When Roland woke, the first thing he heard was rain.
Not the hard, hammering kind — but soft, patient drops pattering against the roof and the freshly turned soil outside. The steady rhythm filled the house like a lullaby still echoing from his dreams.
He lay there for a while, letting the sound soak in — the patter of rain, the slow creak of the beams above, the soft breathing of Sol beside him. His body felt lighter, his mind calmer — as though the gods' laughter still lingered somewhere deep within him.
Sol gave a low, contented huff and nudged his head against Roland's arm, tail thumping softly.
"Morning, boy," Roland murmured, scratching behind his ears. "Looks like a lazy day, huh?"
The tail thumped again — definite agreement.
Roland rolled out of bed and stretched, the smell of damp earth and wet wood drifting through the open window. The air was cool and sweet. Outside, the fields shimmered in silver mist, rows of corn and carrots bowing under the gentle rain.
"Well," he said, rubbing his neck, "guess that's nature's watering duty done."
He started a small fire in the hearth and set water to boil, the faint crackle mingling with the rain's steady hum. Sol curled up near the warmth, paws stretched toward the flames. Aeris, the sheep, was nestled in a dry corner of the barn — her wool puffed and glowing faintly in the dim light.
Even Corvo was taking it easy.
The crow, in his human form, had his sleeves rolled up and a calm smile on his face as he combed through the bull's coarse fur with slow, patient strokes.
"You know," Corvo said without looking up, "I've outflown storms that could swallow mountains. But this… this drizzle is strangely perfect."
Roland chuckled from the doorway. "Didn't take you for a farmhand."
"I'm not," Corvo replied smoothly. "I'm just preening my feathers through the cow — by proxy."
That earned a laugh.
The bull gave a long, low snort — half protest, half pleasure — while the cow leaned against Corvo's shoulder, clearly enjoying the rare attention. Outside, the Purifish broke the surface of the pond, sending soft ripples through the mirrored rainwater.
Roland poured a mug of warm grain tea and sat by the open door, letting the cool air brush against his face. Sol lay beside him, head in Roland's lap, while the sounds of soft animal chatter filled the barn.
The fish glowed faintly beneath the rippling water. Aeris bleated in her sleep, her wool catching the gray light like a pale rainbow.
"Feels like the world's asleep," Roland said quietly.
"Then don't wake it," Corvo replied.
They didn't.
The rest of the day passed in gentle silence — a patchwork of slow chores, quiet meals, and easy laughter, all wrapped in the steady rhythm of rain.
By evening, the sky had turned the color of steel. Mist clung to the ground, and the fire crackled softly. Sol snored by Roland's feet while Corvo leaned against a barn post, watching the rain's reflection ripple across the pond.
"Not a bad day," Roland murmured.
Corvo gave a lazy smile. "Not every day needs adventure."
Roland nodded. "No. Some days just… need to be."
He spent the night working on his crafting.
And so the farm slept beneath the rain's lullaby — the fields, the animals, and the man who dreamed of gods, all wrapped in a quiet, living calm.
He felt his soul ease into the rhythm of this world — slow, patient, and alive.
Somewhere beyond the clouds, the gods surely smiled — for even divinity must rest, sometimes.
The morning sun filtered softly through the clouds, touching every leaf and blade of grass with pale gold. Roland stepped outside, Sol trotting happily at his heels, and immediately felt a subtle shift in the air.
Later that night, while the rain thinned to a drizzle, Corvo stepped outside. Roland followed, curious, as the crow-man knelt by a patch of soft soil near the house. From his cloak, Corvo withdrew a small acorn — faintly glowing with golden-green light, warm as a heartbeat.
"What's that?" Roland asked quietly.
"A gift," Corvo said, placing it gently in the earth. "From an old friend named Frindle. She's a World Tree — divine and ancient. Her roots once stretched across her entire realm, but… that world was dying. She gave me this, one of her children, hoping I'd find a safe place for it to grow."
He pressed the soil closed over the acorn, then rested his palm against it. The rain's rhythm slowed for a heartbeat, as though listening.
"She wanted her child to see a world worth growing in," Corvo continued, his voice softening. "A place with kindness, balance, and hands that nurture, not take. Your farm feels… right for that."
Roland looked at the small mound of soil, rain beading like tiny stars across its surface. "Then she'll be safe here."
Corvo smiled faintly. "Good. Frindle's blessing runs deep. Even a sapling of her line can nourish the land it touches."
And as the rain finally eased, something faint and golden shimmered where the acorn slept — a promise taking root beneath the soil.
---
When dawn came, pale sunlight filtered through the clouds, turning the mist to gold. Roland stepped outside with Sol trotting at his heels — and immediately noticed a subtle shift in the air.
Verdalis — Frindle's child — had grown. Her bark shimmered faintly, green-gold veins pulsing with quiet life, and her leaves trembled as though aware of his gaze.
Near the back of the house, Verdalis — Frindle's child — had grown a little overnight. Her bark shimmered faintly, green-gold veins pulsing with quiet life, and her small leaves twitched as if aware of their observers.
Roland knelt beside her, hand brushing the young trunk. A soft warmth ran through his fingers, and for a moment, he felt as though the sapling were breathing — not like a plant, but like a living, conscious being.
His Farmer's Insight activated automatically, numbers flickering in his mind's eye:
> Soil Vitality: +5%
Growth Rate: +5%
Crop Quality Modifier: +5%
Roland's eyes widened. "Already…? You're helping the farm."
Corvo stepped beside him, watching Verdalis quietly. "She is," he said softly. "Even young, she can nudge life forward. But don't push her too much — using her abilities tires her quickly for now."
Behind them, Brontus ambled over, nose twitching as he sniffed at Verdalis' roots. Maphala followed, tail flicking, her maple-leaf tip brushing gently against the sapling's trunk. Both beasts lowered their heads close to the small tree, breathing in the calm energy it radiated.
"This tree feels… nice," Brontus rumbled.
"Peaceful," Maphala added, a soft hum in her voice.
Sol barked happily, circling them in excitement, while Aeris padded closer, settling in the grass near the sapling and letting out a long, contented sigh.
Roland chuckled, brushing soil from his hands. "Looks like everyone agrees. Welcome home, Verdalis."
The sapling's leaves shimmered faintly in response, the veins glowing for a heartbeat before softening. Even though her power was limited by youth, the life force she carried already flowed through the earth, feeding the crops, comforting the animals, and enriching the soil — a quiet promise that as she grew, so too would the farm flourish.
Roland stood, hands resting on his knees, watching the small divine tree sway gently in the breeze. The farm had gained more than just a new sprout today. It had gained a friend — a living blessing from a higher world, ready to nurture life in ways even the gods might admire.