The Spiritfolk village was unlike anything Samwell had ever read about, even in the oldest, dustiest tomes of the Citadel. Towering trees fused with homes, spirit creatures drifted through the mist like living dreams, and laughter echoed in languages both spoken and magical.
Sam leaned against a moss-covered railing of a treehouse porch, still grappling with the strange sensation of his pointed ears and longer limbs. His newly elven body was leaner, faster… but so very foreign. His hands no longer fumbled with every tool or scroll. There was a newfound grace in his fingers.
He watched as children of different tribes—foxkin, beastkin, elf, and dwarf—played together in harmony, magic fluttering in their footsteps like the wind dancing with leaves.
Benjen, meanwhile, had adapted far more quickly. With his wolf beastkin body, he had taken to the forest as if it were his native ground. Hunting, patrolling, sparring with warriors of the foxkin tribe—Benjen was already earning the respect of the Spiritfolk. His senses were sharper than ever. His instincts, honed from years beyond the Wall, melded perfectly with his new form.
That night, as they sat around a low table with Jon, Asha, SatSuki, and the twins, Sam finally spoke up.
Sam:
"I… I don't want to be useless here. Everyone's fighting, training, helping. I want to learn how to contribute too."
Jon:
"You were never useless, Sam. But if you're ready, there's someone who can teach you."