°Basya°

The sun had barely touched the tops of the pine trees, breaking through the morning fog, but Frost was already standing outside his house. The dewdrops on the grass were sparkling, and the air was filled with the scent of wet pine needles.

In the past few days, Frost had been busy. He had fixed two fences that had collapsed under the zombie onslaught. He had carried boards for new houses. He had gathered firewood for the local archer. He had even helped Lumi carry logs for her strange machines. It was during one of these tasks that a slippery log, drenched in dew, had slipped from his grasp and struck his leg. Since then, Frost had been wary of handling logs.

Today, he was determined not to "fix and carry." The feeling he was experiencing was strange and unusual — a desire to do something that didn't require brute force.

He followed the path, guided by this inner call, unsure of where it would lead him. The dew squelched beneath his boots, leaving wet footprints on the gray ground. Suddenly, he stopped. In the distance, in the garden, Basya was already tinkering among the rows. His straw hat was askew, and his worn-out overalls were stained with dirt. The young Farmer was so focused on tilling the soil that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching.

Noticing the visitor, Basya stood up straight, stretched with a crack, and a smile bloomed on his face.

“Good morning! You’re early. Or is something wrong?”

Frost shifted from one foot to the other. In his own tribe, asking for help was a humiliation — a confession of weakness. But here, in this strange village, different rules prevailed.

He took a hesitant step forward and, unable to meet the other man's eyes, looked down at the ground.

"I want to learn how to..." he began, but then stopped himself. "How to grow."

Basya was surprised. The shovel fell from his hands and landed on the bed, crushing a couple of sprouts. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he had heard.

An absurd image appeared before him: the stern Frost, capable of summoning jaws from the ground, and the same Frost, watering carrots with a smile. Basya suppressed a chuckle.

"Grow?" he repeated, looking around his domain. "Well, let's start with the basics."

•••

Basya chose a spot for the new garden beds with great care. He paced around the area, squinting and even drawing circles with a stick. Finally, he pointed to a flat patch of land that was close enough to Frost's house but not too shaded by the pine trees.

"Do you think it's a simple task?" Basya asked, handing Frost his shovel. "Just plant a seed, pour some water, and wait for the harvest, right?"

Frost remained silent. However, it was clear from his face that this was exactly how he had imagined it.

"Look here," Basya squatted down. He tore up a layer of soil, took a handful and rubbed it between his fingers. "See what it's like? In the taiga, the land is rocky and acidic. Put a seed in one, and it will rot or wither before it even hatches. So first we'll make the soil."

"What do you mean 'we'll make'?" Frost frowned. "Isn't it ready?"

Basya chuckled quietly and continued, ignoring this ignorance:

"First, we'll bring in some chernozem. It's the best soil with a high content of humus. Then, we'll add some sand to allow water to drain and prevent stagnation, as this can lead to root rot. We'll mix, level, and water the soil to allow it to settle before creating the beds."

Frost listened carefully, taking in every word and nodding his head. It had never occurred to him that the earth could be "wrong." To him, it had always been just soil — the ground he walked on, without considering its nature or whims.

"And where would we find this... chernozem?" he asked, trying to sound confident.

"In the forest, of course," Basya said, waving his hand towards the trees. "I know a place by the river. Grab your bags and let's go. I'll show you."

They spent the entire first day carrying the black soil. Frost, accustomed to heavy loads, found it easy to walk, almost unaware of the burden. Basya, despite his short stature and limp, stubbornly carried one sack at a time. He walked slowly, stopping to catch his breath. Frost admired his determination. However, by the end of each trip, Basya was wheezing, and his hat was slipping down his forehead.

"You're strong," Frost remarked as they stopped for a rest at the edge of the forest.

Basya sat on his bag, breathing heavily, and looked at his village, which was visible in the distance among the pine trees.

"I've been practicing. You know, when you have six cats and a dog at home, the strength comes from somewhere on its own. They're hungry too. And they don't just want to, they scream like little demons until you feed them."

Frost found himself smiling. He remembered his Foggy, a gray cat with a fluffy, fox-like tail. Every morning she got up on her hind legs and rubbed against his lap, purring loudly. And if he was slow to eat, she would start pushing him with her nose.

"I have one," he said, and his voice suddenly lost its usual sternness. "The cat. Foggy."

"I know," Basya narrowed his eyes slyly. "I've seen you secretly pet her when you think no one is watching. Do you think no one notices?"

Frost looked confused. He opened his mouth to say something sharp and prickly, but couldn't find the words. He just waved his hand. And then, without saying a word, he picked up a new bag, and resolutely, almost belligerently strode towards the garden.

Basya, looking at his back, grinned and trailed after him.

•••

It was the second day. The sun had risen higher, and now it flooded the garden with bright light.

"Today we're going to make the beds," Basya announced, leaning on his shovel.

He began to dig the soil with short, precise movements. The shovel entered the ground at the same angle, and the furrows were aligned with each other.

"The soil needs to breathe," Basya explained without turning around. "You see, I'm not just making the furrows for no reason. The water didn't pool on the ground, but flowed directly to the roots. Moisture couldn't stagnate."

Frost picked up the second shovel that Basya had brought from the shed. He thrust it into the ground and tried to replicate the motion. However, his hands, accustomed to wielding weapons, struggled to perform the quiet task. The shovel either sank too deeply, cracking through the lower layers, or glided across the surface. The bed became uneven.

"Deeper," Basya said, standing aside. He crossed his arms over his chest and carefully watched every swing of the shovel, not missing a single mistake. "You're in too much of a hurry. But don't overdo it. Don't get to the clay."

"What happens if I do get to it?" Frost asked, stopping and straightening up.

"Then the roots will suffocate. The sprout would die before it could show its leaves."

Frost sighed. He plunged the tool into the soil again, but this time his movements were more careful.

Basya squatted next to the finished bed.

"It's smoother than I expected. For a first attempt, it's more than decent. It even looks like a bed, not a trench."

Frost allowed himself a rare smile. He stuck the shovel into the ground and took a step back, surveying his work.

"We'll plant tomorrow."

•••

The next day, Basya arrived early, just as the roosters were beginning their morning chorus. He carried four bags of seeds in his hands. They were tied with twine and labeled. One bag contained carrots, another contained beets. The third bag, the largest, was filled with wheat seeds. And at the bottom of the fourth bag were flat pumpkin seeds.

"Look here," said Basya, kneeling down. "The hole should not be too deep, but it should not be shallow either. Like that." He inserted his finger two phalanges deep into the soil, gently turning it to expand the hole, creating a smooth indentation. "If you put it too deep, the seedling won't be able to break through and will suffocate. If you put it too shallow, it will dry out."

Frost knelt down beside him, feeling the damp earth soak into the fabric of his pants. He picked up the first carrot seed, so tiny it was almost lost between his rough fingers. He carefully placed the seed in the hole, then covered it with soil. He smoothed the surface with his palm, pressing it down, and waited for approval.

Basya nodded.

"Good. Move on."

Frost moved on to the next hole. His movements became more confident, his finger finding the right depth. He placed the seed in the hole, covered it, and leveled it, repeating the process row after row, bed after bed. By the third bed, he was working without any guidance.

By noon, they had planted all four beds. The rows were straight, and Frost couldn't take his eyes off the sight. There was an order to all of this that the Evoker had never encountered in his previous life.

"Not bad," said Basya, coming to the edge and standing next to Frost. "Now remember the most important things: watering, loosening, and weeding. Every day. No breaks, no days off, no 'I'll do it tomorrow'."

"Every day?"

"Every day."

Frost looked up at the sky. The sun was beginning to warm, and the clouds were slowly drifting across the sky. He realized that the world was much more complex than he had thought. He knew how to end a life with a single precise movement, but he didn't know how to grow plants.

•••

The days dragged on. Frost didn't miss a single morning. Even when the sky was gloomy, he still went out to the garden. The habit is already firmly entrenched inside. As soon as the sun appeared over the horizon, he was already standing by the garden beds with a watering can and a sleepy but determined smile. He learned how to water so that the water does not wash away the earth at the very roots.

But the garden, as it turned out, did not forgive mistakes. One day, Frost was pulling out some pesky weeds that were growing all over the place. He grabbed one and suddenly felt an unfamiliar resistance under his fingers. He pulled harder, and a pale root appeared in his hand. Frost froze in place. He looked at the empty hole where he had just pulled out this delicate creature, then at his palm, and something inside him broke — as if he had not just pulled out a plant, but had killed someone.

Basya, who was tinkering with a compost pile nearby, noticed Frost's petrified figure. He put down his pitchfork, wiped his hands on his pants, and approached, peering over his shoulder with curiosity.

"Beetroot?"

Frost nodded silently, still unable to unclench his fingers. Basya shrugged his shoulders and sat down next to him.

"Well, it happens. But don't worry, mistakes can always be fixed."

He took the unfortunate sprout from Frost's hands, lowered it back into the hole, straightened the roots and adjusted the earth around. And then he poured it from the watering can that Frost had brought in the morning.

"Maybe it'll survive. It's stubborn, like..." the Farmer thought for a moment, looking for a comparison, "like you, by the way."

Frost looked at the hole where the root had just lain dead, as it seemed to him, and hope flickered inside him. He didn't even notice how he exhaled, relaxing his shoulders.

•••

As time passed, Frost's garden stopped being just a collection of beds. Illager now knew that watering should be done in the morning, before the sun reached its full strength, and in the evening, when the shadows lengthened. During the day, water evaporated faster than it could reach the roots, leaving the soil dry and cracked.

He also knew that tilling should be done carefully to avoid damaging the roots, but it was necessary because without air, the soil became compacted, suffocating the roots. He knew that fertilizers were more than just dirt: manure for some plants, ash and compost for others. If you messed up, you could ruin everything you'd worked for weeks with a single wrong move.

But the most difficult part was learning to spot the enemies. Not the ones who crept through the night with weapons, but the tiny ones that nibbled on the leaves — the beetles. He learned to make a tincture of bitter herbs — wormwood, tansy, and mustard — and sprayed it on the beds in the evenings. He remembered Basya's words: "You have to be quick to see them. If you miss one day, they'll eat everything."

And Frost learned. He checked every leaf, and his eyes, which had once tracked prey in the forests, now saw the tiny caterpillars.

And one morning, as he parted the dew-drenched leaves, he saw that the beetroot he had mistakenly pulled out had sprouted two new leaves. He smiled that warm smile that no one else could see, not even Basya and Vardy.

•••

An eternity of morning watering had passed. Now, where there had once been only lifeless ground, there was lush greenery. The carrots had unfurled their lace-like leaves. The beets had turned a deep crimson color. And the wheat was reaching for the sky, swaying with the slightest breeze. Frost was no longer making mistakes: he could easily distinguish between a weed and a seedling, never forgetting to water, and tilling the soil with incredible care.

And now the day he had been waiting for with trepidation and excitement had arrived. The day of the harvest. The morning was clear and cloudless. Even the birds were singing louder than usual.

Basya and Frost went out to the garden together. The young Villager carried a wicker basket in one hand and a short, narrow-bladed shovel in the other. He stopped at the edge of the carrot patch and beckoned to his apprentice.

"Look," he said, picking up a lush bundle of carrot tops. "You can't just pull. If you pull hard, the tops will come off, the carrots will break, and half will remain in the ground. We need to dig it up first. Just a little bit, from below, so that the earth would let her go. And only then — to pull, but not with a jerk, but smoothly."

Frost nodded. He took a deep breath, smelling the moist earth mixed with the aroma of the tops, and knelt down right in front of the garden bed.

He carefully dug around the first bunch. Then he put the tool aside, wrapped his fingers around the tops and began to pull. Smoothly, feeling the root give way and the earth reluctantly part. And so the carrot was appeared — long, almost perfectly smooth.

Frost froze. He looked at her lying in his wide palm and couldn't utter a word. He suddenly realized that he had never in his life held anything in his hands that he had created himself. Nothing that grew thanks to his care and patience.

"Great!" Basya's voice sounded nearby, full of pride and approval. "Here it is, a beauty! Now the rest."

Frost exhaled. He reached for the second carrot, then the third, then the tenth, and soon a whole bunch of orange roots grew next to him. The maroon beets went into the basket one by one. The ears of wheat rustled in his hands as he cut them with a sickle, losing small grains.

When the last bed was empty, Frost straightened up, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and looked around the garden. Two full baskets, brimming with vegetables, stood in front of him.

He looked at his hands, which were covered in small scratches and abrasions, and the dirt under his fingernails. But it was a good dirt. The kind that brought life, not blood.

Now, standing at the edge of the garden from which he had just harvested his first crop, he felt something warm growing inside him. Hope, perhaps. Or peace.

It was getting late in the day. The sun was setting, painting the sky in crimson hues. The Villagers, having finished their work, were returning to homes. They were eager for dinner and rest. The voices were fading, and the footsteps were becoming less frequent. Only the laughter of children calling out to each other could be heard in the distance. The village was sinking into the silence of the approaching night.

However, the library was still bustling with activity. Candlelight filtered through the windows, revealing two figures hunched over a table.

Alves stood next to Vardy. He rested one hand on the edge of the table, and with the other he pointed to a page covered in ancient runes. His back was straight, despite his age, but his shoulders were tired from the day's work.

"You've messed up again," he said patiently, tracing a line with his finger. "The base of this rune starts here, then curves smoothly, and ends with this stroke. It should be smooth and continuous."

Vardy was sitting at the table with his head down. His glasses had slipped down onto the tip of his nose, and his fingers, clutching the pen, were stained with ink. There was a piece of paper in front of him, excised by unsuccessful attempts. Every time he drew a rune, it turned out to be either too angular, or blurred, or just plain wrong.

"Here..? Or is it?" he muttered, making another attempt.

Vardy ran his pen over the paper, but it came out too abruptly. The ink spread out in an ugly blotch, destroying all his efforts. He closed his eyes for a moment, then removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I can't do it," he whispered. "Why can't I make it work? I'm trying so hard..."

Alves smiled softly. He also knew that feeling when your soul is burning with the desire to do something important, and your own helplessness is letting you down.

"You're overexerting yourself. Enchantment is not a skill that can be mastered in a month. Some give it years, and even whole decades. Right now, your arm is tense, you're shackled."

He pushed the damaged sheet aside and placed a new, clean one in front of Vardy.

"Try again. But now don't think about failures. Don't be afraid to make mistakes — that's also part of ways."

Vardy chuckled bitterly.

"I don't want to let you down. You've put your faith in me, entrusted me with the library, given me this job, and I..."

Alves sighed and reached out to place his hand on his son's shoulder. But Vardy pulled away. Not rudely or resentfully, but with a sense of shame.

"Hush, son. I understand how difficult it is to learn. I once spent hours repeating runes until late at night. And I was wrong too. You still have time."

Frost sat nearby, in the shade of the bookcases.

He tried not to draw attention to himself. He sat on the edge of a window bench, holding an open book about herbs in front of him. An hour had passed, or maybe more, but he hadn't read a single word. Instead, he listened to Alves' voice, his patient explanations, Vardy's short breaths, and the rustling of paper as the pen fell from his hand.

Outside the window, the sun had almost set. Alves looked up, from the darkening sky to his son's tense shoulders, and removed the quill from his fingers.

"That's enough for today. You're tired, son. Every mistake seems like a disaster right now, but it's not, Vardy. You're an excellent librarian. Enchantment is just a small part of your work. Don't let it overshadow everything else."

Vardy opened his mouth, ready to object, but Alves just shook his head.

"Tomorrow. We'll try again. With a clean slate and a fresh head. Go now. Get some rest."

Vardy exhaled, feeling his anxiety go away. He wanted to insist on his own, to say that he had to, that he was capable. But the fatigue was unbearable.

The former Librarian gathered up the scrolls, picked up a heavy book, and placed them on a shelf. Then, straightening his collar, he headed for the door, but at the threshold, he turned around.

"See you tomorrow, Vardy. Just don't stay up too late, okay?"

Vardy nodded mechanically, not even looking up. His father's words fell on deaf ears as he returned his gaze to the sheet of paper, where a chaotic mess of curved lines awaited him.

The door clicked shut, and Alves was gone. The library fell silent, with only the crackling of the candle to be heard.

Vardy couldn't fight like Frost. He couldn't heal like Maron. He couldn't build like Lumi. But the worst part was that he couldn't even do the thing he'd become a librarian for.

"Maybe," he said softly, more to the ceiling than to anyone alive, "maybe it's just not my thing."

The words hung in the air. Frost looked up from the book he hadn't even read. He knew that Vardy was waiting for an answer. But words were never easy for him. However, now he saw how much his friend needed support and could not stay in place. Frost got up and approached the table, bending over the sheet of paper

"You want to benefit the village, but you're already doing so. Every day. You're keeping the records. You're helping people find answers. I know your father is proud of you. He said you'd try again tomorrow. Father didn't give up, and neither should you."

Vardy blinked. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, but he held them back.

"Thank you," he said, and adjusted his glasses.

Frost nodded and stepped back.

"I'll be going. It's already late at night. You need to rest. Good night."

The door closed behind him.

A cool breeze blew into the room. Vardy took a deep breath and relaxed.