[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/ssxt53R/Thalia-Evercrest.png[/img][/center][hr][right][sub]Location: Community Barn
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[indent][indent] The physical evidence of her labour was unmistakable: angry red lines etched across her knuckles by the biting cold, stubborn flecks of hay clinging to her coat, and the deep, persistent ache in muscles still protesting this unfamiliar life. Thalia dismissed these discomforts with practiced indifference. She'd endured enough mornings to recognize the pattern—starting stiff and chilled, gradually finding her rhythm in the work, and finishing with that satisfying burn in her lungs signalling a day's honest effort completed.

First came the goats, their demanding bleats like the entitled clamour of courtiers she'd once known. She’d shattered the thin ice sealing their water trough with a sharp kick of her boot, the crack satisfyingly loud before refilling it. Next were the sheep, quieter but equally expectant, crowding close enough to tug hopefully at her sleeves as she scattered their grain. By the time she reached the chickens, the relentless wind had turned her cheeks numb, each breath escaping as a small, vanishing cloud in the frigid air.

Her boots left dark prints across the packed dirt floor as Thalia crossed to the feed bin. Every movement carried the typical rhythm. 

Scoop the grain. Step towards the trough. Pour it out.

There were moments, like this one, when she thought she might be getting used to it, that maybe there was a different kind of pride in work that left your hands rough instead of perfumed, your back sore instead of corseted straight. But then she’d catch herself checking the door, half-expecting some summons that would pull her back into the world she’d lost, and the illusion would falter.

Scoop, step, pour. 

The rattle of grain against the wooden trough was background noise she’d long tuned out—until it ceased abruptly, too soon. Thalia frowned, peering into the depths of the feed bin. Not empty, but significantly depleted. She’d filled it herself when they'd gotten here; it shouldn't be this low already.

Her lips pressed into a displeased line. Had she miscounted the portions? Was someone helping themselves to extra? Or was the bitter cold driving the animals to eat more than usual? Setting the scoop down, she plunged her fingers into the coarse mixture, sifting through it. The texture felt right, shifting loosely, no damp clumps or sour smell of rot. At least it hadn't spoiled.

It could be nothing. But nothing had a way of becoming something if you didn’t keep an eye on it.

With a soft, controlled exhale, she reclaimed the scoop while the rhythm reclaimed her, too. Scoop. Step. Pour. Grain filled the trough, animals lowered their heads to eat, but the nagging thought refused to retreat.  

Thalia's fingertips tapped restlessly against the wooden edge of the feed trough, an unwelcome idea surfacing. She [i]could[/i] solve this problem by stretching the remaining grain and coaxing more nourishment and substance into every handful, making it last far longer than nature intended. Even now, deep in this sun-starved winter, her connection to the earth remained. It was a thin, fragile thread, but present all the same. Yet, using it without the sun’s vital energy came with a steep cost. The cold already leached warmth and strength; any magic she drew would only intensify that drain. Even a small effort could leave her trembling violently, dizzy, and out of sorts for hours, a lesson learned painfully back in Aurelia.

At that time, it had been desperation, not vanity. The estate gardens had already been stripped bare; the glasshouse was locked up by creditors who saw more value in selling its silver hinges than in preserving the plants. What little food remained in the pantry was being carefully rationed, more carefully than her father realized, because Thalia had been quietly passing over her portions. Pride made it easier to frame it as a strategy: if she ate less, the supplies would last longer, and her father wouldn’t have to see how quickly they were dwindling. But after three days of this, the ache in her stomach had become impossible to ignore. There had been a single bed of frost-burned carrots in the corner plot, stubbornly clinging to the frozen soil. She’d thought she could coax them back, just enough to keep her father from noticing.

The magic had responded, slow but obedient. A warmth had spread from her palms down into the icy soil. She’d felt the roots stir, the frostbite receding like a bad dream fading. And for one fleeting moment, the old sense of power, of being truly capable, had flooded back.

Then, the ground seemed to tilt violently beneath her feet.



Thalia remembered vividly clutching the rough stone of the garden wall, her breath shallow and ragged, and her legs dissolving into uselessness until she collapsed into the snow. Her vision had tunnelled to mere pinpricks of light, and crawling back to the house had taken an agonizing eternity, her hands still buzzing with the terrifying emptiness of expended power. Huddled by a meagre fire later, teeth chattering uncontrollably, she’d vowed never to pay that price again. Not until survival itself was truly on the line.

Now, her hand hovered uncertainly above the grain, palm tingling with the ghost of that remembered power. Just a little push and the bin wouldn't be a worry. It would be enough. The temptation warred violently with the ingrained fear of that debilitating weakness.

Before she could choose, the heavy barn door groaned open behind her.

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