The Tawnyx took to the farm roads like they hated every cobblestone we’d rolled over in the city.

  Out here, the ground was packed dirt and sun-baked clay, the terrain that didn’t pretend to be civilized. It just existed, stubborn and flat, stretching into a horizon that looked like it had been ironed. The carriage rattled less; the wheels biting into grooves carved over months of the same routes.

  And air smelled of heat and dust and green things trying their absolute best.

  Jabari sat steady at the front, reins in hand, posture calm like he’d been born with a spine made of duty. Gael sat across from me, still holding himself like he wasn’t sure if he could breathe too loudly in the Queen’s presence, which was tragic because I wasn’t sure I could be Queen outside of meetings.

  I leaned toward the window as we passed the first line of fields.

  At first I saw… nothing special.

  Flat land. Rows. Workers in the distance. A couple of watch posts with guards standing under shade cloths, spears resting against their shoulders like they’d learned the hard way that farming could be a battlefield too.

  Then the next field came into view and I had to double-take so hard my neck almost complained.

  “Whoa,” I said, loud enough that Gael jolted.

  The plants weren’t the gentle small grains. They weren’t anything that wanted to politely fill space in neat lines like a well-behaved crop.

  These were… spikes.

  From the ground grew clusters of extremely thin, long leaves, each one like a green blade pulled taut by invisible hands. Ten leaves per plant, give or take, all rising from a single base, fanning slightly but mostly reaching straight up, as if they were trying to stab the sky out of spite.

  They looked fragile until you realized how uniform they were, how confident they were, and how they continued for a thousand plants… ten thousand… more, all around the farmland like an ocean of sharp grass spears.

  A whole flat world of them, shimmering slightly in the heat haze.

  “Salaga,” Gael said softly, as if speaking too loudly might upset them.

  “Wow,” I repeated, because my brain didn’t have a better word. “You weren’t kidding.”

  I kept watching as the field rolled past the window; the sun catching the edges of the leaves and making them flash like thin knives. It was beautiful in a way that felt slightly threatening. The beautiful you respected from a distance.

  “No wonder Lola wants to turn this into farmland,” I muttered.

  Gael made a strangled noise and immediately looked away, like he’d just witnessed blasphemy.

  “…I thought,” he began, voice tight, “that the Queen—”

  “Oh, we aren’t killing these plants,” I cut him off before he could spiral into panic. I lifted the bottle slightly for emphasis. “Just… seeing how much land we have dedicated to booze. Love it.”

  That landed.

  Gael’s shoulders dropped, but only a little. He still looked like a man trying to decide whether to believe the ground was stable beneath him.

  We rolled deeper into the farmland district. The guard posts came at intervals, stone pylons with runes carved into them, each surrounded by small camps and watch stands. I could feel the magic even from inside the carriage, a faint thrum under the air, like a heartbeat you didn’t hear until it started skipping.

  The sabotage lines Shad mentioned.

  And here, in the sun and dust, it felt less like a mystical system and more like… infrastructure. Like irrigation pipes, but made of mana and ancient agreements.

  Jabari guided the Tawnyx down a narrower path between fields. Gael leaned forward, nervous energy suddenly making him useful. “Left there,” he blurted. “No—wait—further. That’s the wrong tract. The Sallén casks are that way, but the harvest is… there.”

  Jabari’s expression didn’t change, but he adjusted the reins with a steady hand.

  I watched Gael’s fingers twist together. He kept glancing at me as if he expected me to explode with royal disappointment if he chose wrong.

  He’s steering a carriage, Charlie, not defusing a bomb. Calm down.

  Except… he wasn’t wrong to be afraid.

  This land had funded slavery. It had been owned by men who treated people like replaceable tools, and now it belonged to me, which was a problem because I had the long-term planning skills of a caffeine-addicted raccoon.

  We finally slowed near a wide section of field where workers moved in groups, and Jabari brought the carriage to a stop at Gael’s hurried direction.

  “Here,” Gael said. “This is the section being harvested today.”

  I hopped down first, heels sinking slightly into warm dirt. The heat hit me immediately, a dry, heavy pressure that made the inside of my suit feel like a terrible decision.

  Maybe I should change to be more Rimelion-Queen-like?

  Nah, let’s teach these farmers how proper suit looks like!

  I glanced back at Jabari. “You can hang here,” I said. “If anyone causes trouble, glare at them.”

  Jabari nodded, and somehow managed to look like a professional statue.

  Gael climbed down after me, then immediately pulled at his shirt collar like the heat was trying to choke him. He looked at the field, then at the workers, and his nerves seemed to shift into something else…familiarity. The tension in his shoulders eased as he stepped onto the soil like it was home.

  The field in front of us was massive. Salaga plants rose everywhere, a forest of thin blades, and it was only when I got closer that I realized how thick and fibrous the leaves were, how they held themselves rigid in the heat, and how the bases were buried deep.

  At least twenty farmers were out under the beating sun, spread across a section where the ground had been disturbed. Some dug. Some hauled. Some wiped sweat from their brows with sleeves that were already stained with soil.

  And in one cleared area, there were… bodies.

  Not people.

  Plants.

  At least thirty Salaga plants had been unearthed and laid out on the soil in a neat-ish line, each one the size of a human torso; thick at the base, the leaves bound together, roots still clinging to clumps of earth.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  And around each unearthed plant, green magical energy clung like mist. It wasn’t subtle, it looked like the plant was breathing mana.

  I stopped walking without meaning to. “Okay,” I said slowly. “That’s… kind of magical.”

  Gael glanced at me like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh. “It is,” he said, and there was pride in it now. “It’s why the process is difficult.”

  A few farmers noticed us then. Their heads turned, eyes narrowing in confusion, then widening as recognition caught up.

  Whispers moved through the group.

  “Queen…”

  “That’s her…”

  “Is it really—”

  Several froze mid-task as if they’d been hit by a stun spell. One guy almost dropped his tool. Gael lifted a hand, clearing his throat. “Hey!” he called. “It’s… she’s here to inspect.”

  That did not calm them down.

  If anything, it made them stare harder.

  I gave a small, awkward wave. “Hi,” I said, as if that was normal.

  Gael didn’t give them time to form a line to bow to me. He turned toward a stack of work clothes near a small cart, grabbed a rough outer layer, and started pulling it on over his normal clothes.

  “So, Queen,” he said, voice louder now, working tone slipping into place as he reached for a special shovel-like instrument. It had a broad blade, thick handle, and faint runes etched all around the metal, glowing softly like they were waiting for instruction.

  He hefted it, then glanced at me. “We should show you properly.”

  I folded my arms. “Do your thing.”

  Gael nodded, then addressed me as if he were explaining a craft to someone who might accidentally bankrupt it. “The process isn’t easy,” he said. “Once we pull Salaga out of the ground, we have ten hours to clean the sprouts and seal the magic, or the harvest spoils.”

  I blinked. “Ten hours?”

  “Yes,” he said firmly. “The magic that binds it to the soil is what makes the leaf-sap potent. But it also makes it… unstable once removed. Before the invention of these new shovels, it was almost impossible to remove cleanly.”

  I stared at the tool. “Really?”

  He snorted. “Try with bare hands.”

  The farmers nearest us paused to watch, curiosity overcoming fear. I could feel the attention pile onto me again, the expectation that I was about to do something impressive.

  Please don’t do something impressive. Please be normal for five seconds.

  Unfortunately, my pride is allergic to being told I can’t do something. “Fine,” I said. “Move.” Gael stepped aside with a grin that was already too pleased.

  I walked up to a Salaga plant still rooted in the ground and grabbed the base where the leaves emerged, fingers closing around the fibrous mass.

  I braced my feet. Pulled.

  Nothing.

  Not even a wiggle.

  I grunted, pulled harder, and felt the plant resist as if it were bolted to the planet. “What the heck?” I muttered. The farmers stared as I pulled again, full-body effort, shoulders straining.

  Still nothing.

  Cool. Cool cool cool. I am a queen. Defeater of grandmasters. Slayer of—whatever. And I am currently losing an arm-wrestling match to a plant.

  I let go and stepped back, rubbing my hands like the plant had insulted me. A few farmers started laughing. I stared at them and I laughed too, because honestly? Fair. “Yeah,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist, “I guess it’s not easy.”

  Gael grinned. “Exactly. It’s bound by magic.”

  I blinked. “So you weren’t just saying that.”

  He lifted the shovel slightly. “You need specific runes to remove the bond cleanly.”

  He stepped up to the base of the plant, pressed the shovel’s blade into the soil at an angle, and the runes lit brighter. A faint tone pulsed through the air, like a low chime. The shovel slid downward with almost no resistance, cutting through dirt and root structure as if guided.

  Gael moved fast. He circled the base, pressing and cutting, the runes flaring with each push. The ground around the plant loosened without collapsing, as if the tool was negotiating with the soil instead of forcing it.

  Then he planted the shovel under the base and levered.

  The plant rose smoothly, roots breaking free cleanly, green mist flaring around it as if it were reluctantly letting go.

  The farmers cheered lightly, not because it was dramatic, but because it was well done. The cheer you gave someone who nailed a skill check with a nat 20.

  Gael set the plant down gently and immediately started cleaning, using the shovel’s edge to shave dirt away without scraping the base too harshly. His hands moved rhythmically as he glanced up at me mid-work. “My family’s been on these fields for generations,” he said, voice almost casual. “I’m proud of it. I’ve worked here since I was a child.”

  There was no bitterness in his tone when he said it, not yet, just pride and stubborn identity. I watched him work, then looked at the shovel again.

  Then, because I was me, I decided the obvious next step was to make it weirder.

  I lifted a hand, focused, and pulled mana into shape.

  A shard formed in my grip, longer than the shovel, a narrow strip of ice and crystal that extended into an impossibly sharp edge. It looked like a weapon and a tool had a morally questionable baby.

  “Lemme try with this,” I said.

  Gael froze.

  The farmers froze.

  One of them actually took a step back, like the ice shard might choose violence on its own. “This is… not necessary,” Gael said carefully.

  “Oh, it’s absolutely necessary,” I said cheerfully. “For science.”

  I walked to the next plant, lowered the shard to the soil, and pressed.

  The shard sliced through dirt and root as if they weren’t there. No resistance, no negotiation, just clean division. The frost edge left a faint line of frozen earth in its wake. I circled once, levered gently, and the Salaga came free with almost insulting ease. “Hah!” I said, holding the plant’s base triumphantly.

  For a second, no one moved.

  Then the farmers erupted into cheers, and Gael shook his head, laughing now despite himself. “Well, you fought a god to a standstill,” he called, “of course you can cut a plant.”

  The others joined in, jokes spilling out with the looseness of people who’d been living under pressure too long. They didn’t tease me like stupid nobles did. This was different. This was the humor that said: You’re powerful, yes, but you’re here with us, sweating in the dirt, so you’re allowed to be human.

  I felt something in my chest unclench.

  Gael wiped his brow and nodded toward the side cart. “Want to eat a snack with us?”

  I blinked.

  Then nodded. “Yeah.”

  We walked toward a small shaded area where a cart had been parked, logs set down as benches, and bundles of food were laid out with simple practicality. No fancy cloth. No silverware. Just food wrapped in paper, a jug of water, and a few battered cups.

  Gael held up a piece of bread apologetically. “This is… just buttery bread,” he said. “I swear we’re not trying to poison you.”

  I giggled, took it, and sat down on a log. “Yeah,” I said, biting into it. “I can probably heal any poison at this point.”

  The bread was warm, simple, greasy in a satisfying way. Not the best food I’d ever had—definitely not wolf meat, which still haunted my taste memory like a forbidden luxury—but it wasn’t the worst either. It tasted of labor and salt and small comforts.

  The farmers sat near me, hesitant at first, then gradually relaxing as they realized I wasn’t going to explode into royal outrage because someone ate before me. One of them, an older man with a sun-lined face and a back that clearly hated him, cleared his throat.

  “Queen,” he whispered. “I… my back is bad, and my children…” His voice cracked. He looked down at his hands.

  I stopped chewing and raised a hand slightly. “Don’t worry,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “There will be… visitors to Altandai. Healers, who are hungry for… uh… personal experience.”

  He swallowed. “We’ve heard that before.”

  That landed like a punch.

  I looked around the circle of faces. Hopeful in the way you got when you couldn’t afford hope but still needed it to breathe.

  So I sighed and did the easiest thing… I stood, and the farmers tensed instinctively. “It’s fine,” I said, lifting my hands. “Come here.”

  The older man hesitated, then stood slowly. I placed my hand near his shoulder and let mana flow, not dramatic, not flashy, just a warmth spreading through muscle and bone. His eyes widened. He inhaled sharply as the tension in his spine eased. His shoulders dropped as if someone had removed a weight he’d been carrying for years.

  I moved on to the next farmer. Then the next.

  One by one, I healed them. Sore backs. Inflamed joints. Old tendon injuries. Heat exhaustion lingering under their skin like a slow poison.

  By the fourth person, the group wasn’t wary anymore.

  They were staring at me.

  Not like before, not like “queen in a hall,” but like something else, something closer to reverence, like I’d crossed a line without meaning to.

  Oopsie.

  I stepped back, rubbing my neck awkwardly. “Welp,” I said lightly. “Here you go.”

  The older man bowed his head, eyes wet.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “And thank you for freeing us, Queen.”

  I blinked. “Wait… I thought you weren’t enslaved?”

  Gael’s jaw tightened beside me, and the farmers exchanged looks. Then one of them laughed bitterly, short and humorless. “We weren’t chained,” he said. “We weren’t branded.”

  “But we weren’t paid much,” another added. “They pocketed all the profit. Called it ‘rent.’ Called it ‘tax.’ Called it ‘necessary costs of protection.’”

  The older man’s hands clenched. “We worked. We harvested. We made the drink they sold for silver we never touched.”

  Gael stared down at the bread in his hands as if it had suddenly become disgusting. I felt heat rise in my chest, anger curling tight. “So you were slaves,” I said, “just with extra paperwork because you actually had skills they needed and they were afraid of trying to enslave you.”

  No one contradicted me.

  “Okay,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Then we fix the farms. We fix the sabotage. We fix the pay.” Their eyes snapped to me. I forced a grin. “And,” I added, lifting the bottle slightly, “we do it without killing Sallén.”