"There you go," Frida said, setting a steaming bowl of soup down in front of Luka with a practiced hand.
The aroma of herbs and slow-cooked meat rose into the air. Luka wasted no time, scooping up a hearty spoonful and tasting it. The warmth spread through his chest, chasing away the last clinging chills of morning.
Outside, the sky stretched out in a flawless expanse of blue, untouched by even a whisper of cloud. In Dreikheim, such clear days were rare. So many people made sure to enjoy the rays of the sun by going outside while children played in the snow.
Inside, the Jarl's house was quiet, save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. Smoke blackened the wooden beams overhead, leaking through narrow windows in lazy, crooked trails. The air was heavy — rich with heat and the faint sting of burning pine — a kind of warmth that made Luka's lungs itch even as it wrapped around him like a thick blanket.
"You've got that look again," Frida said, leaning on the table, close enough that Luka caught the sharp scent of herbs clinging to her clothes. No doubt she had spent another long night hunched over flasks and bubbling pots in the alchemist's lab.
"Thinking too hard for this early in the day," she added with a knowing smile.
Luka didn't bother to raise his head from the bowl, a sigh escaping his lips. "Just… Leave me alone, please."
Frida lingered for a moment, her smile faltering. Then, with a small shrug, she turned away, wiping her hands on her apron.
Luka kept eating mechanically, but his mind had already drifted far from the soup, far from the warmth of the fire. Far from the present, and back into the past. A moment of introspection he would rather avoid right now, but he had given everything.
Ever since he arrived in Tamia, he had been in survival mode, ignoring all of his problems. All he had to do was survive, socially, physically, and the mental, could wait.
Make friends — not because you trusted them, but because being alone in a strange land was a death sentence.
Learn a lot, and learn fast, so as not to fall behind and be taken advantage of.
Be wary of everyone, even your friends, since they might stab you in the back.
He had given everything, and was running on fumes, the mental crawling back slowly. His old self, the one before he arrived here was knocking at the door. And with it, an unsettling doubt.
Luka doubted himself, doubted his friends, doubted everything. But even worse, he wasn't even recognizing himself. His old self was knocking at the door, but he couldn't even hear it anymore.
Who was his old self? He didn't know. All he knew was that he needed to survive, find a way to stop Kaeris or at least help, as well as to find a way back home.
He dropped his spoon, his appetite already gone. With another weary sigh, he pushed himself off the table, the chair creaking on the old wood planks. After standing up with his bowl of soup in his hands, he wrapped himself in warm clothes Frida gave him — a heavy mantle of fur, and pushed the main door to head outside.
The air was milder than yesterday, the absence of wind a small mercy. Sunlight glinted off the snow, stinging his eyes. Luka squinted, his boots crunching into the packed white. It was a beautiful day, one of those rare moments in Dreikheim when the cold relented, and life felt almost ordinary.
He took a deep inhale of fresh air, hoping it would soothe his mind, but nothing came. Dark thoughts were scrambling inside. Even trying to push them away was useless, they would always come back.
Yes. Luka was tired. Deeply tired. Even after a good night's sleep, thanks to Saki's dream magic. A situation he had been through once before, but didn't feel any better, even with experience.
"I want to go home…" he muttered under his breath, his voice slightly shaky.
This cold place, so different from his home, overwhelmed him with a sense of helplessness. Stranded in another world, in a kingdom far from another kingdom, with people who barely knew him and with a succubus he still didn't trust.
Those white plains of snow felt lonelier than anything he had ever seen.
"Hey, Askel! Why do you keep playing with those dumb sticks?" A youthful voice interrupted his deep thoughts.
Askel — a boy no older than ten, small and wiry, with messy blond hair poking out under a fur cap — sat cross-legged in the snow. Around him were tiny saplings and twigs, carefully arranged in patterns only he seemed to understand. His fingers were busy, nimble, tying bits of string and bark together as if constructing something delicate.
The other boys and girls — two of each — circled him like vultures. One of them, a broad-shouldered brat, kicked a handful of snow into Askel's project, scattering his careful work.
"You're building another one of your beautiful sculptures, Askel?" The boy sneered, taking in a mocking tone while tilting his head. "Gonna make a cute little owl with those sticks like last time?"
The others snickered, shoving each other and throwing more snow at Askel.
"Hey, Askel, how about you come play with us instead?" A red-haired, taller girl shoved him from behind with a smug face.
"Yeah, you're going to freeze like that if you stay here. It would be a shame if you were to get stuck in the snow," another said while piling snow around Askel's legs, making sure it packed tightly.
The boy stayed silent, his hands moving automatically to salvage the twigs from the trampled snow. His lips were pressed tight, as if he were ignoring them.
They laughed again, and the girl reached down to grab his shoulder, shaking him, trying to force him to face them.
Luka's grip tightened on his bowl instinctively, but he waited. The boy was making sure to ignore them, but it was a fruitless endeavor. Being ignored only made the people around him more eager to annoy him, expecting to get a reaction at some point.
It was a game for them. In fact, he was ready to bet that they didn't hate him at all. They were just passing the time with what they had. A boy different from them, wanting to be alone rather than spending time with them.
Eventually, though, the game lost its flavor. A shout rang out from one of the parents. "What's all this? Enough!"
The children froze at the scolding, the game ending abruptly. Askel remained unmoving, still bent over the wreckage of his project. The others slowly retreated, glancing back at him one last time with curious, somewhat disappointed expressions.
One of the boys muttered, "It's no fun anymore, anyway."
As they trudged off, the silence returned, and Askel continued to work quietly, carefully, as though nothing had happened.
Luka exhaled slowly, his gaze lingering on the boy, watching him rebuild what had been destroyed. He felt an odd sense of empathy for the silent resilience Askel displayed. The struggle for peace was something he was all too familiar with. But now, as the noise of the children faded away, Luka wondered how long Askel could keep going without breaking.
Though, of course, he stayed away from the boy, only silently watching him. After all, he didn't really like kids. They were cruel, innocent, and way too unpredictable for his own liking. Annoying would be the best way he could describe them. Yet, there was something about Askel's quiet persistence that caught his attention. Perhaps it was because Luka had been that child once — the quiet one who was always alone, pushed by others to go outside.
"At least he's passionate…" Luka muttered with a faint smile.
In that moment, he forgot about all his problems. Watching the kid rearrange his sticks carefully, sticking them together with a knife to create cuts so that they fit together. A real little artist.
He leaned back against the stone wall and sat on the bench outside — which was more a tree bark split in half supported by two stone holders. It wasn't the most comfortable seat, but it was enough.
The sound of a lumberjack splitting wood with his axe in the distance, the crunching of boots on the snow, the crackle of the chimneys and the smoke billowing from the snow-covered chimneys, the chirp of sparrows hiding in the pine trees…
Yes… This village was peaceful. Unlike the constant brouhaha of Eran, or the desolate land of the Ark, or even the poverty reigning as master in the slums of the Vale, this place was a little haven, unbothered by the outside world. Frozen in time.
It was moments like these that made Luka question everything. He could feel the pull of peace, the quiet beckoning him like a distant shore. But the noise of his own thoughts were slowly coming back like a wave crashing back, a parasite that took nibbles of him.
He didn't belong.
This place was not his home, but… His home wasn't his 'home' either.
It wasn't new. A problem couldn't be resolved as long as it wasn't tackled head-on. Sometimes it needed a lot of time. Other times it could be resolved with a simple word, or an act.
"What am I thinking…" He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping.
Still… Where were this boy's parents? The village was small, especially for a nation. If people were gathered here in the central plaza where the statue of Wrimbo stood tall, why didn't his parents intervene while he was bullied?
Or perhaps they didn't want to. It could be a possibility, a way to crack him out of his shell. Playing alone in the snow felt a bit out of place, Luka admitted to himself.
"Oh. Looking at little Askel?" The Jarl's voice came from just behind, low and hoarse with sleep, startling Luka slightly. "That young lad is as thickheaded as a tree, I swear…"
"Where are his parents?" Luka asked, tilting his head upward to see the Jarl's face. The man's dark hair was disheveled and his stubble spiky, as if he had just woken up.
The Jarl scratched at his jaw. "His father's Sten. Lives off in the woods at the foot of Dragon's Peak. Hermit sort. The lad comes down here now and then for supplies."
Luka exhaled through his nose. "I won't ask about the mother…"
The Jarl nodded solemnly, his tone softening. "Poor Elsa. Died giving birth to him. Always had a frail body, bless her heart."
There was a long pause. The snow crunched under the weight of a villager passing by with a basket of firewood. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once and went quiet again.
"Every time I see Askel," the Jarl murmured, "I see her. Same eyes. Same face."
Luka didn't respond right away. He glanced back at the boy, still hunched over his sculpture with meticulous hands. There was a patience to him, a kind of quiet craftsmanship that demanded no audience.
"He's a strange one," the Jarl continued. "Doesn't speak much. But he listens. Like a sponge, that kid. Always watching."
Luka folded his arms, watching the child more intently now. "Have you ever talked to him? Not about supplies. I mean actually talk."
Härvarr let out a dry chuckle. "Of course. More than you'd think." He scratched his beard absently. "Sometimes he asks about my ice magic — how I make the frost bend, how I form the crystals. Real curious, that one. I think he's trying to learn on his own… though, without a teacher…"
His words trailed off, snow dusting his shoulders. He looked toward Askel with something like regret.
"You can't teach him?"
"Nah," the Jarl waved his hand dismissively. "The boy has no affinity with ice. It would be like teaching a fish how to breathe outside of water. No, his affinity is something no one can truly teach him here, nor in Sora, as I've heard from Uther."
Luka chuckled. "You even asked the head of Sora's academy for this kid?"
Härvarr smirked. "I take care of my people," he said simply. "This land's harsh and rooted in tradition. Everyone here's got a place — like cogs in one of those machines Jason used to talk about."
"I didn't think Dreikheim was in such good terms with a kingdom like Sora…"
The Jarl sat beside him with a groan, brushing snow off the bark bench. He patted Luka's shoulder once firmly. "The king and I were friends. We even traveled the inner Tamia together, before the sea of sand's barrier of death was lifted."
"You were buddies?"
"Sort of." Härvarr exhaled slowly, a breath that misted in the cold air. "Old friends who knew better than to call it that."
"I didn't see you at the burial," Luka said after a moment.
"I was away on affairs," Härvarr replied, his voice quieter now. "Frida went in my place."
Silence followed. The kind of silence that only came after the mention of death. Luka didn't push further. He didn't need to. The tone in the Jarl's voice was enough to tell a whole story of grief.
"Anyway," the Jarl continued with a weary sigh. He moved his legs and tapped his foot to warm up as he talked. "As I said, I tried to make little Askel fit in. Everyone here has a role, even if we stay a small community."
He nodded toward the boy, who still worked silently in the snow. "He might become one of those who might leave this place one day," Härvarr added.
"Why? Can't he stay here?" Luka blinked.
"He can if he wants to. But people who don't fit here… They usually find their way somewhere else. It's part of life."
He patted Luka's shoulder firmly. "And you, my boy. You look exactly like someone who's lost."
"Didn't need to hear that," Luka muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Ah! Just calling it like I see it," the Jarl chuckled, then hunched forward, elbows on knees. After a long, easy pause — just the wind and birdsong between them — he nudged Luka in the ribs with his elbow. "You've been watching that boy like a hawk. Don't think I haven't noticed."
"Just… reminiscing," Luka murmured, eyes still on Askel.
Härvarr didn't respond right away. He just hummed in acknowledgment, as if he knew there was more to it but didn't feel like digging. The wind picked up slightly, tossing loose snow across the square like powder. A raven croaked in the trees beyond the rooftops, and the smell of burning pine drifted from nearby chimneys.
Luka stayed quiet, watching Askel adjust a piece of wood that had split wrong. The boy frowned, scraped it against the snow, and tried again, hands deft despite the cold.
"He's not like the others," Luka muttered, more to himself than to Härvarr.
"No," Härvarr agreed. "He's not."
A pause.
"You know," the Jarl said, leaning back again, "when Elsa died, Sten almost left the village entirely. Said this place had taken everything from him. I stopped him. Told him if he ran, the mountain would just take the rest."
Luka turned to look at him.
"What made him stay?"
Härvarr chuckled, though there wasn't much joy in it. "He looked at his son. Didn't say anything. Just… looked. And that was it. Been here ever since. But he doesn't come into town much. Can't stand the stares. People can be cruel in small places."
"Why? Because he's a widower?"
Härvarr shook his head slowly. "No. Because he didn't break."
Luka arched a brow.
"People expect grief to look a certain way," the Jarl went on. "They want to see tears, rage, someone falling apart. That way, they can nod and say, 'Ah, he's human. Like us.' But Sten didn't do any of that. He just… endured. Quietly. Stoically. Never cursed the gods, never asked for pity. And that scared people."
Luka looked away, back at Askel. The boy was brushing snow off his sculpture now, a makeshift spire of sticks interlocked like a primitive tower.
"That's a shame," Luka simply muttered, his voice devoid of empathy or any real feeling toward it.
Härvarr glanced at him, catching the cold detachment in Luka's tone.
"Maybe," the Jarl said quietly, "but that's how it is. People don't like what they can't explain. A man who doesn't scream when he's bleeding? That unsettles them more than the blood ever could."
"What about someone who doesn't react at all? To anything?"
Härvarr gave a long, sideways look at Luka, reading deeper than the words.
"Then people don't think you're bleeding at all," he said. "Even when you're dying inside."
Luka didn't respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the snow, the child, the little crooked tower rising from his skilled hands. Something about it bothered him — not in a hostile way, but like a splinter under the skin.
The Jarl didn't press further. He just stood with a grunt, brushing snow from his cloak.
"You're asking questions like a man who already knows the answers," Härvarr muttered. "Just doesn't like them."
"It's not that I don't like them," Luka replied sternly, staring at the boy. "It's just that changing yourself is… hard."
Härvarr paused, half-turned, the wind tugging lightly at the furs draped across his shoulders. He studied Luka in profile, the clenched jaw, the narrowed eyes — the expression of a man at war with something he couldn't name.
"Aye," the Jarl said at last, voice low and even. "Hard as hell. But not impossible."
Luka didn't look at him.
"You know what we say up here?" Härvarr went on. "That the mountain doesn't forgive. It doesn't bend. It doesn't change. But the ones who live on it — we do. Or we die."
"I'm tired of that."
"Ah… I see…" The Jarl sighed, his eyes darkening in resignation. "That's a shame. To be so young and yet so tired already."
With that, he stepped away. "I have some work to do. Go at your pace, but Granbell or Frida might ask you for some help." He smirked with his head turned over his shoulder. "Might do you some good to get a load out of your mind."
Then he was gone, vanishing around the bend in the pine path near the house.
Luka stood in silence.
The tower was finished now. Askel was sitting beside it, staring at his creation — not proud, not smug. Just... thoughtful. Still.
Luka let out a slow breath and walked toward him, boots sinking slightly into the snow.
"You always build things like that?" he asked without preamble.
The boy didn't look up, but nodded silently.
"What's it for?"
Askel finally glanced at him, eyes still. "Magic."
Luka frowned and knelt beside him to be at eye level. "Magic? What kind? Are you a magician?" He asked with a big smile and a soft tone, almost naturally.
Askel looked at him, long and quiet. Then he replied with a flat sort of seriousness that made Luka's smile linger but not grow.
"No. It's not that kind."
Luka's brow furrowed, just a little. "Then what kind?"
"The kind that stops things from getting worse," Askel said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Luka stared at the crooked tower. Bits of twine, sticks, stones, and a crooked feather perched at the top — not pretty, but precise. Built with a kind of logic that he couldn't quite understand.
"That tower's protecting something?" Luka asked, observing it carefully.
"The village," Askel murmured, hugging his knees harder.
"The village…" Luka echoed, a faint, nostalgic smile spreading on his lips. With another natural gesture, he brought his hand to the boy's head and ruffled it gently. "You're a good kid."
Even if it wasn't really magic and just the boy's delusion, the gesture was there. And it mattered more than anything. Protecting the village, what a noble thought. Though… Luka could almost feel it. A faint pulse in the air, perhaps the od changing directions.
"Can I touch it?"
Askel hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the request.
Finally, Askel nodded, but his gaze was intent. "You can, but you have to be careful."
Luka leaned forward, gently reaching out. His fingertips brushed against one of the crooked sticks that formed the base of the structure. The moment he touched it, he used a Control spell to analyse its structure.
After nodding for a moment thoughtfully, he pulled back.
"I see… That's…" He looked around, confused.
It was just a ten-year-old kid, but the magic he was using was as complex as it could get. Even after analyzing it, he had no clue what it was doing besides changing the way the Od circulated in the air.
As if the boy could get the cue, he answered without being prompted. "My father told me it was druidic. That's the only thing I can do…"
"Do you know what it does?"
"Not really…" The boy admitted, his gaze flicking to the ground. A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck. "I found the schematics in my mother's old books."
Luka smiled softly, more amused than anything. "You're smart."
Askel shifted uneasily, looking down at the ground. "I can't read her books though…" he said, voice quieter now. "I can only reproduce the drawings."
Luka gave a soft chuckle, his smile warmer. "That's still impressive, Askel. If you keep going, you might understand it."
Askel's eyes flickered briefly to Luka before returning to the tower, a small, hesitant pride settling in. He may not have understood everything, but he knew he was doing something important.
"There you are!" Frida's voice rang out as she emerged from the house, her cloak swaying behind her. Her arms were crossed tightly, her eyes briefly looking at the cold soup lying on the bench. "Mind explaining this? We don't waste food here."
Luka blinked, then followed her gaze.
Oh crap.
He opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. Then he turned slightly, one hand gesturing toward Askel like that might somehow redeem him.
"We… got distracted."
Frida gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "For a long time, it seems."
Luka scratched the back of his neck. "Over structural Od manipulation," he offered, with a sheepish grin. He threw Askel a quick wink, then pushed himself to his feet with a faint groan of effort.
Frida's brow twitched. "Oh? You picked up on that?"
She tapped her boot once against the packed snow, matching the rhythm with a sharp finger against her arm. "I suppose it makes sense. Considering what I heard after that little message I got from Morgann."
Luka straightened slightly. "Morgann?"
"Come inside," Frida looked absolutely livid. "Father might not be here, but I'll give you the scolding you deserve."
Luka sighed, gave Askel one last pat on the shoulder, and trudged after her.
"Don't worry, it's nothing. Make sure to show me more later, okay?"
Askel gave a resolute nod, small but firm, and Luka's smile lingered as he stepped inside the Jarl's house.
The warmth hit him like a wave, thick and stifling compared to the crisp winter air outside. The scent of smoke, pinewood, and old fur filled the space. He grunted and tugged at his coat's clasp, the sweat already starting to prickle beneath the collar.
His mouth was kept shut as he gave a sheepish look to the woman sitting at the end of the large table, arms crossed. Until now, he knew she could be either cold or nice, but angry? She was the scariest.
"So…" She began with a sigh. "Mind telling me why you never told Morgann you were back in Tamia?"
Luka raised his hands in mild surrender, giving a sheepish shrug. "Because I never got the chance to go back there, and unlike you—" he pointed at her with a flat look, "I don't have a built-in raven network for long-distance communication."
Frida narrowed her eyes. "You could've sent anything. A scrap of paper or a letter. Apparently, you didn't even say goodbye to them."
Luka's smile thinned into a sigh. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a sharp click of her tongue.
"None of that. After you mentioned knowing Morgann, I checked. You weren't lying. But you also weren't talking. If you'd led with that, we could've avoided all this suspicion. You might've been trusted a lot sooner."
"What's the point of trusting someone over another's opinion?" Luka sighed while walking over to the table.
"Still…"
"Besides," Luka waved a hand dismissively as he sat down, "I didn't say goodbye because I didn't want to."
"Why is that?"
"Because I didn't belong there," Luka replied flatly. "I'm a guy from another world. And I caused a lot of trouble to Morgann and the others. I just… Felt like I didn't deserve to say anything to them."
Frida sighed heavily, dragging a hand through her hair. "That's not for you to decide."
She leaned back in her chair, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "When I told Morgann you were here, the first thing she said was how much of a jerk you were."
Luka huffed a short, humorless laugh. "Sounds about right."
Frida leaned forward again, elbows on the table, voice softer this time. "Then she told me how you saved her. I swear…" She dropped her forehead into her hands. "How do you have the time to be depressed?"
"I'm not—" Luka started, then stopped himself, jaw tightening. "I'm not depressed."
"You look like you are," Frida said, blunt as ever. "You don't talk, you brood like a kicked dog, and you didn't even finish my soup."
Luka looked away, cheeks coloring with shame. "Sorry about that…"
Frida stood abruptly, walked to the hearth, and grabbed the pot from its hook. "I'm reheating it. And you're going to eat every damn spoonful." She poured the soup back into a small pot and set it over the flames. The scent began to fill the room again—herbs, meat, stock, and something faintly sweet like berries. Luka sat in silence, watching her from the table, his expression unreadable.
After a moment, Frida spoke without looking at him. "You're good with Od."
Luka raised an eyebrow. "That's… one way to change the subject."
"I'm not changing the subject. I'm trying to stop you from drowning in your own guilt like an idiot," she replied flatly, stirring the pot. "Already had to deal with one guy like that once, don't want another."
I kinda want to know but…
"His name was Wrimbo by the way," Frida answered.
Wow, I didn't even need to ask.
"Anyway," she continued, brushing off the subject. "That boy outside, it's rare for him to listen to people. And you noticed something most don't."
"Yeah…?"
"So you're going to help me," Frida glanced over her shoulder. "I need some hands for my alchemy, and the room you're using to stay at night isn't free. Saki is earning her place by helping the farmers today."
Luka raised an eyebrow at Frida's comment, but she didn't even spare him a glance as she adjusted the fire, making sure the soup didn't burn.
"I'm not really good with alchemy… My master didn't teach me anything about it."
Frida let out an exasperated sigh, this time turning just enough to meet his eyes. "You mean as good as you are with feelings?" she shot back, a sharp edge to her voice. "Because if that's the case, I'm not letting you anywhere near the door."
"Hey!"
"What? Perhaps you are suddenly aware that you're not as special as you think."
"That's not…" Luka clenched his fists.
She didn't let him finish, her tone turning casual, almost mocking. "Sorry, but all I'm seeing is a guy trying to be interesting by brooding. You're not young, Luka. Though compared to me, you're a sprout."
The words hit him like a slap, but there was something beneath the barbed edge of her tone—something almost playful, even kind, though he was too irritated to admit it. Luka felt his chest tighten, his fists still clenched.
"I'm not trying to be anything. I'm just…" The sentence died on his tongue. Nothing fit, no words sharp enough or smooth enough to throw back at her. And worse, he knew it. She had missed the mark by miles, but the gap between truth and rebuttal was too wide to bridge with just a comeback.
Frida simply turned back to the pot, as if that settled everything. After she finished, she settled another bowl of soup on the table for him to finish, insisting that he ate before starting to work with her.
He simply indulged her, but should've known better than to stay. The "work" at alchemy was not the gentle tinkering of herbs or careful measuring of powders he'd imagined. No—Frida's idea of alchemy was closer to brute labor mixed with some deft movements of her hands.
By the time the bowl was empty and his fingers had thawed just enough to obey him again, she was already dragging out crates from a corner cabinet. Heavy things, their contents clinking against the wood—glass vials, stone mortars, bundles of dried plants that crumbled at the slightest touch.
"You're going to grind these," Frida announced, sliding a mortar and pestle toward him, too focused to even care about his reaction. "And these roots—shred them lengthwise. No chunks. If I see chunks, I'll make you eat them. Understood?"
He stared at the pile. His shoulders sagged just a fraction. So this was repayment. His gaze flicked back to her, but Frida was already moving on, muttering to herself as she shelved jars and lined up measuring spoons with near-military precision. No point arguing. She wasn't doing this just to spite him; she was keeping him busy.
And perhaps, she was right about that.
With a resigned breath, Luka rolled up his sleeves and took the pestle in hand. The roots were fibrous and uncooperative, the herbs so brittle he was scared to even breathe near them, but his hands found the way soon enough. A mechanical, repetitive task, not that demanding, that kept him occupied enough to forget about everything.
Frida, for all her barbs, worked beside him in companionable silence. Every now and then, she corrected his grip or adjusted the angle of the pestle, her touch brusque but not unkind.
It was a way of belonging here. To have a 'home', one must work for it.
And it always began with little tasks alongside someone, the flow of work giving you something you forgot you could feel.
Contentment, and a peace of mind so fragile and subtle that you almost missed it settling in.