Ignis' First Firesday of Harvestfall, 1442, city of Zephyrdale.

Vaelith's boots clicked against the cobblestones, the sound swallowed by the hum of Zephyrdale's bustling streets. From a distance, the city had seemed charming—its chimneys puffing lazy plumes of smoke into the cool afternoon air, its hillside streets winding like threads in an intricate tapestry. The hum of life around her—the clinking of glasses from a nearby tavern, the melodic tune of a Wind sylvani busker playing a lute—felt distant, like hearing laughter through a closed window. The warmth of the city seemed meant for other people, people who belonged here. Vaelith tucked her silver hair behind one fin, resisting the urge to retreat into herself completely. She knew there was joy, awe, and wonder here—right here—if only she could reach for it. But her mind was elsewhere, spinning in circles.

She exhaled, shaking her head. Vaelith replayed the earlier conversation with Kaelyn in her mind, her fins twitching with agitation. She had been so close to connecting with the felinae. But Kaelyn had so suddenly put an end to their conversation.

Was it something I said?

Vaelith let out a long sigh. There was little point in obsessing over spilled milk. Kaelyn no longer wanted to talk, and Vaelith would not try to force her to. She had signalled her own struggles, her desire to share, and Kaelyn had seemed ready to reciprocate. But then, just as quickly, the felinae had retreated, pulling up her walls as if Vaelith had pushed too hard.

There was little more she could do about it now, especially since the felinae had veered off toward the waterfront the moment they arrived, her words clipped and her tone colder than usual. "Catch you later, cariño," she had said, not even sparing Vaelith a glance.

Vaelith tightened her grip on the strap of her satchel, weaving her way through the streets. Around her, halflings, Wind sylvani, and Pint burrovians darted like birds, their small forms blending with the uneven cobblestones and the maze-like streets. Vaelith felt like she ought to be happy as she noticed how she was amongst her people here. Her short stature, usually a standout trait, now felt unremarkable—sylvani were slightly taller, but she still stood a head above the halflings and Pints around her.

She observed the locals as they bustled about their daily routines. A halfling merchant wheeled a cart overflowing with glistening red apples, calling out his wares in a voice too big for his tiny frame. A group of Wind sylvani children with delicate features and long pixie ears chased each other down a side street, their laughter tinkling like bells. Nearby, a Pint burrovian baker stood on a stool, flour streaking her long ears as she waved customers inside her store.

But as soon as people noticed her, they stopped what they were doing to offer a simple nod, timid greeting, or simply gawk at her. Children were not as well-behaved and many would point in her direction or gasp when they noticed her, earning them reproachful glares or cross glares from their guardians.

Her scales and tail immediately set her apart from the crowd. Kindred dracans were one of the rarest species in the Realms, with the highest concentration living in Luminara. But even there, they were a small minority. Anywhere else, they were an unusual sight, almost an ominous one. One that most people would take notice, at the very least.

But the true reason she stood was because of her unmistakable features—silver hair, golden scales, Luxoria's likeness made manifest—made her impossible to miss. But despite her almost celestial appearance, no one dared to approach or openly challenge her. People noticed. And their gaze lingered on her far longer than it did on other outsiders. But she was left to her own business.

She stepped aside as a black-scaled Sovereign dracan passed, towering over her in a suit of chain mail. He ducked under a low-hanging awning, his curved glaive catching the light as his horns nearly caught the beams. A moment later, she noticed an unarmed Full-blood felinae sauntering by. He wore what looked like druidic leather armour and his tail flicked as he scanned the crowded street with feline disdain. His towering height and sleek fur should have made him a magnet for attention.

Yet, most citizens paid those two only a cursory glance. They moved out of their way and gave them a wide berth. They reserved their curiosity for her, however. Vaelith sighed. It was almost funny how players regarded her compared to the locals. To most players, she was small and blended within the crowd. Unassuming, easy to overlook.

Her brow furrowed in annoyance as she readjusted her grip on the strap of her satchel—it dug painfully into her shoulder from her constant pulling. She pressed forward, letting the rhythm of the street guide her feet even as her thoughts wandered. It was not the way her appearance drew the attention of the citizens or how the random player's indifference that frustrated her. It was Kaelyn's absence.

There had been a tension between them ever since their talk earlier—something unspoken that had lingered like storm clouds on the horizon. And yet, a part of her had hoped. Hoped Kaelyn would eventually open up, that she would see... what? That Vaelith was not just some naïve tagalong? That she was worth letting in? She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to shove the thought away. She had hoped—hoped—they were finally making progress. For a fleeting moment, Kaelyn had seemed on the verge of saying something, like she might actually trust her. Vaelith had been this close to confiding fully about what was happening to her body. To Jason's body in the real-world body. She needed to talk to someone—anyone—about how her body was changing. Changing into her in-game avatar. She felt speaking the words aloud would somehow help. She needed to get the weight off her chest. But when Kaelyn had been about to reciprocate with her own troubles, she suddenly changed her mind and promptly shut her away.

Her fingers grasped the amethyst stone on her necklace, but she felt no relief. She forced herself to focus on the cobblestones beneath her feet. Why had Kaelyn pulled back? She had seemed genuinely interested—concerned, even—when Vaelith first started speaking. Her eyes flicked up toward the horizon, counting on the off chance she would spot the felinae. As if Kaelyn's distant silhouette might offer some kind of answer.

Did I say too much? Or not enough?

Vaelith's chest tightened, bitterness flooding her heart.

I just wanted someone to listen.

It was not even about advice or solutions. She did not expect Kaelyn—or anyone, really—to help in any meaningful way. But the simple act of saying it aloud, of having someone hear her… was that not supposed to be the first step? Yet Kaelyn had pulled back, leaving Vaelith adrift.

I did not even need her to believe me or to understand—I just needed her to care.

The city bustled around her, oblivious to her inner turmoil. Merchants and porters moved with purpose, following a daily routine born of years of practice. Adventurers strode through the crowds, their bright armour and oversized weapons marking them as heroes undertaking some grand quests. But Vaelith felt adrift, caught between these two groups. One group was bound here by their daily lives, the other group was just passing by. For most adventurers, Zephyrdale was just another waypoint. But Vaelith was different—she was escaping. She was not here really to become a powerful adventurer, was she? In truth, she was here because the alternative—the real word—was too horrible. She shuddered at the idea of logging off, of returning to her body. The one in which she could barely stand straight. A body that could no longer even hold a meal down. A body that was shrinking and reshaping itself.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, her fins trembling as the thought clawed at her.

Maybe I'm just a tagalong after all.

The idea made her stomach twist. She had promised herself that she would not let her fears define her, that she would not let other people's narrative constrain her. But Kaelyn's coldness had left her feeling like she did not belong—not in the game, and not in her own skin.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and she glanced up to see a Wind sylvani shopkeeper adjusting a display of woven scarves. Her delicate hands moved with precision, smoothing out the folds of fabric as she worked. Vaelith paused, her gaze lingering on the scarves. Each one was unique, dyed in vibrant hues that caught the fading sunlight. The craftsmanship was impeccable—evidence of hours, days, maybe even weeks of care.

Her fingers brushed the strap of her satchel again, and she felt a pang of longing.

What would it feel like to create something like that? Something tangible, something lasting? Something that required actual labour, not merely drawing up ritual circles?

The thought gave her pause. The Weaver's guild would be the next stop. For now, she was here in Zephyrdale, and she was here to learn how to make proper meals. She could conjure water and tasty bread—the latter was already unusual in itself, or so Ryssa and the others had said—but her conjured food still lacked something. Something making them real.

If the world outside felt like chaos—her body betraying her, her connections slipping through her fingers—then cooking could be her anchor. A place where rules mattered, where effort led to results. She needed this now more than ever: something real, something she could build with her own hands. Vaelith would focus on what she could control—on improving herself, her skills, her craft. She was still curious to discover if the knowledge of cooking would impact her conjured food ritual. After the lessons from the old lamp maker in Luminara, who had shown her how to turn one of her attack spells into utility spells, she wondered how much more she could do with her magic. She already knew how visualising different baked goods influenced the result of her ritual spells. She was confident there were more mysteries to uncover in this game.

Her steps quickened as she spotted the Cooking Guild, its painted sign, featuring a carving knife and ladle, swung gently in the breeze. The squat, round building looked inviting, its windows glowing with warm light. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg enveloping her like a hug.

Behind the counter stood a halfling wearing a flour-stained apron. His rosy cheeks gave him an air of perpetual cheer. He had pulled his hair into a neat bun, and a pair of spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He looked up from the ledger in which he had been scribbling notes, dipped a quill in a small inkpot to the side in a practiced movement. His sharp eyes assessed Vaelith as she entered.

"Ah, not a face I remember seein' before!" he said, his voice as warm as the scent of cinnamon drifting through the air. "I never forget faces. What brings you to our humble guild, lass? You here to sample the best pastries in Zephyrdale? We've got some apple turnovers, fresh out of the oven!"

Vaelith looked around, her hand brushing against the strap of her satchel. "I'm actually here for training," she said finally. "Crafting. Cooking, specifically. This… Is the place, right?"

The Halfling's eyes gleamed with amusement, and he set down his quill. "Ah! A prospective student! Aye, that's us! Name's Rorric. I'm what passes for a Guild master around here. And you are...?"

"Vaelith," she said, forcing a small smile.

Rorric clapped his hands together, sending a small puff of flour into the air. "Well then, Vaelith, let's see what you're made of!" He gestured for her to follow him through a side door into the guild's kitchen. The space beyond was warm and bustling, filled with the hum of activity. Halflings and Pint burrovians worked side by side, their small hands moving with practiced precision as they kneaded dough, chopped vegetables, and stirred steaming cauldrons. Vaelith's fins widened in surprise as she took in the sharp aroma of herbs mingling with the earthy scent of roasted roots.

Rorric showed a series of hooks on one wall where she could leave her hat, satchel and cloak. Vaelith doffed her hat and took off her cloak. Doing so, she saw her bare shoulders for the first time. She brought a hand tentatively, as if touching the skin there would dispel the illusion. But the touch of her fingertips did no such thing. It did not even register as odd. Just a normal, mundane moment, as if this was who she had always been.

She felt more anguish as she separated herself from her grimoire. It felt like leaving an old friend behind, and she stared at it longingly before following Rorric further inside.

"I can tell from your getup that you're some kind of magic-user. Well, cooking's not like magic, lass," Rorric said, leading her to a counter near the stone hearth that dominated the room. "It's about heart. About putting a bit of yourself into every dish. You follow?" She nodded. "Good. Now, let's start with something simple."

He reached under the counter and retrieved a burlap sack of flour, a small crock of salt, a pitcher of water, and a jar of fat—what looked like lard, Vaelith realized. Then, with a wink, he placed a plump, freshly cleaned rabbit on the cutting board. "We're making a proper Zephyrdale rabbit pie. Best in the region! It's just facts."

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Vaelith's fins drooped slightly at the sight of the rabbit. "Pie? From scratch?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Rorric chuckled, his round cheeks rosy as he set a rolling pin on the counter. "Aye, from scratch. Best way to learn's with flour on your hands. Dough first—watch and learn."

He worked quickly, but not so quickly that Vaelith could not follow. He scooped a generous handful of flour into a wooden mixing bowl, added a pinch of salt, and then poured in some water, little by little, until the mixture came together. His small hands moved with honed efficiency as he added a dollop of lard, working it into the dough until it was soft but not sticky.

"See that? You don't want it too wet, or it'll stick to the rolling pin. Too dry, and it'll crack when you roll it out," he said, holding the dough up for her to inspect. "Feel it. Go on."

Vaelith hesitated, then reached out, her golden-scaled fingers brushing against the dough. It was warm from Rorric's hands, smooth and pliable. Her fins fluttered as she prodded it gently, testing its give.

"Your turn," Rorric said, stepping back and gesturing toward the mixing bowl. "Flour's there. Water's there. Let's see what you can do."

Vaelith swallowed and reached for the flour, her fingers trembling slightly. Cooking felt so… tactile. So real. Nothing like tracing the runes of a ritual, where precision came from the mind rather than the hands. She shook off her hesitation and mimicked Rorric's steps, scooping flour into the bowl and adding salt. Her movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as she poured the water in small increments, using her fingers to mix it.

"Shouldn't we measure the ingredients?" she asked as she eyeballed the proportions.

Rorric paused mid-motion, a rolling pin held lightly in his flour-dusted hands. He gave Vaelith a sly grin, his rosy cheeks lifting with amusement only a seasoned teacher could muster. "Aye, some folks measure every pinch and spoonful. Nothing wrong with that—it's a good place to start." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "But let me tell you a little secret: the best cooks don't measure. They feel."

He tossed the rolling pin onto the counter with a light thump and gestured broadly to the ingredients scattered around them. "See, lass, cooking isn't some stiff, rule-bound ritual. It's alive. Ever-changing. The flour's mood changes with the weather—humid air, dry air, it all shifts the balance. The saltiness of your butter, the richness of the lard—it's never exactly the same." He pointed at the dough she had been kneading. "That's why you've got to trust your hands more than the numbers. The dough'll tell you what it needs."

Vaelith raised an eyebrow, her golden tail flicking in skepticism. "The dough will tell me?" she said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "That sounds suspiciously mystical."

Rorric let out a booming laugh, patting his round belly. "Mystical? Ha! That's rich! Especially coming from a student of Luminara's college of magic! But aye, it's a kind of magic, I suppose—just not the flashy, spell book kind. It's about connection, lass. Between you and the ingredients." He reached down, grabbing a handful of flour and letting it sift slowly through his fingers, the grains catching the light. "Cooking's as much about instinct as it is about recipes. Too dry? Add a splash of water. Too wet? Sprinkle some flour. You learn to feel it, to adjust as you go."

He gave her a knowing look, the glint in his eyes softening. "Don't get me wrong—measurements can help when you're starting out. They're like training wheels on a bike. But the real joy comes when you ditch the scales and spoons, and let yourself... flow with it. Trust me on this, lass. By the time you've made your hundredth pie, you won't even be thinking about measurements. Your hands'll just know."

Vaelith frowned, her fingers still mixing the flour in her bowl. The idea felt… foreign. Her rituals relied on exactness. The precise angle of a rune, the balance of elements in a circle—everything had to align perfectly, or the magic would fail. Yet here was Rorric, telling her to throw precision to the wind and trust some intangible feeling?

Still, she glanced down at the dough in her mixing bowl, pressing her fingers into it experimentally. It differed from the feel she got from Rorric's dough earlier. The pliability, the texture—it felt like it needed something, though she could not quite put her finger on what. Maybe there was something to what he was saying after all.

"Fine," she said, reaching for the water pitcher and adding just a few drops. The dough softened slightly under her hands, and her fins twitched in mild surprise. "Alright… maybe the dough's saying something. But I still think you're just making this up as you go."

Rorric laughed again, his voice warm and hearty. "Of course I am, lass! That's half the fun! And the day you stop worrying so much about doing it right—that's the day you'll start cooking like a proper chef."

Vaelith's smirk softened into something closer to a genuine smile as she worked the dough again, feeling the change in its texture under her hands. Maybe Rorric was right. Maybe there was something magical about this kind of cooking—magic that did not rely on runes or spells, but on the quiet conversation between ingredients and intuition.

And for now, she was willing to listen.

"That's it," Rorric said, leaning on the counter and watching her work. "Don't forget the lard."

She added the lard, kneading it in, and her fins twitched in quiet satisfaction as the dough finally came together, smooth and supple.

She held it up for Rorric's inspection, her golden tail swishing behind her. "Like this?"

He took the dough from her hands, kneading it lightly before nodding. "Aye, that'll do. Not bad for your first try! You've got a good feel for it, lass."

"You have reached level two for the Cooking class."

Vaelith allowed herself a small smile, but her satisfaction was short-lived. Rorric had already turned toward the cutting board, setting the dough aside and picking up a knife. "Now, the filling. Pay attention—this is where the real magic happens."

With deft hands, he began breaking down the rabbit, slicing the meat into neat, even chunks. He added chopped onions, diced carrots, and a handful of fresh herbs—thyme and rosemary, by the smell of it. As he worked, he tossed the ingredients into a skillet over the hearth, the sizzle of meat hitting hot iron filling the room.

Vaelith watched intently, her fins twitching in time with the rhythmic chop of his knife. The smell was intoxicating—rich and savoury, with a hint of earthiness from the herbs. She had always thought of cooking as mundane, something separate from the elegance of magic. But here, watching Rorric transform raw ingredients into something smelling like home, she felt a flicker of admiration.

"Your turn, now, " Rorric said, stepping aside and handing her the knife. "Careful with the blade—it's sharp. Take your time."

Vaelith's eyes widened as she looked at the cutting board. The remaining rabbit meat stared back at her, mocking her hesitation. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and picked up the knife. Her hands moved clumsily at first, her cuts uneven and hesitant.

"Not bad," Rorric said, his tone patient. "Don't grip the knife so tight—it's not a weapon. Let it do the work for you."

She adjusted her grip, her movements growing steadier. The blade sliced through the meat more easily now, and as she worked, she felt a strange sense of calm settle over her. It was not perfect—her chunks were still rough compared to Rorric's—but it was progress.

Once she finished finely chopping up the meat, she added it to the skillet, along with the onions and carrots Rorric had set aside. The smell grew even richer, filling the room with the promise of a hearty meal.

"Good," Rorric said, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now, roll out the dough. We'll cover the pie and let it bake."

Vaelith moved to the counter, grabbing the rolling pin and pressing the dough flat. The motion was repetitive, almost meditative, and for the first time all day, she felt the knot in her chest loosen. The dough stretched and flattened under her hands, and as she worked, her mind wandered off.

Is this what it means to create something real? To pour my energy into something tangible, something I can hold in my hands?

By the time the pie was in the hearth, its golden crust browning over the bubbling filling, Vaelith felt a strange mix of exhaustion and pride. She glanced at Rorric, who was watching the result with a satisfied grin.

"You did good, lass," he said. "Cooking's not about perfection—it's about effort. About putting a bit of yourself into every dish. And this?" He gestured to the pie. "This is the start of something real."

As the rabbit pie baked in the hearth, the room settled into silence, the rhythmic crackling of the fire filling the air. Vaelith leaned against the counter, wiping flour from her hands with a damp cloth. Her golden tail swayed lazily behind her, its usual tension replaced by a faint, almost imperceptible rhythm. She felt... calm. For the first time that day, her thoughts did not feel like a swirling storm.

Rorric stood nearby, his hands resting on his hips as he watched the pie bake with the proud intensity of an accomplished artisan observing his apprentice's first success. The scents of roasted rabbit, caramelised onions, and buttery crust swirled around them, warm and inviting.

"You have reached level three for the Cooking class."

But Vaelith's mind had already moved elsewhere. She brushed her fingers across the edge of her amethyst necklace, her thoughts flicking back to her conjuration magic. After everything she had learned today, could she push the spell further?

She straightened. "Rorric," she said, glancing at the guild master, "I have a kind of magic I use for making food. It's not the same as cooking—it's a conjuration ritual, really. But I have this theory... I think learning about cooking could influence it."

Rorric turned to her, his rosy cheeks lifting with intrigue. "Oh, aye?" he said, crossing his arms. "I know about food you adventurer types sometimes summon and eat in the field. I've tried some before—it tasted like loneliness. What about it?"

"Right now, I mostly tried conjuring simple bread," Vaelith said, blushing lightly. "Like you say, it's normally basic food, no joy or taste. Focus on sustenance. But the ritual instructions say to envision the result. I've never really thought about the process—just the end goal. But your instructions got me thinking. What if I tried to keep the entire process in mind while using the ritual. Not only what I want to see, but how it was made, what goes into it?"

Rorric rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Hmm. Well, magic's a tool, same as a rolling pin or a skillet. And tools work best when you've got skill behind 'em. Why don't you try it? Let's see what you can whip up."

Vaelith nodded, her heart pounding slightly as she stepped back from the counter. She extended her hands and pulled energy from the spell book in her satchel, the extra distance straining her harder than usual. To be honest, it surprised her she did so without the grimoire resting on her hips. Using the accumulated energy, she released one of her usual telekinetic surfaces on which to draw the ritual. The copper-red misty surface formed in front of her. For the ritual part, she no longer needed to consult her grimoire, having committed this one to memory. With deliberate movements, she started tracing the circle and runes. Shimmering lines of glowing white ink floating behind her fingertip.

As she did so, she did not focus on tasty, freshly baked bread. Instead, she closed her eyes, letting the scents of the guild surround her—the cinnamon, the nutmeg, the rich aroma of the baking pie. Her thoughts turned to something sweet, something delicate yet bold. She pictured layers of flaky pastry, spirals of golden dough wrapped around vibrant swirls of raspberry filling. She imagined the tartness of the fruit, the sticky sweetness of the glaze, the way the pastry would crisp and crackle under the heat of the oven.

Her hands moved fluidly, the runes glowing brighter as they took on a faint reddish hue. The surrounding air seemed to hum with energy, the ritual pulling at her focus like a thread being drawn taut.

With a soft whoosh, the ritual ended. Raspberry swirls cookies, a baker's dozen of them, appeared before her, still warm, their glossy surfaces catching the light. Vaelith blinked, momentarily stunned by how vivid they looked—the golden layers, the deep red filling. She had not even thought about the powdered sugar—and yet, there it was. Her hands had remembered what her mind had barely registered. She stared at the swirls, her fins twitching. They looked too perfect, too real. Her first instinct was disbelief—how could she, with all her hesitation and doubt, have made something so beautiful?

"You have reached level sixteen for the Mage class."

"You have reached level four for the Cooking class."

Huh? So it looks like ritual magic can cause the Cooking class to level up…? Then it must have worked?

"Well, I'll be!" Rorric said, stepping forward to examine the pastries. He picked one up. Vaelith had half-expected it to crumble into ash. He turned it over in his hands before taking a bite. His eyes widened, and he let out a low hum of appreciation. "Now that's something special. The tartness, the sweetness, the crunch—it's all there. You sure you didn't bake these the old-fashioned way?"

Vaelith chuckled nervously, a flush creeping over her cheeks. "I just... thought about what went into making them. The dough, the fruit, the glaze. I don't know—I guess I tried to approach the spell like I would a recipe."

Rorric nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe you're on to something, then. Magic's all about intent, aye? The clearer your intent, the better the result. Sounds like you're not just summoning food anymore—you're crafting it. Using what you've learned, putting a piece of yourself into it. Never heard of someone doing this before."

Vaelith looked down at the tray, her fins twitching with a mix of pride and curiosity. The pastries were real—tangible proof that her magic could evolve, that it could become something more than just rote summoning. She reached out, breaking off a piece of one swirl and popping it into her mouth. The flavour was vivid and perfectly balanced by the sweetness of the sugar. When the tart-sweet burst of raspberry hit her tongue, a soft laugh escaped her.

She covered her mouth before speaking. "They taste good… Not like the taste of loneliness at all!" she said, echoing Rorric's earlier words. The cookies were not simply food—they were hers. Something she had created, not just conjured.

Rorric guffawed. "Ah! You're absolutely right; they don't!"

The kitchen fell silent, every pair of eyes fixed on the floating magical tray filled with raspberry swirls. Vaelith blushed as she realised how she was the centre of attention. With a slight gesture of one hand, she sent the plate floating around the room, wordlessly offering everyone a chance to sample her goods.

A Pint burrovian apprentice crossed his arms and pouted. "Food's supposed to take work. You can't just wave your hands and make it... good."

Rorric shot the lad a knowing look. "Care to test that theory?"

The apprentice picked up a cookie and took a bite, his expression melting into delight. He swallowed. "Well, I'll be. She didn't just conjure food—she conjured joy." The murmurs started then, and soon the other cooks reached for the pastries, their approval filling the room.

Vaelith was glad for the distraction, the swirls refocusing everyone's attention away from her. For a few moments, at least.

"Sounds like you're a pioneer in magical baking, lass," Rorric said, clapping her on the shoulder. "And if today's anything to go by, you're just getting started. Keep learning, keep pushing. Who knows what wonders you'll whip up next?"

Vaelith's lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Her gaze lingered on the remaining raspberry swirls, a quiet determination blooming in her chest. If one day in a kitchen could change her magic, what else might she discover with time? For the first time in days, she felt a flicker of excitement—not for what she could summon, but for what she could create. The possibilities appeared limitless.

Rorric's words lingered in her mind. "You're crafting it, putting a piece of yourself into it." Had he spoken the truth? The idea was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Her magic was changing. And if that meant she was changing too... where would it take her? If conjuration could be shaped by memory and care, maybe her new self could, too.

She smiled, genuinely, as she kept an eye out on the rabbit pie, slowly cooking in the oven. "The dough'll tell you what it needs," she echoed in her head.

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