Lydia woke with the faint sensation that she had dreamed something important—something floating and soft, like loosely gathered fog fading the moment she tried to grasp it. She blinked up at the cabin ceiling, then rolled onto her side, squinting at the sunlight slicing across the floorboards.

  Her muscles were sore again.

  However, the experience differed from her previous discomfort regarding physical strength. Through practices such as meditation, sunbathing, and walking in the woods, she gradually acclimated to the routine, and her body began to perceive it as familiar rather than adverse.

  Day four, she realized.

  It didn’t feel real.

  What felt even less real was the way Maera had acted when Lydia returned yesterday.

  Lydia had half-expected to be chewed out. She hadn’t exactly followed instructions; she’d gotten distracted, drifted off, napped on moss, nearly cried existentially into the sky… It wasn’t the ideal study session.

  But Maera hadn't said anything. In fact, the older woman had seemed… distracted. Spacey, almost. She’d wrinkled her nose when Lydia walked in—more as if she were smelling something only she could detect than as if she were annoyed.

  Then, wordlessly, Maera had rummaged through one of her chests and handed Lydia a thick, leather-bound tome.

  “Study this,” she’d said, voice oddly distant. “It will help.”

  Then she had gone straight to her workbench, sorting herbs with mechanical precision as if Lydia wasn’t even there.

  No lecture. No scolding. Just a book.

  Lydia turned her head and stared at the same book now sitting on her bedside table.

  Its brown cover was smooth with age, the corners slightly frayed, the embossed symbol on the front vaguely leaf-shaped. The spine creaked when she picked it up—as though it hadn’t been opened in years.

  Lydia frowned. There was something undeniably strange about Maera yesterday… but every time she tried to pin it down, her thoughts slipped away like water between cupped hands.

  Maybe she didn’t sleep well, Lydia rationalized, though she wasn’t convinced. Or maybe the chief upset her more than I realized.

  Either way, the book had been a clear message:

  “Study.”

  So Lydia did.

  The cabin felt different without Maera in it—too quiet, too still. Lydia padded barefoot through the main room, expecting to find her mentor at the herb table or kneeling by the fire.

  Nothing.

  Hest lounged on top of a shelf, tail flicking lazily. When Lydia lifted her brows at him questioningly, he yawned.

  “Not helpful,” she whispered.

  Maera’s boots were gone from their usual place. Her cloak was missing from its peg. The faint scent of pine clung to the doorframe.

  “Hunting at dawn, maybe,” Lydia murmured. “She did say she needed to restock a few herbs.”

  Saying it aloud made the absence a little less eerie.

  Still, something in the back of Lydia’s mind tugged at her—an unspoken question. Should she be worried? Was there a rule about telling your student where you were going? Did mentors typically vanish before sunrise?

  Hest flicked an ear in her direction.

  You’re worrying too much.

  Probably.

  Either way, she had a book to read.

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  She set herself at the table, cracked open the leather-bound volume, and—

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  She could read it.

  Not struggle. Not squint. Not decipher. Just… read.

  The script was elegant and looping, the same style she’d seen in Maera’s handwritten notes sometimes. Yet somehow, her brain parsed it effortlessly, as though she’d grown up learning the language.

  Or—as she’d begun to suspect—her isekai gift had quietly flipped the “translation DLC” on without consulting her.

  “Absolutely cheating,” she whispered, grinning. “Convenient, but cheating.”

  Hest made an unimpressed chirp from the shelf.

  “Yes, yes, I know, I should be more humble. But come on—this is cool.”

  She dove in.

  The book wasn’t just an herb guide—it was meticulous. Every plant had a detailed illustration, notes on growth conditions, magical properties (sometimes just rumors), safe doses, dangers, and even uses in cooking.

  “Wait,” Lydia muttered, tracing her finger down the page. “Why do half of these say ‘boil twice or else’? And what exactly happens if you don’t?”

  The book, unfortunately, did not elaborate.

  Still, she was absorbed.

  Every turned page pulled her deeper. She didn’t notice time passing. She didn’t notice the sun shifting across the table. She didn’t notice Hest hopping down silently and curling up at her feet.

  It wasn’t until her eyes snagged on a particular illustration that she stopped cold.

  A plant with spiraling leaves.

  Serrated edges.

  A pale, shimmering vein running down the center.

  It looked familiar.

  Too familiar.

  Lydia froze.

  She knew she had seen it before—but not in Maera’s lessons.

  Not in the forest.

  She scrambled out of her chair, nearly tripping over Hest, and darted down the short hallway to her room. Her satchel sat beside the bed. She yanked it open, pulling out her mythology book—the one she’d brought from Earth, creased and well-loved.

  She flipped frantically until she found the page she remembered.

  There.

  A stylized drawing. Almost identical to the herb in Maera’s tome.

  “Wait… no way,” she whispered.

  The Earth book identified it as Chronosleaf, which is linked to a lesser deity responsible for time cycles, fate, and the transition between worlds.

  Her eyes darted between the books.

  Maera’s:

  Chromevine — rare. Found near temporal anomalies. Avoid prolonged handling.

  Her mythology book:

  Chronosleaf — grows where time ‘breathes,’ sacred to the old keeper of hours.

  Lydia sat heavily on her bed.

  “…How Fascinating...”

  Different worlds. Different stories. Different everything.

  And yet—

  Her mythology book displayed an Earth drawing based on ancient stories.

  Maera’s book displayed a real plant in this world.

  Two worlds with the same herb?

  Or… two worlds touching in ways she hadn’t realized?

  Her hands trembled around the pages.

  Before she could chase the thought further, the cabin door creaked open.

  The sound snapped Lydia back to herself. She jumped to her feet, snapping the mythology book shut.

  Maera stepped inside, haloed in sunlight, her satchel overflowing with greenery. Bits of leaves and dirt clung to her cloak. She pushed the door closed with her heel, exhaling loudly.

  “There you are,” Lydia said, too quickly.

  Maera’s head lifted. A faint smile curved her lips—soft but lacking her usual sharpness. Her eyes looked… tired. Or distracted. Or both.

  “Good,” Maera muttered, wiping her brow. “You’re awake. And studying, I presume?”

  Lydia swallowed the questions buzzing inside her.

  Now was definitely not the moment to ask about time gods and matching herbs.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m—uh—going through the herbalogy manual. It’s… really detailed.”

  “Good,” Maera repeated, dropping her satchel onto the worktable with a heavy thump. “Perfect timing, in fact.”

  She began unpacking herbs, her movements brisk despite her earlier weariness.

  “Since you’re in a scholarly mood,” Maera continued, “let me show you how to properly preserve these.”

  She gestured for Lydia to come closer.

  Lydia hesitated only a second before slipping her mythology book under her pillow and returning to the main room.

  Maera didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

  The older woman pulled a bundle of pale leaves from her bag and laid them out. “Some herbs keep well as-is. Others lose potency unless dried immediately. Others must be pressed. Others infused in oil.”

  Lydia nodded, but her eyes drifted to Maera’s face.

  Something was still off.

  Not angry.

  Not upset.

  Not exactly sad.

  But preoccupied. Like her thoughts were somewhere else—somewhere far beyond the cabin walls.

  And Lydia, who three days ago couldn’t perceive mana at all, now felt the faint hum around Maera’s shoulders. A buzz. A fatigue? A frequency she hadn’t noticed before yesterday.

  Was it stress?

  Exhaustion?

  Or something tied to the same oddness that had led Maera to give her that book?

  “Maera?” Lydia asked softly. “Are you… alright?”

  Maera paused mid-motion.

  For a heartbeat, she didn’t answer.

  Then she said, “We have much to do today,” deftly avoiding the question. “Bring me the twine. We’ll start with the feverleaf.”

  Hest, perched on the counter, blinked slowly as if to say: You’re not getting answers today. Let it go.

  Lydia swallowed her questions.

  For now.

  But the Chronosleaf—Chromevine—lingered in her mind.

  And the quiet awareness in her chest whispered that this herb, this book, this world, and her arrival were woven together in ways she had yet to understand.

  As she moved to help Maera, she cast one last glance toward her room—toward the mythology book hidden under her pillow, waiting.

  Someday soon, she would have to ask.

  But not today.

  Today, she learned how to preserve herbs.