The morning was lively. We entered another small village, tucked away among the fields. My purse had noticeably thinned after buying the spear, and The Art of Manners insisted that a noble person should always carry funds to maintain their retinue.

  I walked into the local tavern. It smelled of stew and stale hay.

  “Got any work?” I asked the owner, who was wiping down the counter with a filthy rag.

  He looked me over—this serious-faced child—and smirked.

  “Yeah, kid. Drought’s hitting the fields. They need watering. We pay twenty coppers a shift. Haul buckets till your back snaps.”

  I leaned on the counter and narrowed my eyes cunningly.

  “And if we water the whole field at once—how much?”

  The tavernkeeper broke into a rasping laugh, drawing the attention of the few patrons.

  “If you little runts water the whole thing in one go, I’ll give you three silver! Hell—if you actually do it, I’ll toss in two more on top. But listen, boy—if you’re lying, I’ll yank your ears.”

  “Deal,” I said flatly, and walked back outside.

  Riza was waiting, stroking the shaft of her spear.

  “Riza, you’ve got your first real job,” I announced.

  She lit up. “What do I have to do? Kill someone?”

  “Almost. We need to ‘kill’ the drought. See that field? It has to be watered—completely. We’ll get five silver coins for it.”

  She stared at the endless rows of dry soil and bit her lip.

  “But it’s so big, Zenhald…”

  I crossed my arms and made my voice as cold as possible.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “If you’re afraid of an ordinary field, you can sit here. But remember this: if you can’t solve simple problems like this on your own, then in a real fight you’re dead. The world won’t wait for you to gather courage. Decide. Either you do it, or you stay a useless little girl.”

  Riza snapped her back straight. Hurt flickered in her eyes—then hardened into resolve. Without a word she turned and marched toward the field. I followed, watching from the side.

  She stopped at the edge, took a deep breath, and stretched out her hands. Water mana roiled around her. Not droplets. Not thin streams.

  Riza created enormous arcs of water that fanned out from her palms, covering dozens of meters at a time. She ran along the ridges between the rows, breathing hard, but never stopping. In twenty minutes the whole field glistened with moisture, and the earth drank greedily.

  “If I could fly… I’d have done it faster,” she panted as she came back to me—tired, but proud.

  I took five silver from the stunned tavernkeeper (he kept rubbing his eyes, unable to believe the field now looked like a swamp), then walked up to Riza.

  “Here.” I held out four coins.

  She happily started counting them—then stopped and shot me a suspicious look.

  “Hey… there are only four. You said we’d get five!”

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Good. You remember the deal. Attention matters just as much as strength.”

  I gave her the fifth coin, and we moved on.

  That evening, when we made camp, I carved a basin into the ground again. Riza already knew what to do. She took her stance and focused.

  “One, two… three!” I commanded.

  Water surged in a powerful stream. She wasn’t just pouring anymore—she was controlling the pressure.

  Seven minutes. The basin was full.

  “Seven minutes,” I said. “Not bad. But you’re still nowhere near me.”

  “No!” she shouted, wiping her face. “Just a little more and I’ll beat you! You’ll see!”

  At that moment, a loud crack and a blinding flash burst from Elvindor’s side. We both jumped.

  Elvindor stood with his arm outstretched. Faint remnants of blue lightning still danced on his fingertips. His face was glowing with triumph.

  “It worked!” he yelled. “I cast the perfect lightning—just like your book said, Merlin!”

  The problem was, that “perfect lightning” had grazed straight through me. I felt the shock ripple through my body, and the hair on my head stood up.

  “Oh yeah. It worked,” I grumbled, unpleasant tingling running through my elbows. “Right into me. Thanks a lot, Elvindor.”

  “Oh—sorry…” the elf faltered, staring at my brand-new “hairstyle.” “But how did you survive? That was a lethal discharge!”

  “If you’d read to chapter ten,” I said, smoothing down hair that was giving off a faint wisp of smoke, “you’d know about redirection. I dumped the energy into the ground through my heels. But the smell of burnt hair… I’m afraid that’s going to stay with me until morning.”

  Riza started giggling at my singed collar.

  “Now you really look like that ‘dear reader’ from your etiquette book, Zenhald.”

  I sighed, feeling Mira’s seal inside me answer with a faint ache again.

  We needed to hurry.