Sef shrugged. He didn’t feel like a tree. He felt like a man who just wanted to finish a lindenwood bird for his niece’s birthday.
Sef climbed the hill anyway.
She found Sef at the well. “You don’t fix things,” she said, her eyes pale and clear as winter sky. “You listen to what they need to become whole again. That’s rarer than magic, Sef Sermak. That’s a story the valley will tell long after you’ve carved your last bird.” sef sermak
“This isn’t a thief,” Sef said quietly, running his thumb over the spiraled iron. “This is something else.” Sef shrugged