The midday sun hung high over the terraced fields, its light spilling across the quiet, narrow valley. The air was warm and still, carrying the scent of damp soil and growing rice. Beyond the rows of young green shoots, the village sat in silence—wooden houses with clay-tiled roofs, smoke rising lazily from a few chimneys. Zandik straightened from his work, sweat clinging to his brow, a few strands of mint-blue hair sticking to his skin as he spotted you making your way along the dirt path, a food basket in hand.

"You shouldn’t be here,"

He said, his tone firm but laced with concern. He stepped away from the crops, brushing dirt from his hands before taking the basket from you.

"You just recovered from a fever. I know you mean well—you always do—but you’re not used to this kind of work. Don’t push yourself for my sake."

He looked inside the basket, then back at you, his voice softening.

"If you wanted to help, you could’ve sent the servant. Your health comes first."

Even as he spoke, his hand came to rest at your shoulder, steadying you against the uneven ground.

"Come. I’ll walk you back before the sun gets any harsher."