The biome shifted to a thick bramble, and a trenched woodland area exposed a singular bronze colored tree. Though one side of it was bleached completely white. It was leaning heavily to the side.

  Sliding off Rufus’s back, Little T. approached the bronze tree, the smell of maple now hitting her nose—even from that distance. This tree was old and dying of strange decay. It’s taken root here, eating the tree from within. There would only be a few spots where it would be safe for her to pull the maple from. Little T. moved around the tree, wary of which side to approach it from. She felt around in herself for an answer.

  “Move around,” Little T. said in a half-mutter.

  Approaching the old bronze tree, Little T. ducked underneath the roots and began to burrow toward the tree. Rufus curled up in a sleeping position and flexed an ear toward Little T. as she began to dig in the roots. She noticed a hollow spot and the smell of something acrid and sweet. Little T. found purchase on the tree, laying two fingers on its bark, feeling for the space between herself and it. She heard her father’s lesson now: If you know the name of something, you will know how long it will have left as one of the intimate details shared. But in return, it will also know how long you have left.

  Her father rattled around in her mind as she found the name and reached for it. The taste of sweet, sticky, hot maple danced in her mouth, the hum of petrichor after a cold rain filled her nose. She closed her eyes and spoke.

  When she opened them, she realized the tree had shifted and turned toward her, revealing an open alcove, much larger, and without the smell of its sickness.

  With the permission she was looking for, she entered. Slowly crawling into the maple tree, Little T. was able to grab onto a following branch and pull herself to her feet inside.

  Standing at what seemed to be the heart of the tree, she realized that she brought nothing to carry the maple back to Indra with. She frowned. Little T. did not come all this way just to turn around. She decided that if she didn’t have a container, she would be the container. With her hair loose behind her, she climbed through the tree, soaking up the maple as best as she could.

  Taking her time, she climbed through the trees' hollowed insides and came out, perched atop. Black stickiness coated her whole body. Her hair filled with globes of hot sticky greatness, ooey gooey syrup splayed wildly all over her face.

  She could see the whole garden from this place; all the different areas of her biomes, the sand cresting in the east, the sound of laughing waves further on. The wind always played a different tune each day. The smell of ash and cinder filled her nose from where her brother practiced. She felt the harmony of the garden. She felt the harmony of her home. She always felt like this when her father wasn’t around. For a few seconds a day, she could forget why they were there.

  The whole forest seemed to be held in her body in a tight, deep contemplation.

  “There had to be another way,” she said in a whisper. Without delaying any further, Little T. climbed down and stroked her furry friend, who acknowledged her with a knowing glance. They headed in the direction of the family estate.

  The day was beginning to set, and Rufus took Little T. most of the way up to the edge of the woods, where she dismounted, walking the final length on foot. With the path having baked in the heat of the day, Little T.’s sticky feet left a trail of syrupy footprints.

  Little T. turned the corner into the kitchen just as Indra finished up her duties. Looking down at the little girl, a snort of suppressed laughter escaped her.

  “Well, that’s certainly one way to bring back the syrup,” she said, suppressing a laugh. “Little girls—like you—could rule a world of their own, given the chance.”

  Opening a few drawers and collecting a couple of items, Indra pointed Little T. toward the middle of the room, where there was a bucket.

  As Indra removed maple from Little T.’s hair and strained it into another clay vessel, Charles, the golden fleeced sheep, wandered in, licking up a trail of maple that led into the house.

  And that was Little T.’s life. Indra removed maple syrup from her hair. Charles, the sheep, licked her toes. It wasn’t a bad life, just strange. Miss T. remembered these memories, like a passenger strapped into a chair forced to watch.

  And she remembered what happened next.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Once the maple syrup was carefully collected, strained, and allowed to settle, Indra began the next part of the ritual—separating, distilling, and infusing the syrup with a medley of spices. Her hands moved with practiced grace as she leaned over the pot where the syrup was just beginning to bubble.

  "These spices will bring out the flavor," she said, her voice soft as she sprinkled in the warm, fragrant powders. Cinnamon, cloves, and a touch of nutmeg danced into the syrup, their rich, heady scents rising into the air.

  “And these herbs you gathered for me,” she continued, her other hand crushing the dried leaves gently, “will help sterilize.” She sprinkled the dried herbs into the pot, their green flecks dissolving into the golden syrup, melding into the mixture like an alchemist's brew.

  Little T. watched in awe, her eyes wide as Indra worked. Every movement was deliberate, every addition bringing the syrup closer to perfection. Indra moved to uncover a clay pot that hid under a warm towel, revealing a soft, pliant dough.

  "The wheat you gave me," she said with a smile, "has already been turned into a fine dough this morning."

  With strong, sure hands, she began kneading the dough again, folding it over and pressing it down, each motion filled with rhythm and care. The room filled with the comforting sounds of dough being worked, the quiet slap of dough against the wooden counter, a soothing backdrop to the bubbling syrup.

  Little T. waited, her tiny frame perched on a stool, eyes flickering between the dough, the pot, the dough, the pot, the dough—waiting for the magic to unfold. Once the syrup was ready, Indra gently folded it into the dough, her hands coaxing the golden swirls into the mixture until it looked like a canvas painted with rich browns and amber streaks.

  “The oven’s ready,” Indra said, her voice warm with anticipation. She slid the dough into the stone oven, the door creaking shut with a satisfying thud.

  Minutes passed—each one an eternity for Little T. She fidgeted in her seat, the sweet smell of baking bread filling the kitchen and drifting into every corner of the room. The aroma of maple and butter mixed with the heat from the oven wrapped itself around her like a comforting embrace. Her mouth watered at the thought of that first bite.

  Finally, after what felt like an age, the bread was done. Indra pulled it from the oven, the crust golden brown, its surface marbled with swirling ribbons of maple. The sight of it alone was enough to make Little T.’s heart race.

  Indra sliced a piece while it was still steaming, the knife cracking through the crust to reveal the soft, warm center. She slathered it generously with salted butter, the golden liquid melting into the bread’s surface, filling every groove with richness.

  She placed the slice into Little T.’s eager hands, and the girl could hardly wait to take a bite. The moment the bread touched her lips, tears welled in her eyes. The taste was like a memory of comfort and warmth, sweet and salty and perfect. Every bite filled her with a sense of peace, her small body easing into the moment as if the world had become softer, kinder.

  For Little T., that maple bread was more than food—it was magic, the kind that left a mark on the soul.

  Little T. was sent on her way with a mostly clean head of hair and a bright disposition. Walking Charles back to the pen, she filled her lungs with clean air and yelled with the full determination that only little girls have.

  “Charles, may she reign forever!”

  Outside in the back, right after the latch of Charles’s pen was put in place, the space between the world was filled with wild screaming.

  It had come from her sister, Petra. She knew she would be mad, but this wasn’t what she expected. It was anguish and rage. Before she knew it, she was running. Once she had crossed the forest line, she crouched down and waited.

  Each breath she took was labored, wrapped in anxiety. Little T. knew her sister, knew her in all different shapes, sizes, and emotions. Never had she heard her sister scream like that. The forest changed once more, growing darker and thicker, concealing Little T. more and more as she slowly backed into it.

  There was a flash of yellow and orange in the sky, the heat waves radiating toward her. Pyra was coming for her. He only came for the most severe punishments. The fear gripped Little T.’s heart. The hunt for her had begun.

  Her feet alight, the wind snapped against her clothes. Her breath was hot in her chest. She didn’t understand, but her primal instincts told her to run. Run before “it” was said. Run before her world could change forever. She heard him now. The flames of the forest burned behind her.

  “TERRA, HALT!” the booming voice of her brother, Pyra, called after her, but she couldn’t stop.

  Keeping to her path, she dove beneath brush, leaped over fallen logs, dashed up rolling hills. But she knew. She felt the heat always two steps behind her. The final notes of this broken memory played out. She ran toward the sunset, the light blinding her eyes. Her heart caught in her chest, and the tears rushed down her face. She knew; oh, gods, she knew.

  The biome opened to a cliffside that dropped off to the water. She didn’t care; she would dive or she would die. She continued, but her tread was interrupted—she felt a hand grasp her arm, spinning her around. Her brother’s hair flashed red hot, but not as bright as his eyes—his eyes burned bright like two suns glowering at her.

  He shook her violently over and over. He was saying something, but all she could make out were the words “FATHER IS DEAD.”

  He yelled those words. She thought it was why she was in so much shock. And why the world felt so cold. The day their father died.

  “It’s time we end this; end them! It’s time for revenge! No more games, Terra. The world of gods won’t last.”

  As the words of venomous hate dripped from his mouth, the last wink of light cascaded over the water, turning the world into a black night. A cold night. A hollow night. He dragged her back through the now cooling molten woods, her mind drifting back into dark things.