Morning returned to Vanhart not as light, but as revelation.
Snow had fallen through the night, leaving the land hushed beneath a pale sheet. The sky above was a dull grey, like frost-painted iron—the kind that promised no warmth, but clarity without mercy.
Kel rose before dawn.
He washed, dressed, and tied his cloak with deliberate movements—not hurried, but calculated. Today marked the beginning of movement, not simply in travel but in the realignment of a territory long forced into dormancy.
When he stepped out of his chamber, Zephryn was already gone.
His mission had begun before the sun.
Kel did not seek further confirmation.
If permission would come, it would arrive when needed.
Day 1 – Locating Breath in Broken Earth
Kel met Count Vanhart in the council chamber rather than the hall. No guards. No witnesses.
Maps and ledgers were laid out.
Reina stood by the tall windows, silent and observant. Landon helped minor staff with physical labor, reorganizing supply crates mentally designed with strategic reinforcement. Sera met with her father privately once more—words unspoken between them finally beginning to shape themselves.
Kel pointed at the territory map.
"First," he said, "identify which villages still possess master farmers who remember Harlroot cultivation."
The Count hesitated.
"Most have fled."
"Not all," Kel countered. "Record who remained—even if they have not farmed recently."
Count Vanhart complied.
He watched the boy work. Kel's posture was composed, his eyes sharp enough to trace economic arteries across a land most believed bled dry.
His hands did not shake.
Even now, three days free from curse.
Count Vanhart had thought: He sits where advisors should, but with no crown to earn him that right.
Then correction passed through him.
Power earns its own seat.
Day 3 – The First Redistribution
Word spread through the estate.
Kel had visited the storage barns personally.
He wore no sign of noble rank—only simple traveling clothes, his hood low, his sleeves rolled. He inspected grain quality with his own hands. Half of the reserve was separated.
"For export?" asked the steward.
"No," Kel replied.
"For seed."
Gasps.
"Seed?"
"Tomorrow," Kel explained, "we ride to the highland fields. We begin test patches. If the soil still remembers resilience, Harlroot may awaken faster than expected."
"And if it fails?" the steward asked.
Kel's lips curved ever so slightly.
"Then it fails under proper guidance," he said. "Not neglect."
That night, old distrust began to soften.
A noble heir was moving earth with his hands.
Not watching from tiled balconies.
Not writing over parchment.
Working with it.
Day 4 – A Whisper Beneath the Land
Kel stood atop a rise overlooking the first test site.
Beside him, Sera watched the workers—some shaking with disbelief—lay the dark seeds across snow-covered soil.
"It is not the season," she said quietly.
"No," Kel replied. "But deep-rooted plants do not wait for permission from the weather. They negotiate with it."
Sera smiled faintly.
"You speak like someone who knows how to survive winter."
Kel stayed silent.
But Sairen's whisper curled through the cold air.
And how to reshape it.
Kel's eyes flickered.
If the lake beneath this land can be awakened…
He looked at the terrain ahead—calculating something deeper than simple agriculture.
Day 5 – Tides of Council
Rumors had reached nearby territories.
Visitors appeared. Merchants who had once cut ties now lingered at Vanhart's border towns, watching the sudden stir of activity.
Kel met none of them.
Instead, he walked through one of the villages himself.
No guards.
A cloak. A quiet gaze.
Children watched him from doorways. A girl offered him a single dried root, not recognizing him.
He accepted it without smile or refusal.
"You remind me," he said softly, "of a lake I once stood beside."
She didn't understand.
She didn't have to.
Kel handed the root back.
"Keep it," he said. "It will taste different soon."
That night, he stood in the courtyard.
Snow drifted silently.
He thought of Sairen.
Of cold water that remembers.
Of land that still might.
Day 6 – Preparing for Arrival
"The messenger returned," Count Vanhart reported as Kel reviewed irrigation structure plans.
Kel lifted his gaze.
"Malloren accepted the meeting?"
"He is… coming. With his daughter. They will arrive tomorrow by noon."
Kel's eyes lowered to the documents again.
He made no change in expression.
"He comes willingly," the Count added.
"He comes angry," Kel corrected. "There is a difference. Ensure there are no barriers at the gate. Let him enter as one who once had friendship here, not siege."
The Count studied him.
"And if he arrives seeking blood instead of talk?"
Kel finally looked at him.
His voice did not shift in volume.
"That is why I am here."
Reina, across the room, placed a spear upon her lap without a word.
Landon finished lifting a crate as though it weighed nothing, exhaled calmly, and nodded once.
Sera looked toward the window.
And whispered—
"To stand beside truth… even if it wounds."
Day 7 – When Footsteps Echo
Snow turned to light rain at dawn.
As if the sky hesitated between seasons.
Kel stood in the entry hall before the gates, posture straight, long black coat draping around him. His hair brushed quietly over his brow. His eyes held no warmth—but no hostility.
Only clarity.
Behind him, Reina stood.
Landon at his side.
Sera beside her father.
Count Vanhart's hands were tight at his sides.
From the horizon, wheels crunched over damp earth.
A carriage approached slowly—black lacquered wood, crest of Eastcrest carved in silver.
Horse steps slowed before the gates.
They opened without command.
Viscount Edrian Malloren stepped down first.
Tall.
Still bearing remnants of old strength, though his face had aged in bitterness more than time. His eyes held storm.
His daughter followed.
Lysenne Malloren.
She walked with careful steps, cane in hand. Though well-dressed, she moved not with weakness—but restraint. A child who had once run, now shaped her path with deliberation.
Her eyes lifted.
She saw Sera.
Across snow and stone.
Sera inhaled slowly.
Her father's hand clenched but did not stop her.
She stepped forward.
One pace.
Kel's voice broke through the cold air—
serene, like water smoothing stone.
"We will talk," he said, "not in anger. But in the place where truth may echo, rather than shatter."
He turned.
"Follow."
Without waiting for reply, he walked toward the main hall.
Viscount Malloren stared at the boy who spoke as if the estate already yielded to him.
"Who is that child?" he asked.
Count Vanhart exhaled, something like pride almost hidden beneath his weariness.
"That," he said quietly, "is Kel von Rosenfeld."
Malloren froze.
Lysenne's eyes widened.
Across the estate grounds, the air thickened—
with recognition.
And the faint stir of impending change.
Kel kept walking.
Already beyond the threshold.
As snow fell like whispers behind him.