Ivaline left the bakery with bread in her arms.

  Wrapped in cloth. Held close to her chest. Still warm.

  She walked a short distance before stopping, as if only now allowing herself to believe it.

  “I did it,” she said quietly.

  “I earned food without stealing.”

  “Yes,” Chronicle replied.

  “Congratulations.”

  She frowned slightly.

  “You planned it.”

  “I suggested,” he corrected. “You fulfilled it.”

  “….”

  She thought for a moment, then said, almost to herself,

  “If I get bread every day…”

  “Then tomorrow changes.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then we revise. Compromise.”

  Silence followed.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Then—

  “Chronicle.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t let me get lazy.”

  He paused before answering.

  “I will remind you how this felt.”

  “…Good.”

  A small smile crossed her face—brief, genuine.

  He let her keep it for a moment.

  Then—

  “Now,” Chronicle said, “for another task.”

  “…What?”

  Her body stiffened. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she hugged the bread tighter.

  “But I just worked!”

  “You did,” he agreed. “And you did well.”

  “Then why?” she asked, confused.

  Chronicle answered evenly.

  “The owner told you to come back tomorrow. That means you earned two loaves today.”

  She nodded.

  “You ate one earlier. Perhaps you’ll eat the second at midday.”

  “…Midday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then?” he asked.

  “…Then nothing.”

  “….”

  They fell silent.

  A gap—not of sound, but of understanding.

  Chronicle spoke carefully.

  “Humans require three meals a day. That is ideal.”

  “But one meal is enough,” she argued.

  “It always was.”

  “It is enough to survive,” he said.

  “Not enough to grow.”

  She blinked.

  “You are still young. Bones. Muscles. Judgment. Hunger steals from all three.”

  “…Is it that bad?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t yield yet.

  “Growing just means getting noticed,” she muttered.

  “Growing also means healing faster,” Chronicle replied.

  “Thinking clearer. Working without shaking.”

  She groaned softly.

  “You are still becoming who you are,” he continued.

  “Hunger taxes the future first.”

  “So now you want me to be greedy.”

  “No.”

  The refusal was immediate.

  “I want you to be prepared.”

  She stood there, weighing it.

  Finally—

  “…Fine.”

  She exhaled.

  “What now?”

  Chronicle answered simply.

  “We walk.”

  “…Again?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed—but she moved.

  Not because she was forced.

  But because she understood.