While Silas wrote with growing enthusiasm, his pen moved swiftly, as if his thoughts had already surged far ahead.
Out in the field, the atmosphere was much simpler.
Lucas, Silvara, and Anya continued their work—lining each basket with broad leaves. There was no meaningful conversation, only the soft sounds of leaves being folded and the wicker baskets shifting.
Not long after, Geralt finished his work. He brushed the dirt from his hands, let out a long breath, and walked over toward his child.
All the baskets had been fully lined.
Lucas did a quick count, then stacked them neatly. Three piles. A total of twenty-four baskets.
At that moment, Liona arrived with lunch as usual. She spread out a small mat near the field, her movements practiced and familiar.
They took a break.
While sitting, Lucas turned toward Geralt. "Tomorrow, bring your wife along for the harvest."
Geralt was briefly startled, then nodded quickly. "Yes, Young Master."
