As a child, she was small and quiet, often found where she wasn’t strictly needed: sitting near grow beds, crouched beside irrigation channels, fingers sunk into damp soil while adults worked around her. She learned early that in Underhaven, survival came before sentiment. When harvests were rushed, she felt a tightness in her chest. When a crop failed, she mourned it like a person.
She helped because it felt natural. Carrying baskets. Sorting wheat from chaff. Cleaning tools. Over time, people stopped telling her what to do and simply assumed she would be there.
Underhaven never felt like a trap to her, but it felt small. Safe in a way that pressed in from all sides.
Ffion began to pray regularly not knowing what she was doing was prayer.
She learned them as habits: washing her hands before tending soil, pausing before cutting stems, pressing her forehead to the ground after a successful crop. When she finally learned the name of the Goddess Yoenna, it felt less like discovery and more like recognition. She didn’t ask for miracles. She asked for guidance. Balance. For things to grow without pain.
