Liam had always carried the quiet weight of two lives. Since his first moments in Mara’s arms, the memories of his past existence lingered like the aftertaste of a vivid dream—present but unspoken. He’d learned to navigate this duality carefully, letting the innocence of childhood mask the precision of an adult mind. But at five years old, the balance began to fracture.

  It started with the plow.

  He watched Elric strain against the wooden blade as it carved jagged furrows into the soil, the oxen snorting impatiently. In his past life, Liam had studied sustainable agriculture—knew the damage of overtilled earth, the benefits of crop rotation. But here, farmers followed tradition blindly, leaching nutrients from the ground season after season.

  “Papa,” he ventured, clutching a clump of soil. “What if we plant clover after the barley harvest?”

  Elric paused, wiping sweat from his brow. “Clover’s for grazing, lad. Not for Hearthspire’s fields.”

  “But it strengthens the soil,” Liam pressed, then bit his tongue. The term nitrogen fixation hovered dangerously on his lips.

  Mara, kneeling nearby to harvest comfrey, tilted her head. “Strengthens how?”

  Liam scrambled for an analogy this world would understand. “Like… like how bone broth heals a fever. The clover feeds the earth so it can feed us.”

  Elric rubbed his beard, considering. “Old Nan’s goats ravaged the south pasture last year, but the grass grew back thicker where they grazed. Maybe their droppings…”

  “Yes!” Liam seized the opening. “Clover does something similar, but without the goats!”

  Lilia, who’d been sharpening scythes nearby, snorted. “Since when does our sprout lecture farmers on soil?”

  The question hung like a blade. Liam froze, the familiar fear tightening his chest—they’ll see through me. But Mara merely smiled, her gaze knowing. “The Goddess whispers wisdom to those who listen. Perhaps She’s chosen our Liam as her mouthpiece.”

  The villagers accepted this divine explanation far easier than Liam expected. By week’s end, Old Man Gerran begrudgingly sowed clover seeds between his wheat stalks, muttering about “madness brewed from a child’s fancy.” But when autumn came, Gerran’s yield outshone his neighbors’, and Liam’s status shifted from “oddly bright” to “blessed.”

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  Yet the attention unearthed new dangers.

  At the Harvest Festival, while children his age bobbed for apples, Liam found himself cornered by the traveling merchant Korvin. The man’s oiled smile glinted in the torchlight as he gestured to Liam’s latest invention—a seed drill fashioned from hollowed elderwood.

  “A clever toy,” Korvin purred, crouching to Liam’s eye level. “Where’d a backwoods brat learn such tricks? Sprites? A grimoire?”

  Liam’s pulse quickened. He’d heard tales of the Church’s purges—entire families burned for dabbling in “unnatural arts.” Forcing innocence into his voice, he chirped, “Papa says tools are just answers to questions the land asks!”

  Korvin’s smile hardened. “Indeed. But some questions are best left unasked.”

  That night, Liam lay awake, Korvin’s threat coiling in his gut. Moonlight streamed through the shutter slats, painting spectral bars across his quilt. He’d been reckless, letting his inventions draw attention. But how could he stand idle while preventable suffering festered? The memory of his hospice death—the helplessness of a body failing while his mind screamed I could fix this if I had time—drove him like a spur.

  The creak of floorboards interrupted his brooding. Mara slipped into the room, her nightgown glowing faintly with embedded mana threads.

  “You’re afraid,” she murmured, perching on his bedroll. It wasn’t a question.

  Liam curled into her lap, breathing in the scent of lavender and myrrh. “What if I make things worse? What if the Church—”

  “Hush.” Her fingers carded through his hair, callouses catching on curls. “Fear is the shadow of love. You care deeply—that’s why it hurts.”

  “But the merchant—”

  “—is a vulture drawn to shiny things.” Mara’s voice hardened. “We’ve weathered worse than his kind. When Lilia’s parents tried to burn her for ‘sorcery’ after she tamed the storm wolves, did we falter?”

  Liam shook his head. The story was legend in their cottage—how Elric had carried Lilia, half-dead and chained, from her village pyre; how Mara had spent three moons nursing her back to health.

  “You’re not alone, little heart.” Mara pressed a kiss to his brow. “Your secrets are ours to bear.”

  The confession spilled out then—not the frantic outburst he’d feared, but a slow unspooling of truths: the hospice, the Voice, the crumbling cities of his past. Mara listened without interruption, her mana warm against his skin.

  “You’ve walked two worlds,” she said at last. “No wonder your soul aches.”

  “Does Papa know? Lilia?”

  Mara’s laughter danced like wind chimes. “Elric’s convinced you’re the Harvest Goddess’s nephew. Lilia thinks you’re a dragon hatchling disguised as a boy.”

  The image startled a giggle from Liam. “And you?”

  Her smile softened. “I think you’re our son—blood or not, memory or not. The rest is embroidery.”