dress was smudged with tear stains, a testament to her earlier distress.

"I told her it was an accident!" she exclaimed, 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, the weight of her guilt hanging heavily in the air.

I let her rant wind itself out, plucking stems as we walked, my fingers deftly weaving together the delicate flowers. With each step, I could feel the tension in her shoulders begin to ease, the beauty of our surroundings slowly working its magic. By the time we reached the heart of the meadow, my fingers had woven three flower chains, each one more intricate than the last.

"Look up," I murmured, brushing a ladybug from her hair, its tiny legs tickling her cheek. Fleda's hiccuping sobs paused as I crowned her with sunshine-yellow blooms, their vibrant colors contrasting beautifully with her golden braids. "Behold! The goddess of Ercangaud's fields!"

Her reflection in my cupped hands—golden braids framing chrysanthemum halos—finally coaxed a wobbly smile from her lips. "Do I really look...?"

"Like summer incarnate," I declared, twirling my own crown of white and pink flowers before settling it askew atop my head. The sunlight danced through the petals, casting a warm glow around us. "Now let's make one for Mom's doorstep. By sundown, she'll forget that bowl ever existed."

With renewed energy, we set to work, gathering more flowers and weaving them into beautiful crowns. As we crafted our floral masterpieces, the meadow came alive with the sounds of nature—the gentle hum of bees, the distant chirping of birds, and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. 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, my mind racing with ideas. "Imagine their faces when they see these beautiful crowns on their doorsteps!"

Fleda's eyes sparkled with mischief. "And we can tell them they're from the goddess of Ercangaud's fields!"

As we continued to weave, the sun climbed higher in the sky, casting a golden hue over the meadow. In that moment, surrounded by the beauty of nature and our bond of siblings, I knew that no matter what troubles lay ahead, we would always find solace in our sanctuary.

***

Thwack!

The crisp sound of palm meeting shoulder blade echoed through the meadow as Alphonse's victorious shout sliced the afternoon 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 forward, the force of the tag nearly sending him face-first into a patch of clover. For a heartbeat, his usual mask of mischief slipped, revealing the calculating glint he reserved for chess matches with Albert. Then he was off, a comet of gangly limbs and exaggerated growls that sent Rosalind squealing behind Hilda's protective stance.

Our ragtag crew—seven souls if you counted Albert's silent presence beneath the willow—were less a friend group than a living ecosystem. Alphonse's brash energy fed Fram's theatricality, which in turn sparked Hilda's competitive streak, all tempered by Rosalind's quiet pragmatism. Even the breeze seemed to conspire with us today, carrying the tang of impending rain that made our game feel urgent, necessary.

"Not fair!" Fram lobbed the complaint over his shoulder as he vaulted a mossy stone wall. "How come you're so much faster me, Al?" The accusation hung between panting breaths, a mix of frustration and admiration. Alphonse's long legs propelled him effortlessly ahead, while Fram struggled to keep up. It was a well-known fact that Al had been blessed with a natural athleticism that seemed to come effortlessly, a gift that left the rest of us feeling a bit envious. Fram's mother had always said that some were born with strength, while others had to work for it, and right now, it felt like Al was flaunting his advantage.

Alphonse's answering cackle startled a flock of starlings into flight. "Says the guy who—oof!" His taunt died as Fram executed a tackle that would make a mountain troll proud, both boys tumbling into the creek with a splash that soaked Albert's parchment. Our resident genius didn't look up from his sketches, merely shifted position so the droplets inked delicate constellations across his diagram of the village aqueducts.

The old millhouse we'd claimed as our sanctuary loomed ahead, its warped planks groaning in harmony with Hilda's laughter. Inside, the clack-clack of polished river stones marked another round of Fleda's determined 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 hanging from the rafters. Hilda snorted, elbowing her friend. "Don't coddle her, Roz! Let the squirt learn—hey!"

I leaned against the splintered doorframe, watching Fleda's triumphant smirk as her sneak attack sent Hilda's tokens scattering. Twilight painted the scene in honeyed light, gilding the dust motes that swirled around Albert's still form by the window. His finger traced the path of a ladybug across his notebook, the movement precise as a scholar cataloging rare artifacts.

"They'll tear the roof down before harvest," came Fram's voice at my shoulder, dripping creek water and false concern. He smelled of wet dog and the mint leaves he chewed to impress Hilda. "Bet you three copper chips Al breaks that wall first."

I elbowed him, nodding toward where Alphonse now balanced on the millwheel's rusted axle, dramatically recounting his mother's latest battle with bakery rats. "You'd bankrupt yourself by sundown."

The truth lingered unspoken between us—this fragile equilibrium couldn't last. Albert's coughs came more frequently now, his parents' whispers about "city doctors" growing urgent. Hilda's hands were becoming her mother's—calloused from loom work, ink-stained from tallying debts. 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 foundation. The village elders called it useless 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 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 when Fram pretended to slip—a bit he'd stolen from traveling players last summer.

I committed it all to memory: the way Rosalind tucked hair behind her ears when lying, Alphonse's telltale nostril flare before a prank, the exact shade of blue the sky turned when Hilda laughed unrestrained. These fragments I wove into an invisible cloak, stitching them with threads of Law only I could see—a ward against the creeping dread that adulthood would 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.

***