The night had passed without incident.

  Well… almost.

  By early morning, a thin mist still clung to the hilltops.

  The dying campfire cast reddish glows over half-open bags.

  Birds began to stir, their songs rasping in the distance.

  Tharion was already awake.

  Motionless.

  His gaze fixed on the disappointing lack of soft grass beneath his left hoof.

  Behind him, five animal shapes loomed in the fog.

  Worgs.

  Massive. Low to the ground.

  Yellow eyes glowing in the dim light.

  Muscles twitching beneath dark fur.

  Their leader—a male with streaks of silver across his coat—stepped forward, lips quivering.

  Tharion turned his head. Just enough.

  Their eyes locked.

  No magic. No words.

  Just that ancient, primal tension—

  two alpha beasts sizing each other up in silence.

  Then, the worg growled, turned around, and vanished into the fog, the rest of the pack following with lowered tails.

  Tharion exhaled, cracking his neck.

  — “Five against one. I wouldn’t have taken them.

  But they didn’t need to know that.”

  —

  The sun finally crept over the horizon.

  Camp packed.

  Cart rolling again—bouncing slightly with every bump.

  Before them: endless fields of tall grass swaying in the breeze.

  Scattered groves.

  Twisted ancient trees.

  Rolling hills that could hide a predator—or a surprise.

  A winding river sparkled in the distance like a silver thread across the plains, snaking toward a deeper valley where a road—and maybe a village—waited unseen.

  The world was opening up: vast, vivid, and alive.

  Around them, wildlife emerged.

  Fluting birds circled the treetops.

  Dragonflies the size of pelicans zipped overhead, their wings streaked with neon green.

  A pair of massive red-and-black boars crossed the plain—slow, heavy, their snouts digging the ground as if searching for something specific.

  Garlan pointed, awestruck:

  — “We’re so far from the stray cats of Vinsart…”

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  Then, suddenly, a sweet, floral scent filled the air.

  Marenna frowned.

  — “That smells… really good, doesn’t it?”

  Tharion stopped the cart cold.

  — “Nobody goes near the flowers.”

  In front of them, a giant plant swayed gently.

  Its violet petals, striped with white, opened and closed slowly—exhaling a warm, sugary breath.

  Then—a snap.

  A curious dragonfly brushed the petals.

  The plant snapped shut with a wet clack.

  Tharion grunted.

  — “Carniflora. Gorgeous. And deadly.”

  They moved on, suddenly walking a little closer together than before.

  But as soon as they passed it, Marenna stepped toward the plant.

  — “Marenna!” Tharion shouted. “Did you even hear me? It’ll eat you!”

  She didn’t answer.

  Her eyes glowed faintly—pale green light pulsing softly.

  It shimmered in sync with the plant’s rhythm, like breath.

  She reached out.

  Brushed a petal.

  No snap.

  The Carniflora shivered.

  Then, tenderly, folded its wide leaves around her palm.

  Like a cat rubbing against a leg.

  Tharion stared, dumbfounded.

  Garlan sidled up next to him and whispered:

  — “Did you slip something into my breakfast, or am I actually seeing this?

  That thing just ate a giant dragonfly—

  and now it’s cuddling her?”

  Tharion scratched his chin, still watching.

  — “Huh. Her elven side just kicked in.

  Plant communication.”

  Garlan turned slowly.

  — “Plant communication? She can do that?”

  Tharion shrugged.

  — “Well yeah. You can teleport, right?”

  Then he narrowed his eyes—

  and smiled.

  — “Actually… that gives me an idea.

  Both of you—come here. Time to train.”

  Garlan blinked.

  — “Train what, exactly?”

  — “You,” Tharion said, “will try to make a light rain.

  Localized. Very light.

  Precision, not splash damage. Got it?”

  Then to Marenna:

  — “You—remember that feeling when the brambles appeared?

  Try to recreate it.

  Keep practicing until it comes naturally.”

  He stretched, undid his harness, and added casually:

  — “Meanwhile, I’ll go find us lunch.”

  His eyes locked onto the two red-and-black boars.

  The boars, sensing something—maybe the aura of a predator far above their pay grade—let out a long, panicked snort and bolted.

  —

  Garlan and Marenna were left alone.

  Stiff at first.

  Standing in the rippling grass.

  — “Alright… localized rain,” Garlan muttered. “Easy. I am water. I flow. I am—”

  A small cloud appeared above his head.

  Then another.

  Then ten more.

  Suddenly—

  a miniature thunderstorm erupted in a three-meter radius, drenching both him and Marenna in ice-cold rain.

  — “AAAH! That’s not localized—it’s a monsoon!”

  He threw up his arms.

  — “Stop! Cancel! Too localized! We are the location!”

  The cloud vanished in an instant—

  but one last drop landed in his eye.

  — “Magic,” he muttered. “Awesome.”

  Nearby, Marenna had sat cross-legged in the grass.

  Focused.

  Her hands grazed the ground.

  Fingertips trembled.

  A small green glow appeared in her palms.

  Faint. Hesitant.

  A bramble shot up—

  and wrapped around her wrist.

  — “Huh. Okay. It’s clingy.”

  Garlan watched with fascination as she gently tried to unwind it.

  — “Want me to cut it?”

  — “No, no.

  I think it just wants a leafy hug.”

  She closed her eyes.

  Breathed.

  The bramble loosened its grip—then slid quietly back into the earth.

  Garlan nodded, sincerely impressed.

  — “Think I can do that with clouds?

  Like, convince them politely?”

  — “You can try,” she smiled. “But maybe start by not triggering a hailstorm when all you want is a quick pee.”

  They laughed.

  And for the first time in a long while,

  that laughter rang out with no tension.

  No threat.

  Just two teenagers,

  in a meadow,

  learning how to be themselves.