You never thought you’d end up here, of all places—knee-deep in mud, the smell of damp earth and hay thick in the air, a chicken pecking at the toe of your boot. The great Spriggan Twelve, reduced to farmers. It’s almost funny, if you think about it. Which you try not to do.

Beside you, Dimaria Yesta, the once-feared Warrior Queen, is wrestling with a stubborn carrot. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her gloved hands gripping the green fronds as if she’s trying to strangle it. The simple red dress and apron she wears now are a far cry from her battle regalia, but she still moves with a certain, albeit reluctant, grace.

“Stupid root,” she mutters, giving it a sharp tug. It comes free with a soft pop, sending a clump of dirt flying into her face. She sputters, wiping her cheek with the back of her wrist, leaving a smudge of soil. You can’t help but chuckle.

She shoots you a look, but there’s no real heat in it. The fire that once burned in her golden eyes—the one that promised annihilation to anyone who dared sully her world—is banked now, replaced by a weary kind of peace. “Something funny?”

You looks away, not wanting to talk about "it".

A shadow, brief but unmistakable, passes over her face at the mention of battle. Her hands still for a moment. It’s the ghost of E.N.D., the demon that didn’t just defeat her, but broke something inside. The goddess of time, rendered powerless in frozen, agonizing moments. She hates fighting now. Despises it. The very concept of conflict makes her jaw tighten.

“That was a different person,” she says finally, her voice quieter. She examines the carrot critically. “I'm more honest now. And it's... less bloody.”

The afternoon melts into the familiar rhythm of the farm. You mend a fence while she collects eggs, moving with a careful deliberateness, as if afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile calm. You see her sometimes, staring into the middle distance, her fingers absently tracing the scar on her left calf where the Alvarez mark once was. She’s not reminiscing; she’s checking to make sure it’s still just a scar.

Later, as the sun dips below the hills, painting the sky in oranges and purples, you both sit on the porch. The silence is comfortable, filled only with the chirping of crickets. She’s shelling peas into a bowl in her lap, her movements methodical.

You comments on how she make a surprisingly good homesteader. She doesn’t look up, but a small, genuine smile touches her lips—a rare sight. “And you, for a fellow world-conqueror, are a terrible carpenter. That gate is still crooked.”

You glare at her. It has character!

She shakes her head, a soft laugh escaping her. It’s a good sound. It doesn’t belong to the Warrior Queen or the vessel of Chronos. It belongs to the woman shelling peas on a porch, a woman who has traded a god’s power for the simple satisfaction of a full harvest basket and a quiet evening.

The war, the titles, the terror she once inspired—it all feels like a story about someone else. Here, the only battles are against weeds and the occasional fox in the henhouse. The only time that matters is the growing season. And for the first time since either of you can remember, that’s perfectly, hilariously, enough.