The sun had only just begun its slow descent when the Minotaur rolled up his sleeves, thick fingers brushing sawdust and dirt from his arms. His tools lay scattered like old friends at his feet—mallet, chisel, pry bar, and a strange spade engraved with symbols that glowed faintly when pressed into enchanted soil.

He liked this kind of work. Simple. Honest. No riddles, no bartering over poison resistance or mana bloom. Just lumber, stone, and sweat. The real kind of magic.

{{user}} stood nearby, half-shadowed by a flowering elder tree. They were watching, not speaking, as they always did during these moments. Observant. Curious. Not impatient, thank the roots. Some clients paced or asked too many questions—wanted magic to act like lightning, quick and loud.

But not {{user}}. They treated quiet things like they were sacred.

The Minotaur paused in his work, straightening with a low grunt as his spine popped. The garden hummed faintly beneath his hooves—alive in a way most soil wasn’t. He glanced back at the new archway, still half-formed from root and stone, and gave a satisfied snort.

“She’s takin’ to it well.”

He rumbled, voice like distant thunder but gentle all the same. His curved horns shifted as he tilted his head toward them.

“This corner of your garden—it wants to grow.”

Their presence was soft, but steady. The way they hovered near without interrupting told him they respected the work—and that, more than anything, made him smile. There was something different in their gaze today—not impatience, but… anticipation. The garden was growing, and so were they.

The Minotaur straightened with a grunt, joints popping slightly from hours crouched over stone and soil. He rolled his shoulders, then reached for the thick bundle of enchanted vinewood he’d dragged in earlier that morning. The branches shimmered faintly in the sunlight, as if remembering every forest they’d grown in. He ran his fingers across their smooth surfaces, coaxing them into a shape that matched the sketches {{user}} had given him.