Chapter Text
The morning of Tuuli’s baptism dawned bright and cheerful, with the scent of summer wafting in from the open windows. Myne and Effa were the first to rise, tiptoeing around the kitchen with quiet efficiency while letting Tuuli sleep in until the last possible minute.
After all, it was her big day.
The night before had been a spontaneous “girls’ night,” as declared by Myne with a gleam in her eye and a flurry of last-minute preparations. Compared to the modern comforts of Eos, it was admittedly rustic—but Myne had made it work, and honestly? It turned out lovely.
They had snacks—a huge bowl of dried fruits and roasted nuts, lightly salted—and a much-needed grooming session. Effa gave Tuuli a gentle trim, cleaning up the ends of her hair with practiced hands, while Myne whipped up a face mask using mashed Meryl fruit, ground oats, and a dab of honey. For the hair spa, Myne brought out her carefully saved concoction from last winter: a creamy mask of parue milk, meryl oil, fragrant herbs, and a pinch of salt. Tuuli had dubbed it Miracle Milk, and the name stuck.
To top it all off, Effa retold the story of the star children before bedtime, her voice soft and melodic as the three of them curled up together in the flickering light of a lantern. Myne couldn’t help but think that it had been one of the happiest nights she’d had since arriving in this new world.
Now, bathed and glowing, Tuuli would take her first steps toward adulthood.
After breakfast—some salty butter croissants, lightly sweetened porridge, and some fruit—Effa brought out the baptismal dress they had all worked on at the beginning of spring. Myne helped Tuuli into the dress, gently tying the back while humming softly. Her hands moved with ease as she styled Tuuli’s hair, her memories of Luna’s elaborate hairstyles guiding each twist and braid. The final touch was the embellished comb Myne had made last fall, carefully fastened into place with pride.
To complete the look, Myne tied a corsage around Tuuli’s wrist—a delicate arrangement of fabric fashioned into a flower and blue ribbon, crafted last spring for this very moment.
Meanwhile, in the corner of the room, Gunther was putting on an award-worthy performance.
“I don’t think I can make it to work today,” he mumbled dramatically, hand to his forehead. “My stomach hurts. Or maybe it’s my chest? No, no—wait, it’s both.”
“Gunther,” Effa said flatly.
“I just think it’s important for the whole family to be together on this sacred occasion.”
Effa gave him a look. “You’re escorting us to the temple and then heading straight to the gate. Don’t think I don’t see through you.”
Gunther sighed, defeated but not entirely disappointed. “Fine. But I’m walking her there at least.”
Before leaving, the family gathered for a small exchange of gifts. Effa handed Tuuli a wrapped bundle—her first set of sewing tools. Tuuli’s eyes lit up as she carefully opened the cloth, revealing polished needles, pins, a primitive version of a measuring tape, and a pair of scissors. She placed them proudly in the sewing basket Myne had gifted her the week before.
Then, to Myne’s surprise, Gunther turned to her with a small, leather-wrapped bundle. “This is for you.”
“For me?” Myne blinked. “But it’s Tuuli’s day.”
“Exactly,” Gunther said, placing it in her hands. “Tuuli’s moving on to her apprenticeship, which means you will be holding down the fort. Think of this as your inheritance.”
Inside was a simple but well-made utility knife—perfect for foraging, slicing ingredients, or carving wood in her workshop. Myne held it like it was something sacred.
“…Thank you.”
“Use it well,” Gunther said, ruffling her hair fondly. “And try not to lose a finger.”
Once dressed and ready, the family stepped out into the bustling streets. Tuuli looked radiant, and it didn’t take long for the neighborhood mothers to swoop in with squeals and praises.
“Oh, look at her hair!”
“That comb—where did you get that? It’s stunning!”
“Oh, Tuuli, you’re like a noble lady today!”
Tuuli flushed from head to toe, ducking shyly behind Myne, who only giggled. “You’ll have to get used to the spotlight, big sister.”
Soon, the group of baptismal children began gathering at the square, each wearing their finest. An adult volunteer took charge, gently organizing the excited cluster of boys and girls as onlookers showered them with summer blossoms from windows and balconies above. The petals floated like confetti, and laughter rang through the cobbled streets as the children followed the small parade route toward the temple.
Effa and Myne watched from the sidelines, waving and calling out encouragement. Gunther lingered beside them, clearly reluctant to leave.
“You’ll be late,” Effa reminded him, nudging him with her elbow.
“One more minute.”
“Gunther.”
“Fine, fine. I’m going!”
He jogged off down the road, but not without glancing over his shoulder a dozen times.
Effa chuckled and shook her head. “That man. You’d think Tuuli was going off to war, not to a ceremony.”
Myne laughed, looping her arm through her mother’s. “At least he cares.”
“Too much sometimes,” Effa replied, but her smile was fond.
Together, they waited at the temple steps, hearts light, proud and joyful as the morning sun glistened off the petals still fluttering in the summer air.
Following Tuuli’s baptism, the warm glow of spring gradually gave way to the preparations of early summer. With the season turning, Myne and Lutz finally found a quiet afternoon to sit down and discuss their next big step.
“In a year,” Myne murmured, fingers tracing circles in the dust atop the worktable, “we’ll be baptized too.”
Lutz nodded. “And when that happens, we’ll need to present our paper prototype to Benno as part of our apprenticeship test.”
The reminder settled between them with the weight of responsibility. The soap and hair gel venture had been a remarkable success—lucrative, even beyond their expectations. With their families taken care of and their pockets lined with savings, the two children had every right to feel proud.
But they were also realists. That had only been the beginning.
“We’re grateful for what we’ve made,” Myne said, echoing Lutz’s thoughts, “and we’ll keep selling, obviously. But we can’t let ourselves slow down. If we lose momentum now…”
“It’ll all slip away,” Lutz finished, his tone firm.
And therein lay the problem: How could they juggle both?
The last season had been a whirlwind of mixing, molding, refining, and selling. It had consumed nearly every waking moment, even with help from their families. Yes, they had earned enough to support their households in moderate comfort for a few years—but the time cost had been tremendous.
“How are we supposed to squeeze in paper making?” Lutz asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can’t just drop soap and hair gel now. But paper’s not gonna make itself.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, each trying to calculate an impossible balance. Ideas began trickling out.
“We could hire people,” Myne suggested tentatively, though her lips twisted with uncertainty. “But it’s risky. What if they forget a step in the soap-making process? The product quality might drop. Even if we teach them, it still depends on their memory and diligence.”
Lutz frowned. “Yeah. If someone forgets to stir the oil before mixing it with the lye, or lets the fire burn too hot and ruins the batch… we’d lose a lot more than money. Our reputation could take a hit.”
Myne nodded slowly. “And teaching takes time. Time we don’t have.”
More silence followed—until a flicker of realization lit in Lutz’s eyes. He snapped his fingers.
“Wait! We’re thinking about this all wrong.” His face brightened with the clarity of an epiphany. “We don’t have to teach them how to make the soap. Just... parts of it.”
“Huh?” Myne tilted her head.
“We do the mixing ourselves—that’s the most important part, right? That’s where the magic happens. But everything else?” Lutz began counting on his fingers. “We can have people extract the oil from the meryls, make sure the firewood’s stocked, tend the flame, even pour the mix into the molds and cut the bars once they’ve cured.”
Myne blinked in surprise. “That could work. It’s like breaking the job into safer pieces.”
“Exactly. No one touches the actual formula. Just the prep and cleanup. That way, we protect our recipe and our quality.”
Now energized, the two began making a mental list of people they could trust with such tasks. They would need strong hands, reliable tempers, and ideally, someone who wouldn’t go blabbing to the wrong person.
“I can probably ask Ralph,” Lutz said, tapping his chin. “He’s going to do his apprentice under Pa, so I bet he wouldn’t say no to a bit of coin. And maybe Fey too—he’s a year younger than us but pretty dependable.”
Myne smiled. “Tuuli could help, at least on her free days. New apprentices only work three days a week anyway. The rest of the time, she’ll probably help with chores. I’m sure she’d love to earn a little of her own money.”
They both paused to consider the salary.
“One medium bronze coin a day?” Lutz proposed.
Myne nodded. “Fair, and manageable. It’s enough to be meaningful without draining our profits.”
With their plan roughly sketched, the next step was clear: speak to their families. They needed permission—not just for formality’s sake, but because involving family meant building deeper trust into their budding business.
They stood, excitement bubbling just beneath the surface.
For once, it felt like the path ahead wasn’t an uphill battle.
It was a careful climb, yes—but one they could now make with support.
The very next day, Lutz and Myne made their way to speak with their chosen recruits.
They approached Ralph first, catching him as he was returning from the plaza. Lutz, with his usual straightforward tone, explained their plan and what kind of help they needed. Ralph raised a brow at first, skeptical, until he heard the pay.
“A medium bronze a day?” he repeated, clearly surprised. “For chopping firewood and pressing oil out of fruit?”
Lutz nodded. “It’s simple work, but we need people we can trust. Someone who’ll show up on time and not skip corners.”
Ralph grinned and crossed his arms. “If you’re paying that well, I’ll take it seriously.”
Next was Fey, Lutz’s cousin, whom they found foraging at the woods. At a year younger than them, Fey had a quick mind and strong arms, and after a brief moment of disbelief, his eyes lit up.
“I’ll do it! I’ve always wanted to earn my own money,” he beamed, already asking questions about the job.
Finally, they brought the offer to Tuuli over dinner that night. Effa looked a little concerned at first, but Myne assured her it wouldn’t interfere with Tuuli’s apprenticeship. Since new apprentices only worked three days a week, Tuuli would still have time to help during her free days.
“And the pay is the same?” Tuuli asked, wide-eyed.
Myne smiled. “Of course. Fair work, fair pay.”
Tuuli turned to her parents. “Please, Mama? Papa? I want to help too.”
Gunther chuckled, ruffling her hair. “If it’s Myne’s business, I trust you both. Just don’t overwork yourself.”
With everyone’s enthusiastic agreement, the plan was set in motion.
The first week was spent under close supervision. Myne and Lutz carefully explained each task—how to sort the meryl fruit, the proper way to press the oil, how to manage the fire’s heat, and when the soap had to be molded or cut. There were a few mistakes, but none too serious, and both Ralph and Fey picked up the rhythm quickly. Tuuli, ever careful, followed instructions to the letter.
By the second week, Myne and Lutz were confident enough to let them handle the tasks on their own. They still checked in throughout the day and did the actual soap mixing themselves, but everything else was handled smoothly by their tiny workforce. They
It wasn’t perfect yet, but It was working—and for now, that was enough. With their time freed up just a little more, they could finally shift focus toward the heart of their dream: the paper.
Finally, after weeks of preparation and delegation, Myne and Lutz had enough time to turn their attention back to their original goal: making paper from scratch.
Recounting a conversation they had at the start of spring, Lutz made a trip to the carpenter’s guild to seek advice. He was looking for a type of wood suitable for paper—something soft, fibrous, and easy to break down. A grizzled veteran had pointed him toward pine, fir or birch, all of which were relatively common in Ehrenfest. In exchange for a few copper coins, the man had even provided Lutz with several small samples to work with and where he could find more.
Their custom-made equipment—wooden tubs, a simple wooden press, mesh screens fitted into frames—had already been delivered back in the third month of spring. With everything ready, the two made their way to the riverbank near the south gate, where they could experiment away from the bustle of town.
The first task was to steam and soak the wood to soften the bark. They filled a barrel with river water and placed it over a fire, letting the logs steam in batches before leaving them to soak in cold water for several more days. Once the bark was pliable, they peeled it away by hand or sliced it off with knives.
The stripped wood was then chopped into small pieces and brought back to their workshop. There, the real labor began: pounding the wood into pulp using large mallets. It was slow, exhausting work, but the sight of fibrous slurry beginning to form made it all worthwhile.
Next came boiling the pulp with a lye-like solution made from wood ash, which helped dissolve the remaining lignin. After rinsing the mushy fibers clean, they mixed in a bit of rice starch to act as sizing—helping the final product hold ink without smudging.
Then came the most delicate part: molding the paper. They dipped their mesh frames into the pulp mixture and gently shook them to spread the fibers evenly. Once the water drained, the wet sheets were laid between cloth layers and pressed to squeeze out any remaining moisture.
The final step was to air-dry the sheets, a process that took another two days depending on the weather.
It was far from perfect—some sheets came out too thick, others too flimsy—but they were learning.
It was a step towards the right direction.
The following weeks passed in a steady rhythm of bubbling pots and soaked bark. Between long hours of stirring oils and perfumes for their soap business, Myne and Lutz carved out every spare moment to refine their papermaking method. What had once taken them days now only took half, and with each batch, they drew closer to consistency.
It was on one cloudy afternoon, deep into the second month of summer, that they were at the riverside again. Myne and Lutz knelt in the grass, processing a new batch of bark. The fibers were steeped just long enough to soften and separate, and they had altered the boiling time to give the pulp a smoother consistency. With a bit of luck, this batch might even look like paper and not a soggy mess.
The process was still repetitive, yet that didn’t dim their enthusiasm. Lutz hummed while stirring the pot. Myne, feeling the strain in her back, stood and stretched before announcing she’d take a short walk to gather her thoughts.
“Don’t wander too far,” Lutz called without looking up. “We still need to mash those fibers.”
“Five minutes,” she replied, waving as she walked into the woods.
She didn’t intend to go far—just enough to clear her head. But as she wandered beneath the canopy, her eyes caught sight of something strange. Half-buried in the ground, nestled beneath a patch of weeds, was a bright red fruit. Its shape was uncannily familiar—oval with thick, spiny skin like a dragon fruit from Eos. But something was off.
It was hollow.
Frowning, Myne grabbed a fallen branch and gently prodded it. Nothing happened. Cautiously, she dug it out and held it in her hands.
The reaction was instant.
A surge of mana slipped from her fingers like water through a sieve. The fruit grew hot—painfully so—and she gasped, hurling it away. The fruit hit the ground with a heavy thud and exploded. From the cracked husk, vine-like tendrils burst out, wriggling with unnatural life.
Myne stumbled back, heart pounding.
“LUTZ!” she screamed.
The vines twisted in the air, groping blindly for something—anything—to latch onto. They slithered across the forest floor like snakes, splitting and multiplying.
Lutz came crashing through the brush, knife drawn, eyes wide. “What the hell—?!”
He didn’t waste time asking questions. He lunged forward, slashing at the vines. The blade bit through the growth, but more sprang up in their place. He gave a sharp whistle—loud, piercing—hoping the foraging kids would come running.
None came.
“Ralph and the others are at the workshop!” he realized aloud, panic starting to creep into his voice. “We’re on our own!”
“Go get the soldiers!” he shouted. “Now!”
But Myne didn’t move.
“No,” she said, trembling. “I won’t leave you.”
She reached for her knife—Gunther’s gift from Tuuli’s baptism ceremony—only to find nothing. She’d left it by the river. Her stomach sank. She clenched her fists, heart pounding, as the world slowed to a crawl.
Everything—the sound of Lutz yelling, the vines twisting, the wind in the trees—froze into an eerie silence.
Then came the voice.
“…It would seem that her Grace had found herself in a bit of a pickle, no?”
It was older now—wiser—but unmistakable. A teasing lilt that used to frustrate her to no end, and now hit like a blow to the chest.
Her breath caught. “Noctis…?”
The forest around her dissolved. The light dimmed and reformed, reshaping the world around her until she stood not on moss and soil, but smooth white marble. Above her rose the vaulted halls of the Citadel of Insomnia, shining with the otherworldly glow of the Astral Realm. Stained glass cast shards of gold and sapphire across the floor. Time felt both infinite and weightless.
And at the far end of the hall, upon a throne of light and crystal, sat Noctis Lucis Caelum.
Older. Serene. Wearing his crown, yet at peace. His eyes, once so heavy with fate, now burned clear and unwavering.
Behind him stood three familiar figures, each bathed in the same quiet light. Gladiolus Amicitia—arms crossed, unyielding. Ignis Scientia—composed, his hands clasped behind his back. And Prompto Argentum—smiling softly, indigo eyes shining with warmth.
“My King…” Luna—no, Myne—whispered, overwhelmed. She took a step forward, a thousand memories surging all at once. “You’re…”
“I’m here,” he answered gently, standing from his throne. “Just for this moment.”
Tears stung her eyes. “Noctis, I—”
“There’s no time for apologies,” he said, closing the distance between them with slow, steady steps. “And no need. You did more than enough. You gave everything… Luna.”
She flinched at the name. “It’s Myne now.”
He smiled. “I know. You chose life. And I’m glad you did.”
“But I left you—” she choked, her hands trembling. “I should’ve stayed, should’ve found a way to help you finish it. I—”
“You helped more than anyone ever could,” Noctis interrupted, his voice firm. “You paved the road that let me walk to the end. Without you, none of it would’ve been possible. Eos is healed. The Starscourge is gone. And Ardyn… is at rest.”
She gasped, and he nodded.
“It’s done, Luna. It’s really done. You can let go of that weight.”
Her eyes burned. “But why now? Why are you here?”
Noctis gave a wistful glance to his friends behind him before turning back. “Because I wanted to see you one last time. To give you something. The gods may not speak to this world the same way, but their light still lingers. And you—” he reached out and placed his hand over her heart “—you still carry their blessing.”
She lowered her gaze. “I’m not her anymore. I’m not the Oracle. I’m just… a girl trying to live her life.”
“And yet,” he said softly, “you still run toward danger. Still refuse to leave someone behind. Still give even when you have nothing left.”
He stepped back, raising a hand, and the hall around them began to shimmer.
“Then let me give something to you, Myne. Not for duty. Not for fate. But for the life you chose.”
From above, a shaft of golden light broke through the ceiling. Within it, the familiar shape of a trident—her trident—descended slowly, encased in glimmering crystal and light.
“For your service to the Astrals,” Noctis intoned, his voice echoing with royal authority, “to me, and to the Lady of Dawn—”
The Trident spun, fragmenting into a halo of ethereal blades.
“—I bequeath to you thine sacred armament. Let it be your sword in the world. A beacon not of sacrifice, but of hope.”
Her lips parted, stunned, the radiance washing over her like a tidal wave.
Noctis smiled one last time.
“You’ve walked tall, Luna. Now go. Live freely, as you were never allowed to before.”
The image of the throne room began to dissolve, golden shards drifting into the void.
“And, Luna,” he said, softer now. “Thank you. For everything.”
And then he was gone.
The world snapped back.
Time rushed forward.
Lutz cried out as a vine wrapped around his arm and yanked him to the ground. His knife clattered to the dirt, and he struggled to keep the tendrils from wrapping around his throat.
But Myne was no longer afraid.
Her breath steadied. Light flared around her, not blinding but warm. She raised her hand, and the sound of shattering crystal echoed like thunder.
From her being erupted the Armiger: luminous tridents of pure light, spinning in orbit like a divine halo.
Lutz turned, eyes wide, breathless. “Myne…?”
Without hesitation, she pointed forward.
The tridents shot out like comets—slicing through the vines, cutting them into ribbons of ash and smoke. The forest was filled with motion, the golden blades dancing like ribbons in a gale.
The trombe shrieked—a soundless, alien scream—before collapsing into writhing tendrils that quickly stilled.
And then silence.
Lutz lay panting, staring at her, his shirt torn and arm scraped—but alive. The last of the tridents faded, their light retreating back into the quiet.
Myne lowered her hand, chest heaving.
He pushed himself to sit up, still watching her with awe. “So… that’s what it looks like when an Oracle fights.”
She laughed breathlessly, on the verge of tears. “That one’s new, actually.”
He reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. “Thanks, Myne! I thought was a goner back there.”
She smiled at him, then swayed slightly.
“Cool,” she muttered, dizzy. “Because I think I need to sit down now.”
And then she did—softly, as if gravity had finally remembered her.
…
Myne stirred to the sound of quiet voices and the gentle clatter of bowls being placed on a tray. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting slowly to the golden morning light filtering through the window.
She was in her bed.
Home.
Tuuli was seated beside her, gripping her hand tightly, while Effa hovered nearby with a cool cloth. Gunther was pacing at the foot of the bed like a restless bear, arms crossed, but his stern expression melted the moment he saw her eyes open.
“She’s awake!” Tuuli cried, eyes brimming with tears.
“Thank the gods,” Effa whispered, placing a gentle hand on her forehead.
Gunther, uncharacteristically emotional, huffed and knelt by her side. “You gave us a scare, little one. Lutz said you collapsed near the river. What were you thinking, working yourself to the bone like that?”
Myne blinked, processing the scene, and only then did she realize how many pillows were propped behind her. The warmth of a hot towel had been placed over her neck, and a bowl of steaming soup sat on a tray, flanked by sliced fruit and a delicate herb tea.
Ah, she thought, inwardly smiling. So that’s what Lutz told them.
She gave them a sheepish grin, playing into the role. “I guess I got a little carried away… Sorry for worrying you.”
Effa tutted, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. “Carried away? You fainted! That’s not something to take lightly, Myne.”
“She’s not going back to that river anytime soon,” Gunther declared with finality. “Whatever you two were working on, it can wait.”
“But Papa,” Tuuli protested, “she looked so happy doing it…”
“That doesn’t matter. Nothing is worth her health.” He looked at Myne again and sighed. “If you really want to help, rest. Just rest for now.”
Tuuli nodded in agreement. “We’ll do all the chores. Mama made soup with those dried herbs you like. And I made sure to fluff your favorite pillow.”
“And you’re not lifting a finger!” Effa said firmly.
Myne reclined into the covers, completely cocooned in comfort, her heart warm with the attention. In all honesty, she felt more alive than she had in months. She had used up all her unspent mana, her trident was back, and well, what else could she ask for?
But she wouldn’t dare ruin the moment.
“Alright,” she murmured, eyes twinkling. “If you insist.”
Tuuli giggled and spooned some soup for her, like an attentive nurse. “You’re going to be spoiled rotten.”
“I think I already am.”
And for once, she let herself bask in it.
It had been a week of pampering, coddling, and warm soup every day.
At first, Myne had relished the affection. Every little groan summoned Tuuli with a cup of tea. Every sigh brought Effa bustling in with another cushion or blanket. Gunther had even taken to carrying her from her bed to the dining table as if she were made of glass.
But by day seven, Myne had had enough.
She sat by the window, drumming her fingers on the sill, watching the clouds drift by with all the languid indifference of a cat on a rooftop. Her legs bounced with pent-up energy, and the craving to do something—anything—had reached a boiling point.
When the door opened, she perked up immediately.
“Lutz!” she practically shouted, scurrying over before remembering she was supposed to be fragile. She settled for walking like a dainty maiden, but the grin on her face ruined the act.
“Looks like someone’s back from the dead,” Lutz teased, setting down a small bundle.
“Oh please. I’ve never felt better.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “But if I said that out loud, Mama would tie me to the bed.”
Lutz chuckled and handed her the bundle. “Well, I’ve got good news. Everything’s still on schedule. Our soap quota for the month? Finished. I kept the mixing simple while you were out, stuck to our usual blends for Ehrenfest Spring.”
Myne nodded, impressed. “Smart. No need to gamble with new scents without supervision.”
“And the bark we soaked last week? It’s drying now,” he added. “I built some additional drying racks behind the workshop since we’re running out of space. We’ll be able to test the fibers in a few more days.”
Myne clutched the bundle to her chest, elated. “You’re amazing, Lutz. Really. I thought everything would fall apart without me.”
“Nah,” he said, scratching his cheek and looking a little bashful. “We’ve got a good rhythm now. Still… it’s not the same without you yelling about starches and pH levels every ten minutes.”
She laughed.
Then he reached into his satchel and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped pouch. “Also—while I was out checking the bark near the riverbank… I gathered these.”
Myne’s breath caught as he gently unwrapped the pouch, revealing a bundle of knotted, blackish-green vines.
“The trombe,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Lutz confirmed. “It’s the one you hacked and slashed with your awesome divine queen magic. I figured you’d want to experiment when you’re back on your feet.”
Excitement surged through her. Trombe vines for paper making! Now that was something novel. She had heard of its existence from the boys a month ago. She just hadn’t seen one in person yet, or that it grows from the red fruit she saw. And boy, wasn’t that a nasty surprise.
Still…
“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” Myne said, eyes gleaming.
Lutz smirked. “Gee, thanks.”
“I’ll rest another day or two to keep up the act,” she whispered conspiratorially. “But then? We’re going back to full throttle.”
“Just don’t faint again,” he said. “Or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
They shared a grin, one that only co-conspirators and dreamers understood. Outside, the sky had begun to clear—sunlight breaking through, illuminating the path ahead.
Myne was ready.