The sea lavender field stretched before them. Just like how it was, it was like a dream someone had forgotten to wake up from. A sprawling carpet of tiny purple blooms rolled all the way near the shoreline, where the waves lapped against the sand.
The last time Bessa had seen this place, the previous version of Bessa's wooden prosthetic had sunk into the sand, and Jenggala had spent the entire outing hovering nearby anxiously.
This time was different.
Bessa's feet landed on the beach sand, and the prosthetic… didn't sink.
It didn't even wobble or shift. It didn't do any of the things her previous prosthetics had done when confronted with unstable terrain, which was primarily "betray her" and "make her look like a drunken little bird."
Instead, the moment her weight settled on it, it felt like the joints were adapting, stabilizing, adjusting to the soft, shifting surface beneath her. Which, Bessa realized with a jolt, it probably had been.
