The sun had risen higher now, painting the farm in soft gold. Roland moved along the rows of young vegetables, watering with care, the cup of grain tea long since finished. Sol darted between his feet, tail wagging, ears perked at every flutter of wind.
Near the pond, Verdalis stirred. Her leaves quivered as though sensing the world in a new way, and a faint shimmer danced along her small branches. It was subtle — too subtle for anyone but a keen observer — but the air around her felt warmer, richer, as if the soil itself sighed in contentment.
Roland noticed the change immediately. "Huh…" he muttered, kneeling near the sapling. "You're… awake."
Verdalis' glow pulsed gently, and for a fleeting moment, the shimmer shaped itself into a tiny figure: a childlike silhouette, eyes bright and curious, watching him. Then, as if sensing Sol's gaze, she shrank back into the form of a simple, unassuming sapling.
Roland blinked. "Right… you're still hiding."
It wasn't deception; it was skill. A blessing the gods had quietly placed upon her. Umbravil, had whispered into her essence a talent for concealment — allowing her to appear as an ordinary tree, blending with her surroundings. Taren had infused her roots with subtle resilience, accelerating growth and strengthening her connection to the land. Hearth's nurturing energy lingered in her leaves, guiding vitality to crops and animals alike. And Culina's blessing granted her a gentle influence over nourishment — enough to subtly enrich food grown near her.
Roland reached out, brushing his fingers over a leaf. A warmth spread from the sapling into the soil beneath him. The tiny vegetables near her perked, their colors deepening, stems straightening toward the sky.
"Already helping," Roland whispered with a soft smile. "Even without trying."
He glanced toward Brontus and Maphala, who were grazing nearby. The bull's golden eyes were steady, attentive, as if he sensed a guardian watching over them. Maphala's hide glimmered faintly in the sunlight, the shimmer more vivid than usual. Even Aeris, the sheep, moved closer to Verdalis' shade, her calm aura amplified.
A faint giggle — delicate and bright — echoed again, like the laughter of wind through young leaves. Roland's chest warmed. "I guess… you're happy here."
The sapling's new skill — Shroud of Normalcy — was still young, limited in range and duration. Yet it allowed her to walk unseen by most eyes, letting her observe the farm and the world without drawing attention. But even hidden, her influence pulsed outward: crops grew sturdier, animals felt safer, the air carried a subtle vitality.
Roland crouched beside her. "Looks like we've got work to do… together."
Verdalis' leaves shimmered in agreement, almost like a nod. And though her form appeared ordinary to anyone passing by, the gods' blessings hummed quietly through her — a promise of growth, protection, and life yet to come.
As Roland rose and moved along the garden rows, he glanced back at the little sapling, now swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere within her small, hidden form, Verdalis' bright spirit watched — learning, waiting, preparing to bloom beyond anything the farm had ever known.
The morning had brought more than sun and dew. It had brought the quiet stirring of something extraordinary.
By midday, the dew had vanished, leaving the air warm and fragrant with fresh soil. Verdalis' subtle glow had faded beneath her Shroud of Normalcy, blending perfectly among the other saplings by the pond. Yet her quiet blessings lingered — the earth felt firmer, the grass richer, and even the walls of Roland's small farmhouse seemed to hum faintly with life.
Roland wiped sweat from his brow, Verdant Bracelet gleaming faintly as it shifted into a hammer. "Alright," he muttered, eyeing the wooden frame of his house. "Time to make you a little stronger."
He pressed his palm against the wall. The bracelet pulsed, spreading a faint green light across the wood. The planks tightened, seams closing, fibers strengthening until they were tough as seasoned oak. Even the roof beams seemed to straighten in pride.
A smile tugged at his lips. "That should handle another few storms."
But he wasn't done. He turned toward the open space near the rear of the house — a bare patch of dirt and grass where he planned to expand. "Now… a storage room. Somewhere to keep tools and grain."
He crouched, touching the ground. The bracelet flared again, reshaping itself into a set of glowing measurement rods and a saw. Within minutes, he had cut and joined the timber with precise movements, his motions confident and efficient. The new addition began to take shape — simple, but sturdy, connected directly to the main home.
Corvo watched from the shade of a nearby tree, his black feathers rustling in the wind. "You work like a craftsman," he said. "But your tools… they're divine."
Roland chuckled, not looking up. "I just let the bracelet do most of the work. I'm still learning."
"Learning," Corvo echoed, a soft smile in his tone. "That's how all the great ones start."
By the time the new storage room stood finished, the sun was beginning its slow descent. Roland took a step back, admiring the results — smooth walls, reinforced joints, and a roof that melded seamlessly with the original structure.
"That's not bad for a day's work," he said, stretching his back.
Corvo approached quietly, his expression thoughtful. "You've got talent, Roland. And heart. That's rarer than skill."
Roland tilted his head. "You sound like you're saying goodbye."
Corvo nodded once. "Because I am."
The words lingered in the air. Sol lifted his head from the porch, ears twitching. Even Verdalis' leaves seemed to still.
"I've tarried long enough," Corvo said gently. "My other self still guards our sanctuary. There are matters I must attend to before too much time passes." He reached into his cloak and drew out a long, midnight-black feather faintly etched with silver runes. "Take this."
Roland accepted it carefully. "A feather?"
"More than that," Corvo replied. "It holds knowledge — blueprints, designs, ideas. Things from another world. My world, long before I was remade. Mechanisms, tools, systems… devices mortals used to shape the impossible."
Roland turned the feather over in his hand. It pulsed faintly, and for an instant, he saw flickers of shapes — gears, pulleys, windmills, irrigation systems — all spinning in harmony. "This… is incredible."
Corvo's eyes softened. "I was a mechanic once. Tinkering was my joy, just as tending the soil is yours. Perhaps these ideas will help you make this place thrive."
"I'll put them to good use," Roland promised.
"I know you will." Corvo stepped back, spreading his wings. The wind caught them, scattering loose feathers like fragments of night. "Remember, Farmer — not all creation needs divinity. Sometimes, human hands are miracle enough."
With that, he took flight, rising into the sky until his form became a glint of black against the amber sun — and then was gone.
Roland stood silently for a while, the feather still warm in his palm. Sol trotted to his side, leaning against his leg. "Yeah," Roland murmured, smiling faintly. "He's one of a kind."
He placed the feather inside a small wooden box, setting it on the new shelf of his storage room. "Let's see what you'll teach me, old crow."
Hours passed quietly after Corvo's departure. The farm settled into its peaceful rhythm once more. The breeze hummed through the trees, Verdalis swayed softly by the pond, and Sol lazed near the steps — until his ears perked suddenly.
A low growl rumbled in his throat. Roland, busy cleaning tools, looked up. "What is it, boy?"
Sol barked once, sharp and alert, then darted toward the edge of the woods across the river. Roland followed quickly, boots crunching the grass.
Through the trees, he spotted movement — two small figures stumbling out of the underbrush. A boy and a girl, both thin and pale, their clothes torn, faces smeared with dirt. Their pointed ears marked them as elves, though their eyes were hollow with hunger.
Roland's breath caught. "Hey—hey, it's alright!" He raised his hands gently as he approached. "You're safe here."
The boy hesitated, stepping protectively in front of the girl. "We… we didn't mean to trespass," he said, voice trembling. "We were just looking for food."
Roland's heart ached at the sight. "You're half-starved," he said softly. "Come with me. I'll make you something warm."
They followed hesitantly, the girl leaning against her brother for balance. Sol circled them carefully, tail low but wagging.
Back at the house, Roland quickly prepared a pot of vegetable soup — fresh herbs, diced roots, and a hint of Verdalis' vitality-laden greens. The aroma filled the room, and soon the children were eating with quiet desperation, their small hands trembling as they held the bowls.
After a while, the boy looked up, eyes glassy but grateful. "Our village… it's starving. The crops failed. The soil turned sour. The hunters can't find game anymore." He clenched his fists. "All the strong ones — the fighters and magicians — they left months ago. Joined a mercenary corps in the main city to earn coin. They said they'd send money and food back."
Roland's expression darkened. "And they haven't."
The boy shook his head. "Not yet. We waited… but the little ones are getting weaker. We came out here hoping to find something to bring back."
Roland set down his ladle slowly. "How far did you walk?"
"Three moons," the girl whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Roland glanced toward Verdalis outside — her leaves shimmering faintly in the fading light. He felt a quiet warmth in his chest, the kind that always came before he made a decision.
"Then rest," he said firmly. "You'll stay here tonight. Tomorrow, we'll see what we can do about your village."
The boy's eyes widened. "You'd help us?"
Roland smiled softly. "A farm's duty is to grow food, a farmers duty is to grow food.If your people are starving, then something's wrong with the land itself — and that's something I can fix."
The siblings exchanged a look — a mix of hope and disbelief — before nodding silently.
As the night settled over the farm, Verdalis' leaves shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight, as though listening. The wind carried a distant whisper, soft and green, promising growth to come.