The campfire crackled, sparks leaping as it cast its glow across four satisfied faces. The four of them shared the juiciest, fattest cuts of wild boar, oil dripping, the aroma rich in the night air.
As Veyra chewed, his gaze kept drifting toward Sirian.
After seeing him stripped bare, Veyra had to admit the truth of the other’s gender.
He mused silently: with that flat chest so obvious, how had he ever jumped to the conclusion Sirian was female?
Was it that voice, flowing like a clear spring?
Or that face—so exquisite it blurred the lines of gender?
Veyra sighed inwardly. Even if time were turned back, he’d probably make the same mistake again…
Although few elves lingered long in the United Kingdoms, since human lands were full of things elves disdained, Veyra and his companions had met a handful of half-elves before.
All of them were striking, yes, but none could rival Sirian to this degree.
“Sirian!” Phylline called out with her mouth full of greasy meat. A sudden thought struck her and she asked curiously, “I heard elves can make wheat grow on wastelands, dead trees bear fruit, and never run out of food. Is that true?”Sirian was focused on his roast, but at her words he quickly chewed and swallowed, almost choking. “Cough—what kind of legend is that? Way too exaggerated!”
“But you do
have tons of food!” Phylline pressed.The elf thought for a moment, his eyes falling on a fruit tree by the edge of the camp, its leaves tinged with yellow.
“See for yourselves.” He stood and walked beneath the tree.
Sirian clasped his hands before his chest in a reverent gesture, closing his eyes.
A low chant in the Elven tongue flowed from his lips, carrying an ancient rhythm, like whispers of the forest.
As he sang, faint green motes shimmered from his palms, at first like fireflies, then gathering into a gentle emerald glow. It twined around his long fingers like living light, then drifted into the fruit tree.
Fourth-tier Nature Magic—Hymn of Bounty.
Veyra could not understand the words, but the song was ethereal and pure, like sunlight at dawn, like a soft rain at dusk, cleansing the soul and bringing peace.
Fein, meanwhile, stared wide-eyed, captivated. Casting by way of song to guide mana—rather than constructing magic nodes as she did—was completely novel to her.
As the chant ebbed, the glow seeped into the trunk, and a miracle unfolded.
The fruit tree’s branches bent heavy under the sudden weight of ripe, plump fruit.
“Amazing!” Phylline gasped. Agile as a squirrel, she scampered up the trunk and plucked the biggest, reddest fruit, biting in with a crisp crunch.
Sweet juice burst across her tongue.
“So sweet! Perfectly ripe!” she shouted indistinctly, tossing down several more to her companions.
Veyra caught one, biting in before asking, “Isn’t this exactly making a dead tree bear fruit? Why did you say it was exaggerated?”
“Look more closely at the tree itself,” Sirian said calmly.
At his words, their eyes left the tempting fruit for the branches and leaves that bore them.
What had been slightly yellow leaves before were now entirely withered, already drifting down. The whole tree seemed drained of life in an instant, prematurely withered—save for the magically forced fruit.
Sirian’s voice grew solemn. “Nature magic does not create something from nothing. This ‘Hymn of Bounty’ only forces the hidden vitality, nutrients, and mana of the tree into fruit, by consuming its future.”
“Even so, it’s amazing!” Phylline slid down the trunk. “If elves live in forests and can do this, no wonder food is always plenty.”
But Sirian shook his head slowly, his gaze moving past the dying tree to the east. “No. In the forests of the elves, we almost never use this magic. It weakens plants at their roots, making them unable to bear fruit the following year. More importantly…”
He split the fruit in his hand, showing them its inside. No seeds.
“These fruits are sweet, yes. But they cannot give birth to new life. They cannot carry on the cycle. If abused, it brings a false harvest, but truly it only drains the future, leading to the forest’s tears and the collapse of its balance.”
The twins listened in awe, for the first time truly grasping a druid’s reverence for nature.
Veyra, though, smiled in relief. “So that’s how it is! It can’t be used too often—but the camp will be thrilled to have fresh fruit!”
He called to Phylline. “Come on, pick the rest and pack them up!”
With the fruit bundled alongside the boar meat, they started back down the mountain.
…
By dusk, the wooden palisade of the camp was in sight. Inside, the mingling of voices, campfires, and smoke carried a stifling heaviness.
At the gate, two guards leaned wearily against crude windbreaks, spears in hand. At the glow of a light spell approaching, they snapped alert.
“Veyra?” one of them recognized the lead figure, surprise in his voice. His gaze quickly fixed on the boar slung over Veyra’s back. “You actually went up the mountain? And brought back a boar! We thought you’d gone to Norwade too!”
Without answering, Veyra gestured to Phylline, who promptly fished out two plump fruits from her bag and tossed them to the guards.
“Catch! There’s fruit too!” she called with a note of pride.
“Nothing bad happened in camp, right?” Veyra asked.
The guard who had spoken took a greedy bite, juice flooding his mouth. Only after swallowing did he lean close, speaking with concern. “No trouble yet, but… another few dozen refugees poured in today, all from the same village down south. We had to split more rations to house them… Now people are already complaining the porridge is thinner than before. No one knows if the higher-ups have a plan.”
“Ahh…”
Bidding the guards farewell, the group carried their haul toward the kitchen.
Along the way, countless eyes followed them from tent slits, from the shadows of campfires—eyes locked on the boar across Veyra’s back.
Desire burned openly in those gazes, though barely restrained.
Phylline muttered under her breath, discontent in her voice: “Isn’t there anything you can use that magic on without worrying about side effects?”
Her words stirred something in Veyra’s mind. Without slowing, he cast a look at the elf beside him, pondering for several seconds before asking uncertainly: “Sirian… could your ‘Hymn of Bounty’ work… on mushrooms?”