---☆~☆---
The air of the small elf village slowly shifted from exhaustion to something like hope. The great pot in the center of the square simmered softly, a fragrant steam curling up from its rim. Every so often, the village's cook — Thornelle, known for her garden herbs — would ladle in more broth, meat, and chopped roots, humming as she worked. The Festival Pot, they called it, a relic from better days, was large enough to feed the whole gathering.
Roland wiped his hands after stirring once and smiled. "Keep adding whatever you can," he said warmly. "The pot's big enough for everyone."
Thornelle nodded, her eyes brightening as she tossed in a handful of crushed dried leaves. "These are sunleaves, they'll make the flavor stronger. I never thought we'd use the Festival Pot again."
Leaving the cooking to her, Roland walked toward the fields with Pine trotting beside him. The boy's eyes were wide, curious, and full of energy. The sight of green sprouts returning to the soil filled him with awe.
"Sir Roland," Pine asked, his small hands clenched excitedly, "can I learn to do what you do? I… I want to make the land grow again."
Roland chuckled softly, resting a hand on the boy's head. "You can. Farming isn't about power—it's about care. You listen to the land, you study it, and you help it recover."
He crouched down, drawing small diagrams into the soil. "See this? We don't plant the same crop in the same place every season. That's crop rotation. Each plant takes and gives different things to the earth. If you keep repeating one, the land tires out."
Pine's ears twitched as he leaned closer. "So… we give the soil a rest?"
"Exactly. Sometimes, we plant things just to feed the soil—beans, clover, anything that restores the balance."
The boy nodded, scribbling notes into the dirt with a twig. Roland smiled at the enthusiasm. "Good. Now, the next part—water. You'll learn the Farmer's Rain spell. It's one of the simplest, but also one of the most important. Try it."
Pine closed his eyes, hands trembling slightly as he channeled mana. A few droplets shimmered above him, then fell—a light sprinkle, weak but pure.
Roland grinned. "That's it. You've got the start of it. Don't rush it; practice every morning and evening. The rain will grow stronger as your heart and mana align."
Pine looked up at him, face bright with pride. "I'll keep practicing, Sir Roland!"
---
By the time they returned, the pot was rich and bubbling, filling the air with savory warmth. The villagers — twelve adults and five children — gathered around with bowls, smiling faintly as the aroma brought back memories of festivals long past.
Willow, mother of Pine and Fire, held the children close. "Thank you," she said softly. "The children… and the land… you've given them both life again."
Roland shook his head. "No need to thank me. Just remember to water that big tree often. It's still growing—and the stronger it becomes, the more it'll help your soil recover."
Fir, Pine's sister, grinned. "I'm helping him!"
Roland laughed at their exchange and turned to the villagers, who now introduced themselves properly:
Hawthorn, the hunter, tall and gaunt but smiling for the first time in days.
Lunara, the seamstress, mending worn clothing beside the fire.
Lavender, the weaver, whose delicate hands spun grass fibers into rope.
Ash, the tinkerer, quietly adjusting tools and bits of metal.
Juniper, the herbalist, checking the herbs Roland had brought from his inventory.
Thornelle, the cook, presiding over the great pot like a queen of warmth.
Rowen, the butcher, carving the remaining Lithun bear meat for storage.
Twelve names — twelve lives holding a flicker of community against despair — with five children quietly observing, inspired by the adults around them.
---
Then, a low rumble shook the air — not thunder, but something heavier. A moment later, Sol burst from the forest, paws tearing up soil, a faint golden current trailing behind him.
He was dragging something massive — a Lithun Bear, fur streaked with silver and faint veins of lightning crackling across its hide. Its eyes were dim, lifeless, but the aura it gave off was unmistakable: Iron-ranked beast.
Gasps rippled through the elves. Even Hawthorn stepped back, stunned. "That beast… it hunted our forests for years. None of us could touch it."
Roland grinned, ruffling Sol's fur as the big dog panted proudly. "Looks like he found breakfast."
Brontus snorted. "Breakfast? That could feed a whole caravan."
Roland chuckled. "Then it's a feast."
Thorn, the butcher, hurried forward with gleaming eyes. "I can handle the cuts, sir. Haven't worked with beast meat this fresh in months!"
"Go ahead," Roland said. "We'll use some for soup — the rest, smoke it for later. We'll need it."
As Thorn worked with quick, respectful precision, the rich scent of wild lightning meat filled the air. Sparks danced faintly along the cuts, harmless now, but still humming with residual energy.
As the soup simmered, Roland began adding vegetables, herbs, and grains into the pot. "This stew," he said, stirring slowly with a long wooden paddle, "will feed everyone. But more than that — it'll nourish your land. Verdalis' essence lingers in these seeds and herbs. You'll feel it."
A faint emerald glow shimmered in the pot, subtle but pure.
Fir and Pine gasped. "It's glowing!"
Roland smiled. "That means it's alive. Like your forest used to be."
---
As the villagers ate, Roland inquired further. "Earlier, you mentioned divine farmers. What were they like?"
The elder, leaning on his staff, eyes soft, answered: "Ah… the Greenbound. That's what we called them. In the age before decay, gods of soil and seed walked among mortals. They tamed famine, calmed beasts, and blessed those who sowed with honest hearts. But when the world's balance fractured, most of them fell silent… or turned into spirits guarding forgotten lands."
Roland stirred the pot thoughtfully. "So they were real. Farmers who wielded divinity."
The elder nodded slowly. "Some say they were fragments of an even greater being — one who once shaped the first forests. But such tales are old as roots. Now, only fragments remain."
Brontus's deep voice rumbled. "And yet here you stand, human, breathing life into soil long thought dead. Tell me — are you sure those divine roots don't reach through you?"
Roland chuckled softly, though a strange weight settled in his chest. "If they do, I hope they're the kind that grow quietly."
---
Over the next few days, Roland worked alongside the villagers, teaching Pine how to tend the land properly. He showed the boy crop rotation, soil care, and how to nurture plants with just enough water. He even taught Pine a small version of Farmer's Rain, enough for a light sprinkle to help seedlings take root.
"You've got the basics," Roland encouraged him. "Keep practicing, and one day you'll have a farm of your own. But remember—water the Lumescent Willow often. It'll help your whole village."
Pine's eyes shone as he nodded. "I will, Sir Roland!"
Willow and the villagers watched with growing respect. Though small and tired, Pine's determination reminded them of the land itself: patient, resilient, and quietly strong.
By the evening, the fields glimmered faintly under Verdalis' blessing, the soup pot still simmering, and the village alive with the warmth oh hope returning.