Honestly…

  I temporarily stopped writing books.

  Not because I ran out of ideas.

  Not because I didn’t know what to write next.

  Just because… I was lazy.

  After all the fights, golems, lessons, conversations, lies, and stress, my brain said:

  “Write tomorrow.”

  And I listened.

  But you know who didn’t?

  Elinia.

  That evening, I opened the door to my room—

  and found a familiar scene:

  Elinia.

  At my desk.

  With my quill.

  Over my paper.

  Writing with such focus that it felt like if someone distracted her, she’d instinctively strike with wind.

  I blinked.

  “…What are you doing?”

  Without lifting her eyes from the page, she answered:

  “Writing a textbook.”

  “Which one?”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Mathematics.”

  I stepped closer and saw that she really was writing:

  1 + 1 = 2

  2 + 2 = 4

  3 ? 1 = 2

  Addition. Subtraction. Elementary basics.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, completely confused.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “And why is it in my room?..”

  Elinia finally looked up.

  For a second, I thought she’d answer arrogantly.

  But no.

  She simply said:

  “You have… a good atmosphere here.”

  I almost choked on air.

  “Atmosphere?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes. It’s quiet. Warm.

  And…” she hesitated slightly, “…you work here.”

  “So it’s easier to focus.”

  I looked around:

  My bed.

  My clothes on the chair.

  Sketches on the floor.

  A mug where a tea spirit had apparently been living for two weeks.

  And a desk covered in runes and ink.

  “You’re… sure the atmosphere here is good?..”

  She frowned.

  “Don’t start. I said it is—so it is.”

  I raised my hands.

  “Alright, alright. Write.”

  I watched as she carefully formed the numbers.

  Her handwriting was neat—even noble.

  Every digit looked like it was born to exist in a textbook.

  I remarked quietly:

  “I never thought I’d see the Princess of Laureley writing ‘2 + 3 = 5.’”

  Elinia snorted.

  “The textbook has to be understandable for the Forest’s children.

  And you didn’t write that part.

  So someone has to.”

  I lowered my head.

  “I’m just… tired.”

  She didn’t look up from the page.

  “I know.”

  Her tone was calm.

  No reproach.

  Even a little warm.

  After a while, I heard:

  “Zen?”

  “Yes?”

  “I decided…”

  “I’ll write one chapter every evening.”

  I blinked.

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course.

  If you can help an entire forest—

  then I can do something too.”

  She set the quill aside, looked up, and said quietly:

  “And… I like doing it here.”

  I scratched the back of my head, unsure what to say.

  At first, I’d thought she came to my room just to—

  make noise,

  argue,

  steal my things,

  annoy me,

  and put me in awkward situations.

  But instead…

  she was sitting in my room, writing a textbook, and creating an “atmosphere,” as she put it.

  I sighed and said:

  “Alright. Then while you write mathematics…

  I’ll start physics.”

  Elinia nodded.

  “Good.

  But, Zen… if you try to run away from work again—

  I’ll notice.”

  “And then?”

  She looked serious.

  “I’ll triple your homework.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a promise.”

  I chuckled quietly and sat down beside her, pulling out paper.

  And for the first time in a long while, the room felt:

  not noisy,

  not tense,

  not strange…

  Just… calm.