On the other side of the village, Keiko was having a completely different experience.
Mira's house was organized with military efficiency. Every jar had its place, every tool had its specific shelf, every surface was clean and free of unnecessary clutter. The smell of herbs was konstant and strong some comforting, others almost suffocating in their intensity.
Mira had put Keiko to work immediately, without any kindness or adjustment period.
"These," she said, pointing to a huge pile of dried herbs in a basket, "need to be sorted. Leaves in one container, stems in another, seeds in a third. Can you do that?"
It seemed simple. Keiko nodded, picking up the first dried plant and starting to separate it. The leaves broke easily under her fingers, stems were stiffer but snapped with effort, tiny seeds fell in a minuscule shower when she shook them.
But after ten minutes, her hands were already hurting. The stems had tiny thorns she hadn't seen, so small they were almost invisible, but they scratched her skin leaving irritated red lines. The seeds were so small she kept dropping them on the floor instead of into the container. And the smell was getting stronger, making her eyes burn and her nose itch.
"You're doing it wrong," Mira commented, not even looking up from her own work where she was grinding something in a mortar with firm, rhythmic movements. "I see seeds on the floor. Waste is unacceptable."
Keiko clenched her teeth. "I'm trying. They're very small."
"Then try more carefully. Work directly over the container, not in your hands." Mira finally looked, saw Keiko's scratched hands, and rolled her eyes. "And use the gloves hanging over there. Those herbs have thorns. Obviously."
She could have mentioned that earlier, Keiko thought angrily, but went to get the gloves. They were thick and clumsy, making her fingers move with less precision, but at least they stopped the scratches.
The work was relentless. It was an endless succession of simple but exhausting tasks. Separating piles of herbs that seemed to multiply. Scrubbing cloudy glass jars until her knuckles ached. The longest and most painful trip: carrying heavy buckets of water from the external well, which sloshed and spilled a little with every step, wetting her legs.
And then, the worst of all: grinding hard seeds in a stone mortar. Her arms, which in five minutes were already on fire, in ten were just numb and useless meat. Hanging the herb bundles to dry was a final torment. The three-legged stool, unbalanced and treacherous, wobbled dangerously with her every movement, forcing her to grab the ceiling beams to avoid falling.
Keiko's entire body screamed in protest, every muscle a burn, every breath an effort. She wasn't used to this. Her life had been made of books, screens, and comfort. Now, every task was a brutal lesson in humility and physical endurance.
Mira offered no praise. She only pointed out mistakes. "Too coarse, grind it more. You hung these crooked, they'll dry unevenly. No, not like that, this way. Pay attention."
Every correction made Keiko want to scream. She wasn't used to this. At home, when she learned something new like piano, French, etiquette her teachers were paid to be patient, to praise small progress, to never be too harsh. Here, Mira had no patience, no praise, just a konstant expectation that Keiko should simply know how to do things.
"I don't know how to do this," Keiko finally exploded after Mira criticized for the fifth time how she was tying stems into bundles. "I've never done this before! No one taught me! In my world we don't..." she gestured frustratedly, searching for words, "...we don't do these things manually! We have machines for this! Or people who do it for us!"
Mira stopped what she was doing and turned completely to Keiko, those dark eyes fixed and without any sympathy.
"And now you are not in your world," she said, her voice firm as stone. "You are here. And here, everyone works. Everyone contributes. There are no magic machines. There are no servants to do things for you. There are only hands, work, and effort. So you can keep complaining about how different it was before..." a significant pause, "or you can stop the drama and learn."
Keiko felt tears of frustration burning behind her eyes. She blinked furiously to hold them back. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't give that satisfaction to this horrible, heartless woman.
"Well?" Mira crossed her arms, waiting.
"I'll learn," Keiko forced the words through clenched teeth.
"Great. Then pay attention this time." Mira took the stems Keiko had tried to tie and completely undid her work. "See. You align them first, all in the same direction. Then tie here, near the base, not in the middle where it will damage them. Two loops, firm knot. Simple."
She made it look easy. When Keiko tried again, her clumsy hands trembling slightly with contained rage, the bundle ended up crooked and the knot loose.
"Again," Mira said, undoing it without ceremony.
Keiko tried again. And again. And again. On the fifth attempt, Mira finally nodded once.
"Acceptable. Continue."
It wasn't praise. But it was the first time Mira hadn't criticized or made her redo it. Keiko clung to that small victory as if it were gold.
The work continued for the rest of the afternoon. More sorting, more cleaning, more grinding. Mira began teaching the names of some herbs words in the language of Excelsior that the Blessing translated in her head, but which still sounded strange coming from Mira's mouth.
"This is Moonleaf. For fevers. This is Beastroot. For muscle pain, but poisonous if you use too much. This..."
Keiko tried to memorize, but it was all a blur. So many plants, so many names, so many uses. How did anyone remember all this?
When the sun finally began to set, Mira finally said: "Enough for today. Return tomorrow at sunrise. Don't be late."
Keiko practically fled the house, her clothes stained green and brown, her hands still aching even through the gloves, her brain saturated with too much information.
She stood outside for a moment, just breathing the open air, happy to be away from that suffocating smell of herbs and Mira's critical presence.
One day, she thought. It was just one day. And I already hate it.
But then she looked at her hands, at the calluses beginning to form, at the dirt under her nails that had never been there before. Proof of work. Proof of effort.
But I did it. Even hating it. Even though it was horrible. I did it.
It was something. Small, but something.
In the fields on the other side of the village, Raid was having his own journey of discovery.
Tomos didn't speak much. This turned out to be a blessing.
After that first brief conversation in the morning, Tomos had simply gestured for Raid to follow and started walking through the fields. And then... work. Just work. No long explanations, no personal questions, no pressure to talk.
Tomos showed by doing. He pointed to a tool, demonstrated how to use it, then handed it to Raid to try. When Raid did it wrong, Tomos simply took it back, showed him again, more slowly. No verbal criticism. No visible frustration. Just... silent patience.
They spent the morning plowing a section of field being prepared for new planting. The plow was a heavy tool pulled by a large animal Tomos called a "Field Ox" which looked like a normal ox except it had six legs instead of four and horns that curved backward in a spiral. The creature was surprisingly docile, obeying simple commands Tomos gave in a low voice.
Raid tried to hold the plow handles when Tomos offered, but the strength needed to keep it steady as the earth opened up was enormous. His arms trembled, his back ached, and after just one row he was sweating profusely and panting.
Tomos took the handles back, his movement a smooth, non judgmental transition. As his veteran muscles finished the task with an efficiency that was almost art, he finally spoke, his voice as solid and quiet as the earth they cultivated. "Back strength builds with the morning sun." It was a fact, not a criticism. To him, today's weakness was just the seed of tomorrow's strength.
After plowing came planting. Tomos used no words. He simply knelt in the turned earth and, with his thick, calloused fingers, demonstrated: a hole, not too shallow, not too deep. One step forward, the exact measure, another hole. He created a perfect row, a silent rhythm in the earth.
Then, the seeds. Two or three dark grains falling into Raid's palm, a gesture of trust. Tomos showed the movement: the hand that turns, the fingers that release the seed into the bottom of the hole, the care not to throw. Finally, the final act covering with loose soil, a soft blanket over the buried promise.
And then Raid knelt beside him and began. The cycle set in: kneel, dig, sow, cover. Kneel, dig, sow, cover. His waist began to complain, his knees throbbing against the hard ground, but the repetition itself was almost meditative. There was a primitive, calming rhythm to that task, a silent prayer made with hands in the earth, under Excelsior's impossible sun.
Raid discovered he liked this part. It didn't require speaking, it didn't require complex social interaction, there was no one judging his every move. It was just... doing. Hole, seeds, cover. Hole, seeds, cover. Again and again and again.
His brain, which usually raced in a thousand directions at once in social situations, began to calm down. To focus. Just the hands in the earth, the smell of fresh soil, the warm sun on his back.
This is... okay. This I can do.
They worked like this for hours. Tomos a few rows ahead, Raid following behind, both at a steady pace. Occasionally Tomos looked back to check the progress, nodding approval when he saw Raid was maintaining the correct spacing.
When the sun was at its peak, Lira appeared carrying a basket. "Lunch break," she announced cheerfully, spreading a cloth under a tree at the edge of the field and starting to lay out food.
Raid was grateful for the break. His back was screaming, his hands blistered where he held the planting tool, his knees sore from crouching for so long.
Lira had brought thick bread, strong smelling cheese, fruits that looked like apples but were more oval, and jars of something that tasted like iced tea but was darker in color. Everything was arranged with care, practically a small feast there in the shade.
"Eat, eat," she encouraged, pushing food toward Raid. "Field work makes you hungry. You need energy."
Raid ate, discovering he was truly hungry. The food was simple, but good, substantial and satisfying in a way that expensive restaurant food in his world had never been.
Tomos ate in silence, chewing slowly and looking over the fields with a satisfied expression. Lira, on the other hand, chatted gently about various topics: how the other crops were doing, light gossip about neighbors Raid didn't know, and plans for dinner
Raid didn't need to respond much. Occasional nods were enough. Lira seemed to instinctively understand he wasn't one for talking, and didn't press. It was... comfortable in a strange way.
The routine didn't let up. After lunch a simple, silent meal more work. This time, Tomos took him to a different corner of the fields, where rows of established plants raised their green leaves to the sun.
Here, the work was about precision, not strength.
Tomos knelt, and Raid imitated him. Without a single word, the man began his silent lesson. His fingers, which seemed so clumsy in brute tasks, now moved with surprising delicacy. He pointed to a plant with narrow leaves and a weak stem, touched his finger to it, and then to another, with broad leaves and a robust stem. A gesture to the first, then a motion of pulling it from the earth weed.
He demonstrated how to hold the weed by the base and pull with a gentle twist, so the root came out whole and didn't break, leaving behind a piece that would grow back. He showed how to lightly stir the soil at the base of the good plants, looking for nibbled leaves, spots, or the sticky texture that spoke of tiny insects.
It was a new kind of language, a conversation made of gestures and observation. For Raid, whose life had always been about going unnoticed, there was a strange peace in learning to read the silent stories told by the earth.
And it was here that Raid discovered something unexpected.
He was good at this. Good at seeing the small details. Good at noticing when a leaf had a slightly wrong coloration, or when a stem had small marks that could indicate insects. Things his eyes automatically caught, that tendency to observe that usually left him overwhelmed in social situations, but which here was... useful.
"Good," Tomos said, the first real word in hours, when Raid pointed to a plant that had subtle signs of infestation. Tomos removed it completely, roots and all, and threw it away from the fields. "Sharp eye. Important."
It was an economical compliment, but the warmth that spread in Raid's chest at those simple words was real.
I'm good at something. Something useful.
The work continued until the sun began to set. When Tomos finally decided they had done enough, Raid's muscles were screaming in protest, his clothes soaked with sweat and stained with earth, his hands in worse condition than in the morning.
But he had done it. A full day of real work, hard work, and he hadn't collapsed. He hadn't panicked. He hadn't completely failed.
"Tomorrow more," Tomos said, putting away tools with efficient movements. "You come back. Same time."
It wasn't a question. But it wasn't a cruel order either. It was just... expectation. You did well today. You will do well tomorrow too.
"Yes," Raid managed to say, his voice hoarse from disuse during the day. "I'll come back."
Tomos nodded, satisfied, and headed toward the house. Raid followed more slowly, each step making new parts of his body complain.
But beneath the exhaustion, there was something else. Something warm and firm he hadn't felt in a long time.
Purpose.
It wasn't much. It wasn't a solution to everything. But it was something. And something was infinitely better than nothing.
When the sun finally touched the horizon, tinging the sky of Excelsior in impossible shades of orange and purple, three exhausted children found themselves in a common area near the center of the village without having specifically arranged it. As if some instinct pulled them back to each other.
konstant arrived first, still with dirt under his nails and the smell of forest clinging to his skin. Keiko appeared minutes later, green stains on her clothes and a look of barely contained frustration. Raid was the last, practically dragging his feet, so dirty he was more brown than any other color.
They just looked at each other for a moment. And then, without planning it, they all started talking at the same time.
"Today was" "You won't believe" "I thought that"
They stopped. Exchanged looks. And somehow, inexplicably, they started to laugh. Not exactly joyful laughter, more like a release of tension, of nervousness, of the pure absurdity of the whole situation.
"First day," konstant said when the laughter subsided.
"Horrible," Keiko finished, but she was half smiling.
"...tired," Raid murmured, and the other two nodded fervently.
They stood there as the light failed, sharing pieces of their days in fragmented sentences and light complaints. It wasn't deep. It didn't solve anything. But it was... connection. It was a reminder that they weren't alone in this.
Eventually, Aldric appeared to guide them back to their temporary homes. Tomorrow they would start again. And the day after. And the next.
Weeks. Months. Years perhaps.
But for now, they had survived the first day. And sometimes, survival was victory enough.