Edda woke early, the temple still cloaked in a peaceful quiet. She slipped on her worn leather shoes, the soles whispering against ancient stone as she walked the halls. Her footsteps carried her toward the library, a nagging thought in the back of her mind: was Doc still there?

  The night before, when she and Marron had called it quits, Doc had been elbow-deep in scrolls, muttering about finishing a translation. They'd urged him not to stay up too late—but this was Doc. Edda shook her head, a small, exasperated smile tugging at her lips. That man would work himself into the ground if no one reminded him to come up for air.

  Sure enough, as she entered the library, there he was—surrounded by a sea of parchment and note. The candles had burned low, wax pooling on the ancient wood. Doc looked up, blinking owlishly.

  "Edda. Morning already?"

  "It is," she said gently, picking her way through the scrolls. "Have you been here all night?"

  Doc rubbed his eyes "I suppose I have. I just wanted to finish this section on runic resonance, but then I found a scroll on leyline mapping, and…."

  Edda laid a hand on his shoulder. "The scrolls will still be here after breakfast. Come on, now. Even you need to eat."

  Doc hesitated, glancing back at his notes. Edda wondered what whispered calculations were running through that brilliant mind of his. But after a moment, he sighed and stood, joints popping from hours hunched over the desk.

  "You're right," he said, offering a rueful smile. "Breakfast does sound good. Lead the way."

  Edda and Doc stepped out of the library, the temple air filled with the comforting aroma of stew and freshly baked bread. As they made their way toward the gathering hall, Edda's keen eyes took note of the sanctuary's morning rhythms.

  Off to one side, Kesh sat cross-legged, his focus entirely on the bow in his hands. His fingers moved with practiced precision, adjusting the string, the motions as natural as breathing. Near the rabbit enclosure, Tavi perched, her voice a gentle whisper as she brushed Tinyhorn's soft fur. Tanna stood nearby, Moss-ear balanced on her shoulder, gathering feed for the rest of the rabbits. The two worked in comfortable silence, a shared understanding flowing between them.

  A burst of laughter pulled Edda's attention as a group of children raced past, their voices rising in excited argument over something Jem said. Doc chuckled, shaking his head. "Things have been peaceful here," he mused, his tone warm with appreciation.

  Edda smiled, nodding. "The Mother of the Vale's blessing is a powerful one. No one would believe that the Hollow Vale could have a safe zone like this."

  As they approached Bran's kitchen area, the scent of fresh bread grew stronger, mingling with the rich aroma of the stew. Bran stood behind a makeshift counter, ladling generous portions into waiting bowls. Fenn stood at his side, carefully helping, his young face set in concentration as he tried to mimic Bran's steady hands.

  Edda stepped forward, accepting a bowl from Bran with a grateful nod. Their eyes met. "How's the mill going?" she asked, her voice warm with interest.

  Bran's weathered face crinkled into a smile. He reached beneath the counter, producing a still-warm piece of bread. "See for yourself," he said, handing it to her.

  Edda took the bread, its comforting weight settling in her palm. She raised it to her nose, inhaling deeply. "So that's what I've been smelling," she said, her tone light with appreciation. "It's wonderful, Bran."

  As Doc accepted his own bowl and bread, Bran and Edda fell into easy conversation, discussing the mill's progress and the simple joys of fresh-baked goods.

  Edda and Doc found a seat together, their bowls of stew steaming in the morning air. From where they sat, they could see Dulric in his forge area, the heat of the furnace casting an amber glow across his face. Every now and then, Carl and Calen darted in and out, grabbing bits of metal for something they were creating in their workshop.

  Doc smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "They're really putting that fabricator to work."

  Edda nodded, a sense of peace and contentment settling over her like a warm blanket. Nothing made her happier than seeing the people of her village thrive—and to thrive in the Hollow Vale was another matter entirely. The sanctuary had become more than just a safe haven; it was a place where lives were being rebuilt, piece by piece.

  They continued to eat in comfortable silence, taking in the view of the sanctuary. Fenn brought over extra bread to someone nearby before returning to help Bran without being asked. The boy's quiet dedication brought a smile to Edda's lips.

  Doc's gaze drifted to the farming fields, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "The fields look larger than before. The expansion has been rapid."

  Edda nodded, swallowing a mouthful of stew. "Hob's and his folks been out there every day, from first light to sunset."

  "Hobs? you mean the old man with the hat?" Doc asked, his tone curious.

  Edda's smile was faint but warm. "That's the one."

  She stood, setting her empty bowl aside and gesturing for Doc to walk with her. "Come. You should see what they've done."

  Edda led Doc along the worn path toward the farming fields, their steps crunching on the packed earth. The morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the sanctuary grounds. As they crested a small rise, the expanded fields spread before them—neat rows of tilled soil stretching farther than Doc had seen just days before.

  "Impressive," Doc murmured, shading his eyes against the sun.

  Several farmers moved through the rows with practiced efficiency. Some knelt in the dark soil, pressing seeds into carefully spaced holes. Others worked the untilled sections, their hoes rising and falling in steady rhythm. The air carried the rich scent of turned earth and morning dew.

  Edda's gaze swept across the workers until it settled on a figure standing dead center in the organized chaos. The man was wiry as old rope, his skin weathered to leather by decades under the sun. A hat that looked older than some of the farmers perched on his head—battered, stained, and somehow still holding together through sheer stubbornness. His beard grew in patches, more suggestion than statement, and his sharp eyes tracked every movement in the field like a hawk watching mice.

  That was Hob, orchestrating the morning's work without saying a word.

  Hob walked the center row, mud caking his worn boots with each step. A younger farmer to his left pressed seeds too deep. Hob tapped the ground twice with his hoe handle. The man looked up, saw the gesture, and adjusted without a word needing to pass between them.

  "Too shallow, Garrett," Hob called to another. "Root'll dry out before noon."

  Garrett shifted his planting depth. Hob moved on.

  The field hummed with quiet efficiency, tools scraping soil, seeds dropping into holes, dirt being patted down. No chatter. Just work. The way Hob preferred it.

  Young Tomas, barely twenty summers but with good hands for the work, kept drifting rightward with each seed. "Shift left," Hob said, not looking up from his own row. "You're off the line."

  Tomas corrected immediately. The boy had potential if he'd stop daydreaming about whatever it was boys daydreamed about these days.

  Three more farmers waited at the field's western edge, tools ready. They watched Hob's progress through the rows. He gave Sara a short nod—she could start the Stonebulb section. She moved without hesitation, her weathered hands already reaching for the seed pouch at her hip.

  The work continued. Hob's practiced eye caught every mistake before it became a problem. A gesture here to widen spacing. A grunt there to approve good technique. The field filled steadily, row by row, each line straighter than most would bother making them. But straight rows meant easier harvesting. Details mattered.

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  The sun climbed higher. Sweat darkened shirts despite the cool morning air. Tools moved in rhythm—dig, drop, cover, step. Dig, drop, cover, step.

  Finally, the last seed found earth. The last hole was covered. Tools went still, held loose in tired hands.

  Young Willem—whose grandfather Hob had taught this same work forty years back, caught Hob's eye from across the field. The boy gave a small nod, barely more than a chin dip. That was all Hob needed.

  Hob walked to the field's edge, where the tilled earth met wild grass. His sharp gaze swept the rows like a carpenter checking joints. Each line ran true. Spacing held consistent. Depth looked right. The field was ready to grow.

  Hob walked to the field's center, picking his way between the fresh-planted rows. His boots found a spot where four sections met, and he crouched, knees popping like dry kindling. The other farmers kept working, but their movements slowed, eyes cutting sideways to watch.

  He pressed his palm flat against the dark soil. Held it there. The earth felt cool against his weathered skin, damp from morning dew. He closed his eyes, feeling the seeds beneath, waiting in their dark beds.

  "Grow," he whispered.

  A low ripple ran through the rows, subtle as wind through tall grass. The soil shifted, settled, firmed around the seeds as if weeks of rain and sun had already passed.

  Then the plants came.

  Not one at a time, not in scattered patches, but in waves rolling outward from where Hob crouched. Green shoots punched through the earth, thickening as they rose. Leaves unfurled like hands opening, spreading wide to catch sunlight that hadn't fed them yet. Stalks stretched upward, gaining substance with each heartbeat. Stonebulb leaves sprouted in perfect clusters. Fieldleaf heads swelled from nothing to fist-sized to fully formed. Snapvine twisted up invisible supports, pods already hanging heavy. Carrots pushed orange shoulders above the soil line.

  The transformation swept across the field in steady pulses, each wave bringing the crops further along until mature plants stood where seeds had been moments before.

  Edda's lips parted slightly, her composed mask slipping. She'd watched Hob work for years, knew his reputation, but seeing him call up a whole harvest still caught something in her chest. Her eyes tracked the ripple of growth, the impossible becoming ordinary under his touch.

  Beside her, Doc's gaze sharpened, cataloging every detail. The spacing between plants, the timing of each growth wave, the variety of crops all maturing in perfect synchronization.

  "Applied large-scale biological acceleration across multiple species simultaneously," Lux murmured through their link. "Energy expenditure suggests—"

  Doc ignored the analysis, just watching.

  Hob pushed himself upright with a faint grunt, one hand pressed against his lower back. His eyes swept the transformed field, checking for gaps, disease, anything out of place. The fieldleafs stood firm and round. The snapvine pod hung straight. The stonebulb showed good color.

  He gave the other farmers a short nod.

  They moved in with baskets and crates, starting the harvest as if Hob hadn't just compressed months into minutes. Just another day's work.

  Hob wiped his palms on his trousers, leaving fresh dirt streaks on the already-stained fabric. His eyes swept the field one last time—checking, always checking—before he headed toward Edda.

  She met him halfway, and something in her voice carried more warmth than usual. "Looks good, Hob."

  She tilted her head toward Doc. "This is Doc. Not sure you two have met proper."

  Hob gave Doc a short nod, sizing him up in one sweep—the strange arm, the cloak that wasn't made by any weaver he knew, the way the man stood like he was cataloging everything he saw.

  Doc glanced over the rows again. "That's a lot of variety for a single field. All maturing together. How do you manage that?"

  Hob tapped the pouch at his waist. "Rootkeeper skill. Seed Vault gives me the seed of what I've grown before. Doesn't matter the season if I've earned it once." He jerked his chin toward the rows. "That and my Growthcall skill, makes me one of the best farmer you’ll ever meet" A hint of pride crept into his voice, maybe even a touch of smugness.

  Edda smirked slightly. "He's been saying that since I first met him."

  "And been proving it longer than you've been walking upright," Hob shot back without missing a beat.

  A rustle came from the far side of the field. Hob's gaze shifted just before a white-and-brown blur blinked between fieldleaf heads. Tinyhorn popped into view, a fresh snapvine pod dangling from its mouth, followed closely by Tavi weaving through the rows.

  Hob didn't shout—just walked over, bent, and plucked a fresher pod from the plant. He held it down.

  "If you're gonna steal, might as well take the good ones," he muttered.

  Tinyhorn took it without hesitation before blinking toward Tavi.

  Tavi caught the rabbit, cheeks flushed. "Sorry, Hob!"

  He waved her off. "Keep it out of the stonebulbs."

  She smiled, cradling Tinyhorn, and gave a small wave before heading off through the rows. The morning sun caught in her hair, the rabbit's fur gleaming silver where it wasn't brown, and for a moment the whole field felt lighter—like the world had decided to be kind today.

  Hob watched for half a beat, then turned like nothing had happened.

  Hob walked back toward Edda and Doc, boots squelching in the freshly watered soil. Movement at the field's edge caught his eye—Ironha approaching with that particular walk of hers, all business and purpose. The elf carried a small basket in one hand, her worn herb knife tucked through her belt. Behind her, young Lina hurried to keep up, clutching a list like it might blow away.

  "Morning," Ironha said, giving them each a nod. Her silver-toned skin caught the sunlight, making her look carved from moonstone.

  Lina smiled bright enough to shame the sun. "Morning, Master Hob! Lady Edda! Doc!"

  Doc tilted his head. "What brings you out to the fields?"

  "Potion supplies." Ironha shifted the basket against her hip. "We're running low on the Hollow Vale variants. Sunveil petals, frostleaf, and embermoss."

  Hob squinted toward the far section of the field, then thought better of it. "Follow me."

  He led them past the food crops, through rows of hearthgrain standing tall as his shoulder, around a section where goldroots pushed up through dark earth. The air changed as they walked, first warming, then cooling, then carrying a faint spice that made the nose tingle.

  They stopped at a section most would mistake for wild growth. Pale yellow flowers clustered in neat rows, their petals soft as velvet and beaded with morning dew that wouldn't dry no matter how high the sun climbed. Beyond them, silver-veined leaves spread in low mats, cold air pooling around them like invisible water. The furthest row held reddish moss that gave off a scent somewhere between spikebark and woodsmoke.

  "No one else can get these to grow like this," Ironha told Lina, already kneeling beside the sunveil. "Even in the major cities, they come from adventurers risking their necks in the deep woods or dungeons."

  Lina's eyes went wide as wagon wheels. "How do you do it, Master Hob?"

  Hob scratched his patchy beard. "Same way I grow stonebulbs. Stick 'em in dirt, tell 'em to behave, threaten 'em with the hoe if they get uppity."

  The girl burst out laughing, a sound like creek water over stones. Hob felt something ease in his chest. Children laughing, that was worth more than any harvest. Been too quiet around here for too long.

  Ironha set Lina to gathering the sunveil petals, showing her how to pluck without bruising. The girl worked with careful fingers while Ironha moved to the frostleaf, using her knife to harvest whole clusters.

  "Hob can grow what no one else can," Ironha explained as she worked, her voice carrying that teaching tone. "Food or medicine, it makes no difference. Seed Vault gives him any seed he's earned, Growthcall makes them thrive." She gestured toward the rare herbs growing thick as common weeds. "It's why we have healing potions and feverbreak tonics without risking the Vale."

  Doc watched them work, that look on his face like he was filing everything away for later. Edda stood beside him, satisfied smile playing at her lips.

  Hob had already moved on, checking the next row over where bitterbark seedlings pushed up through mulch. He pressed a thumb against one sapling's trunk, felt the bite of its sap, nodded to himself. Another day and they'd be ready.

  The morning stretched warm and easy around them. Lina hummed while she worked. Ironha's knife made soft sounds against stems. Somewhere across the field, the other farmers called to each other, comfortable as old music.

  This was what fields were for—not just food, but the gathering. The work shared. The knowledge passed down. Seeds becoming something more than what they started as.

  Doc fell into step beside Edda, the warmth of late morning sun spreading across his shoulders. The scent of crushed herbs lingered in the air, sharp notes of something medicinal mixed with the earthier smell of freshly turned soil. His boots found the path back to the temple automatically.

  "Rootkeeper," he murmured, watching a farmer in the distance straighten from her work, wiping sweat with a practiced motion. "That class of Hob's—it's remarkable."

  Like having a seed bank with perfect germination rates and zero storage requirements, he thought, though the comparison felt inadequate. Back home, precision agriculture required satellites, soil sensors, and predictive algorithms. Hob just... knew.

  "Without him, we'd have starve the third month we made the temple our home." Edda's voice carried quiet pride. "One man's lifetime of knowledge feeding dozens."

  Doc glanced back at the fields. The rows ran straight as laser measurements, each plant spaced with mathematical precision. No measuring tools, no markers—just decades of muscle memory made manifest thanks to a class system and skills. The other farmers moved between the rows with similar efficiency, their movements synchronized without discussion or planning.

  Lux could calculate optimal spacing to the millimeter, Doc mused, his fingers absently flexing. But Hob does it by feel. And his results are just as good.

  "It's more than a skill," he said aloud, surprising himself. "It's... architectural. The way everyone moves around his knowledge."

  Edda made a soft sound of agreement. "Skills shape us. We shape the land. The land shapes us back."

  The temple rose ahead, its ancient stones somehow softer in the morning light. Doc noticed how the paths converged here—not just the main road from the fields, but smaller tracks from the workshop, the infirmary, the new housing. Each one worn smooth by purpose, by the daily circulation of people carrying food, materials, care.

  Children's laughter drifted from somewhere near the rabbit pen. The rhythmic clang of Dulric's hammer provided a steady heartbeat. Someone was already cooking lunch, he could smell the some cooked meat on the breeze.

  The settlement breathed around them, each person a working part of something larger, their skills interwoven like the roots Hob spoke of with such casual authority.

  Doc paused where the field path met the temple grounds, watching the intersection of lives and purposes flow past, each one exactly where it needed to be.