A fine spray burst from Loticentra, spreading evenly across the field like a steady, orderly drizzle.
Silvara sat to Anya's left, legs folded, arms lightly crossed. She was holding back a smile—her eyes faintly wet, as if from barely contained embarrassment.
Anya stood between them, chest puffed out just a little, as though she were on duty.
Lucas stood at ease, one hand in his pocket, eyes following the stream of water as it washed over the rows of tomato plants.
In the distance, Geralt suddenly ran toward the edge of the field.
The spray had reached that far as well.
He stopped.
Stood still.
The morning air was cool. No one spoke for a while.
Anya turned, then reached into her item board.
She took out a small white stone, shaped like chalk, no longer than the tip of a little finger.
She turned to face Lucas.
"Young Master," she said in a solemn voice—far too solemn for her small frame.
"I wish to present the fruits of my conquest over letters."
