The week ran fast. Numbers climbed. Water saved by twenty-two parts. Weeding faster by nearly one-fifth. Sprout survival fifteen better than before. Arielle posted it neat on the gateboard, her chalk lines sharp, her spectacles glinting in the dawn. A baker's boy, flour still on his hair, read it aloud without stumbling, his voice clear as pride filled his father's face. An elder offered his bean-pinch trick, showing how to nip leaves for better growth. Arielle laughed, credited his name on the trick-board, her scholar's hand steady. The farm hummed, its rhythm a testament to their work, the soil's secrets laid bare by her ribbons.
Eira's voice, cold and even, slipped through Lyan's mind. They begin to believe.
Hestia followed sharp. Belief is currency. This will sell itself.
Cynthia's sigh was soft and perverse. And all because she writes numbers on a wall. Imagine if she wrote other things…
