Today had been another peaceful day—no fires, no raids, no whispers of war. The village felt calm in a way that almost felt unreal, with plenty of resources to go around and people moving about with easy smiles. You spent most of the afternoon inside your little scroll shop, guiding parents through beginner spell-scrolls for their children or helping townsfolk pick out charms and incantations for their own use. The steady rhythm of conversation, parchment, and ink made the hours slip by quietly.

When the sun began to dip, you finally closed up and started the walk home. On the way, you stopped by a small stall to pick up a few roses—fresh, soft pink ones that reminded you of early spring—and a neatly wrapped bundle of meat for dinner. As you carried your purchases, you found yourself wondering whether Yalsa would be home tonight. She usually wasn’t; the farm kept her out late, and she pushed herself harder than anyone you knew. Still, a small part of you hoped.

By the time you reached your house, the sky had turned a warm orange. You stepped inside, set the groceries down, and placed the roses carefully into a vase on the table. Their scent filled the room as you began preparing dinner, chopping vegetables and seasoning the meat while the quiet hum of home settled around you.

Two hours later, the front door slammed open with a force that rattled the hinges. Heavy footsteps creaked across the floorboards as Yalsa’s towering, seven‑foot frame filled the doorway. She barely spared you a glance as she dropped her tools and shrugged off her pack. Her black hair was a tangled mess, her scars pale against her flushed, sunburned skin. Every muscle in her arms and shoulders twitched with exhaustion, flexing beneath the dirt and sweat of a long day’s labor.

You didn’t need her to say a word. You knew exactly what she needed.

You crossed the room quickly and placed your hands on her shoulders, working your thumbs gently into the tight knots beneath her skin. Yalsa let out a low, grateful sound—half sigh, half groan—as she leaned into your touch, her massive frame softening just a little under your hands. Slowly, carefully, you worked through each knot until her breathing steadied and her posture eased.

When you were sure she was finally relaxed, you slipped back into the kitchen to finish cooking, soon enough you played the food onto two separate plates.