In the kingdom of Cleavendale, nestled within the lace-trimmed hills of Needleton-on-Weave, lived Samuel “Salty Sam” McBrine, Cleavendale’s most respected (and only) salt farmer. His life was simple but steady, harvest the salt, sell the salt, repeat. With his ever-patient wife, Martha, and their curious son, Timmy, he worked the legendary Brine Pans of Needleton. Instead of traditional methods, he employed a unique technique inspired by ancient practices. He would fill shallow ponds with saltwater from underground springs, and let the sun and wind work their magic, evaporating the water and leaving behind glistening salt crystals. This method, known as solar evaporation, was both time-honored and environmentally friendly.

  Now, the salt trade wasn’t glamorous, but it was essential. People needed salt for preserving food, curing meats, and, in Cleavendale’s case, magically stabilizing wayward cheeses and restless pickles—both of which had been known to escape their jars and declare tiny revolutions.

  One morning, as Sam approached his largest brine pan, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Martha!” he bellowed, waving his arms. “Come look at this!”

  Martha, busy hanging the laundry, sighed. “Sam, if this is about the salt whispering again, I swear—”

  “No! Well… yes, but also no! Just come see!”

  She trudged over, wiping her hands on her apron. Timmy, never one to miss an adventure, scurried behind her.

  When they reached the brine pan, they all froze.

  The salt hadn’t just crystallized—it had risen into tiny, glistening sculptures.

  There were ducks, rabbits, even a rather unfortunate-looking salt goat missing half its face. But the centerpiece of the display was a perfect, life-sized salt sculpture of Sam himself—hands on hips, chin raised, exuding pure salt farmer authority.

  Martha blinked. “Sam, why is there a salt version of you in our field?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam whispered. “But I feel like it knows too much.”

  Timmy gasped. “Dad, look!” He pointed at the salt Sam’s left hand—which was curled into a mocking little wave.

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  Martha frowned. “Alright, that’s unsettling.”

  Back in the kitchen, the family sat around the table, staring at a bowl of salt as if it held answers.

  “I’ll tell you what’s happened,” Sam declared. “The salt has gained sentience.”

  Martha raised an eyebrow. “Oh, has it?”

  “Aye! All these years of harvesting, of talking to the brine—maybe the salt finally… I don’t know, listened.”

  Timmy, ever the skeptic, tapped his chin. “Or maybe there’s something magical underground? A lost enchantment? Or—or—maybe this is an old salt curse!”

  Martha snorted. “A salt curse?”

  Sam leaned in. “Don’t scoff, Martha. Cleavendale’s seen cursed corsets, runaway trousers, and that one barmaid who absorbed an entire boob curse. You really think a salt curse is impossible?”

  She sighed. “Fair point.”

  That night, Sam tossed and turned in bed, plagued by visions of salt armies rising from the pans, marching in perfect formation.

  Then—CRACK!

  A loud shattering noise echoed from outside.

  “Sam!” Martha shook him awake. “Something’s moving in the brine pans!”

  Grabbing a lantern, Sam rushed outside—only to come face-to-face with his own salt statue.

  It had moved.

  No longer standing proudly, Salt Sam now loomed forward, arms outstretched as if reaching for something—or someone.

  Sam gasped. “Martha, Timmy, get behind me!”

  Timmy peeked out. “Dad, I think it’s mad.”

  “No son,” Sam whispered. “It’s jealous.”

  Salt Sam raised one gleaming, crystalline hand and mimicked Sam’s exact movements.

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Are you… challenging me?”

  The salt figure nodded.

  Martha groaned. “Of course. Of course you’d be in a salt duel with yourself.”

  At dawn, the duel was set.

  Sam stood on one side of the largest salt pan, Salt Sam on the other. The villagers of Needleton-on-Weave gathered to watch, placing bets, drinking salted ale, and eating Martha’s famous salt-crusted pies.

  “Alright, Salt Me,” Sam muttered, rolling his shoulders. “You wanna farm my salt? You gotta prove you can do the work.”

  Salt Sam nodded.

  And so, they began.

  They shoveled.

  They raked.

  They harvested.

  Salt Sam matched Sam’s every move, the villagers gasping at the impeccable salt form.

  Sweating, Sam finally muttered, “Martha… this thing is too good.”

  Martha smirked. “Oh no, your own arrogance has finally made a competitor?”

  Timmy whispered, “Dad… what if we hire him?”

  Sam paused.

  Salt Sam paused.

  Then, in a single deliberate movement, Salt Sam took off his crystalline salt hat, held it to his chest, and bowed.

  A respectful silence fell.

  Then Martha clapped. The villagers followed.

  And thus, Salt Sam McBrine, the Second was officially welcomed as Needleton-on-Weave’s first-ever Salt Assistant.

  Salt Sam now works on the farm, perfectly harvesting salt every morning before dissolving back into the brine at night. The farm tripled its output, Martha’s café became famous, and Timmy wrote a bestselling book called

  And as for Sam?

  Well… sometimes he catches Salt Sam smirking at him from across the field.

  And Sam wonders—

  Did he really win?