March 28, 2026 — 1:37 am

They had three undone dungeons in a row.

Verity was feeling awful about it, and there was no other way to feel.

“It seems you shouldn’t feel awful about it,” said Hannah. “Because that makes the next dungeon all the harder, doesn’t it, if they are affected by all the stress you’re feelin’.”

“I can’t just change how I feel,” said Verity. “That’s not a thing that people can do.”

They were sitting in Hannah’s bedroom, with Verity laying on the bed and Hannah sitting in a chair by her desk. Verity felt mildly uncomfortable laying down there, but Hannah had said that it might help to talk to the ceiling instead of having to track another person’s face and mood, and Verity did seem to find it helpful.

“It’s somethin’ done with difficulty,” said Hannah. “But I can tell you with certainty that changin’ how we feel about things absolutely can be accomplished.”

“How?” asked Verity. It came out slightly angry and a bit indignant. She held up a hand, took a breath, and tried again. “How?” This time it came out better, as a serious question.

“Exactly like that,” said Hannah. “We feel somethin’, we pause, we reorient, we cool, and then we plow on ahead.”

“That sounds far easier said than done,” said Verity. “Am I to feel this tension in my chest over the dungeon deaths, guilt over the fact that I caused it, hopelessness because I can’t control it, and to then say ‘oh, well, time to be happy instead’?”

“Yes,” said Hannah. The answer came readily.

“And you think that this can be taught?” asked Verity. “Because I do want the dungeons to go well, and I do want to be … happy.”

“I think it’s a hard skill to master, happiness,” said Hannah. “And I don’t like to say it, but it’s a skill you’ll likely have to put to use through the whole rest of your life. You’ve got that disposition, I think, toward rumination, toward anxiety, and I put some of that down on your mother’s shoulders.”

“Okay,” said Verity. “So … you know all the things that I’ve been thinking about, that have been weighing on me. I’ve tried my best to be clear, so that clerical consultation can actually work.” That’s what this was, though from a friend, in her bedroom, and quite different from what Verity normally thought of. “How do I actually do it?”

Hannah straightened her back. “It’s the rumination first of all, for you, I think,” said Hannah. “You spend time thinkin’ about your mother, which makes the problem seem bigger, which makes the blows land harder. Sometimes, seems to me, you think yourself into a rut like that. You think of the worst thing your mother could say to you, and it’s as though she said it. You think about the things she’s said to you, and that lets them grow outsized in your mind. Imagine your mind is a garden, and you’re plantin’ seeds in it. What thoughts are you watering? What are you lettin’ grow?”

“So,” said Verity after giving this a moment’s thought. “You’re saying it’s just a matter of stopping myself? Trying to divert the thoughts, when they come?”

“Ay,” said Hannah. “That’s the startin’ point, anyhow.”

“You keep talking about my mother,” said Verity. “She’s … not really someone I’m concerned with anymore. She got told off, ties have been severed, and it’s a done deal.”

Hannah rolled her eyes, which was a very unclerical thing to do. “That sort of thing sticks,” said Hannah. “You don’t just tell someone off and then have that not impact you. Come now, you worry about it, I know you well enough to know that, even if you’re not talkin’ about it.”

“I — only a bit,” said Verity.

“There’s other stuff goin’ on, I know,” said Hannah. “I just don’t want you sayin’ that somethin’ is fine just because you feel like it should be fine, not here.” She probably wasn’t talking about her bedroom. “What you’re presentin’ to the outside world, that’s somethin’, but what’s goin’ on inside, that’s what we want to get at, where I want to help you. And the outside is a reflection of the inside, so it is said, so we help both halves that way.”

“You think I should just not think about my mother,” said Verity. “Or about the dungeons, or about Isra, or about the screaming machine, or anything else. You think that will help me be less … me?”

“Ay, well,” said Hannah. “To tell someone not to think of somethin’ is a lost cause. I just don’t want you to imagine the worst all the time. Recognize when that’s what you’re doin’, recognize when you’re makin’ up a conversation in your head, and when you have that recognition, take some time to be deliberate in your thinkin’ and either move on to some other thoughts, or make an effort to break down all the built up stuff. We can do an example, if you’d like, if that would make it easier to understand.”

“Alright,” said Verity.

“Would you like to pick?” asked Hannah. “I wouldn’t want to presume, and if you’d not like to talk about your mother anymore, I can respect that.”

“The dungeons,” said Verity. “The fear that there’s something in me causing these problems.”

“Well, let’s start with you talkin’ about the fear then,” said Hannah. “What runs through your head at night, keepin’ you up? Death?”

“No,” said Verity. “Not death, just …” She trailed off.

“I’d prefer you be honest,” said Hannah. “I’m actin’ as a cleric here, there’s no need to hold back. There’s nothin’ — nothin’ — you could say that would make me love you less.”

Verity felt a burning sense of self-worth from the word ‘love’. It was insane how good it felt to be told that she was loved. The feeling flowed through her like honey, treacle-thick and warm. What was the point in all this talking if being assured she was loved felt so good? Why not just have Hannah creep into her cabin every morning and murmur in her ear, ‘you are loved’? It felt embarrassing to have such a reaction to the words, but the reaction was there. Verity had momentarily forgotten the question.

“I worry that we won’t be able to do dungeons,” said Verity. “And if we can’t do dungeons, then we’re not a dungeoneering party, and if we’re not that, then I’m just a bard without a steady gig, without a house, without friends. When I was at the Fig and Gristle, I felt like I belonged, like I could have sat and done that for years, and then I started to feel that way about this house, and this team, and now …” She trailed off again. Hannah waited. “It’s not about Isra.”

“Do you think it might be more correct to say it’s not only about Isra?” asked Hannah.

“That’s fair,” said Verity. “It’s a bit about her. Knowing that she would slip away, that we wouldn’t even be friends anymore, that we might meet by chance a decade later and wonder at what might have been. For her to feel a vague sense of disappointment about the dungeon party that fell apart, or for her to think, when she uses the bow, of how she got it with bitterness or —”

“Just a moment,” said Hannah. “Do you think you’re being realistic?”

“I — I don’t know,” said Verity. “I don’t think it’s unrealistic. It’s the sort of thing that I’ve heard about. My mother — I don’t want to talk about my mother — but my mother would talk about minor slights from five years ago. If someone had actually wronged her, she’d carry it to the grave.”

“And you think that Isra is like that?” asked Hannah.

“I don’t,” said Verity. “No, I don’t. I think she’ll remember me, five years from now, ten years, and I hope that it will be fondly, but I don’t know, do I?”

“We could ask her,” said Hannah. “Or you could ask her. Do you think that she would say that you’re a disappointment? Do you think that any of us would?”

“Alfric might,” said Verity.

“Did he say that he was?” asked Hannah.

She shifted on the bed. “I think you know that he didn’t. But he wouldn’t, would he? He would keep it to himself.”

“He blames himself for the dungeons,” said Hannah. “As far as you or whatever force you’re exerting on the dungeons, he feels some excitement at the prospect that it might be brought to heel. He hadn’t picked you because you were Chosen of Xuphin, but you had best believe that Alfric Overguard would love his name to be a footnote in some revolutionary new way of doin’ dungeons.”

“If you say so,” said Verity.

“I’ve talked to him about it. And as for your own satisfaction, well, you ask him, and tell him to be honest with you, which I don’t think you need to tell that boy,” said Hannah. “Let him know you’re worried, he’ll comfort you. I think mostly he hasn’t already done that because you’ve made it clear that you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I guess,” said Verity. She stared up at the ceiling. “I think I might be done here.”

“So soon?” asked Hannah. “I was hopin’ to break down the idea that we’d leave just because the goin’ is tough. I think there’s a root of somethin’ there that needs to be pulled out.”

“I’m just,” said Verity. She shook her head. “Buzzing.” She gestured at her head. “I know it’s not sensible.”

“Well, that’s fine,” said Hannah. “You want to be done, we can be done. But I do want to help to stop the buzz. There’s precious few things that can reach inside a person’s head to stop a thing like that, and talkin’ is the only one we have available.”

“Alright,” said Verity. “Just a bit more?”

Hannah nodded. “You’re not worried you’ll die in the dungeons, you’re worried that you’ll lose the party somehow. That’s a good step, to understand where the bad feelin’ is comin’ from. So we step back, and we ask questions, like whether what we’re worried about is realistic, like whether there’s somethin’ we can do to reorient, like whether there are steps we can take to assure ourselves that no, the world won’t come crumblin’ down. You can work to soften the blow for yourself. We could make a plan for what do to if the next dungeon is a failure, we could talk, in these post mortems Alfric has been givin’, about how we feel. All that stuff we can do, probably should do, if it’s trouble for you to not. But the biggest thing I want you to take away, I hope, is that maybe it’s just a thing you think on too much.”

“Alright,” said Verity. “I guess.”

“It’s a lot,” said Hannah. “Do you want to step through? I’ve the sense that you’re eager to go, and if this takes some time, that’s fine.”

“You’ve told me how to do what I want to do,” said Verity. “No rumination. Now I need to practice for eight hours a day. That’s how you get good at something.”

Hannah laughed. “You let me know how it goes, what was easy, what was hard. We’ve a dungeon scheduled for tomorrow, which is soon, but I want you to talk about what you feel, whatever the outcome.”

“I’ll try,” said Verity.

“Good, now get up, you’re on my bed,” said Hannah.

Verity got up, and got an unexpected hug from Hannah. Hannah hugged like a bear, wrapping muscular arms around Verity. It was comfortable and snug, like being rolled up in a blanket, and when it was over, Verity felt suddenly cold.

“Thank you for doin’ this,” said Hannah. “And I hope it’ll help. You just keep in mind what I’ve said about where your focus is, where you’re seein’ the worst possible doom.”

“I will,” said Verity.

She made her way from Hannah’s room and down into the living room. She really didn’t have anything lined up for the rest of the day, and knew that she would feel restless. Restlessness would lead to sitting in her room, thinking too many thoughts, and if Hannah was right, that was at the core of her problems. Verity wasn’t sure what she was supposed to divert her thoughts to, when they turned sour, and almost went back up to ask Hannah. She had limits though, and one of those limits was being told what to think. She would simply think happy things. With enough determination and practice, it was bound to come easily, and with time, Verity would be an expert.

Isra was working in the garden, and for a moment, Verity just watched her. The work was druid’s work, done with eyes closed and senses outstretched, compelling the plants to grow firm and tall, to put down deep roots, to spread out wide flowers, commanding bees to come in and pollinate, pests to stay away, diverting resources.

The time when Isra would speak directly to the plants and animals had passed. It made Verity sad, in a way. She had liked the way that Isra would coo to the plants or whisper to the birds, the way she gave a firm word to Tabbins to stop him from scratching at the couch. Now she only did it when she wanted to be certain, and though they hadn’t discussed it, Verity had the distinct impression that Isra thought talking to the wildlife was a crutch. Isra was, after all, in a guild of other druids, and while messages within a guild were slow, they did seem to be helping her understand what it meant to be a druid.

Verity slowly rose from the couch and moved toward the back door. She opened it slowly and stepped out, then went out to stand near Isra.

“Can I help?” asked Verity. It was a stupid question. The garden didn’t really need them, and even the work that Isra was doing wasn’t going to make a huge difference. They had a ridiculous abundance of crops already.

“There are vegetables to pick,” said Isra. “We have more than we’ll know what to do with.”

So they picked vegetables together, heaping them up into a handful of baskets brought in from the house. There were cucumbers, beans, tomatoes, peppers, squash, leafy greens, and others, all in abundance, and the raspberry canes were fruiting too, though they got picked clean often enough that there was just a handful for each of them. The garden had been well and truly brought back to life, more than any gardener could have hoped for, especially given most of their work had been done later into spring.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

It was good to spend time with Isra, even if it was largely wordless, or filled only with innocuous garden chatter where they talked about the ripeness of the plants, the strength of the roots, the fertility of the soil, and how hot the summer had been.

It was hard to pretend that they hadn’t slept together. That, for Verity, was the most difficult thing. There had been, once, a comfortable familiarity between the two of them, and if they were to be friends, that familiarity would have to be relearned in a different way, like teaching yourself to hold a different instrument. When Isra was eating her handful of berries, there was juice left on her fingertips staining them red, and Verity nearly leaned over to take those fingers into her mouth before remembering that no, those times were behind them. They were friends, only friends, as much as they knew each other’s bodies, as much as the scent of Isra brought back intoxicating memories, as much as Verity felt like it would be so easy for both of them to slip back into the way things were.

It was good that they were mostly wordless, or Verity might have stumbled over her words.

When they were finished, they brought the food into the house, what felt like piles of it, and laid everything out in the kitchen. Mizuki was there, and she stared at the bounty.

“Well, I guess it’s that time of year that we start putting things up,” she said with a sigh.

Verity looked to the ceiling and frowned. “Putting things up?” she asked.

Mizuki laughed. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot, you rich people wouldn’t put food up, would you? You’d just have endless chillers and greenhouses and entads and all kinds of other things.”

Verity frowned at Mizuki. “I just don’t know the term.”

“To put things up,” said Mizuki. “To bottle them, can them, put them in crocks, all so we have something to eat in winter.”

“Ah,” said Verity. “Well, no, I’ve never done that.” She felt somewhat abashed. “We had a cook to handle most of the food. And yes, we had a greenroom, but that was — it was different.”

Mizuki shook her head. “Well I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just the sort of thing that of course you don’t know. But that’s good, it means that you’ve got something to learn, and I’ve got something to teach. Now, I’ve got a bunch of crocks down in the basement, including a crock full of vinegar, so I think we should get cracking on this. Cucumbers get made into pickles, leafy greens get made into sobyu, tomatoes get diced and heated and then submerged beneath a layer of oil, honestly there’s a ton of work that needs to be done with all of this, so it’s good that I have the day free. I will say that neither of you is going to abandon me here to do this.”