Chapter 119
Long before the sun touched the horizon, Elandor and Lora's older brother stirred from their beds, their breath misting in the chill of the predawn air. The Sithe farmhouse stood alone at the far edge of their two-acre plot, its timber walls weathered yet strong, the faint golden light of an oil lamp spilling from the kitchen window. Beyond the house, three great barnhouses loomed in the half-light, their shapes softened by the curling fog that rose from the damp soil.
Behind them stretched a small orchard, the branches of pear, plum, and apple trees interwoven like watchful sentinels. In summer, the air here would be heavy with the scent of ripening fruit; now, in the early season, the leaves trembled in the faintest wind. The barns, set only a few meters from the house, formed the backbone of the Sithe livelihood. The first barn connected to the main house by a narrow, covered walkway, held their tools, plows, and massive oak barrels of fermenting wine, the air within rich with a sharp, earthy sweetness.
The second barn was a granary, its lofts filled with sacks of grain and crates of stored vegetables. The third belonged to the animals: the slow, steady breath of milk cows, the stamping hooves of draft horses, and the occasional rustle of sheep shifting in their pens.
All three structures bore the faint shimmer of enchantment. Runes etched into their beams pulsed softly, unseen to most but felt by those who worked the land—a quiet hum of protective magic to keep away pests, predators, and any creature foolish enough to threaten the lifeblood of the farm.
It was almost impossible to imagine that this thriving place had once been a wasteland. Years ago, the Dreswick patriarch had stood here, ankle-deep in foul-smelling water, and declared the land worthless. The marsh stretched for miles, its stagnant pools choked with reeds and its air heavy with the drone of insects. No sane man, he thought, would attempt to farm here. He sold it for a pittance to any family desperate enough to try their luck.
Five families came. Five stubborn, desperate, and unyielding families. Among them was Ranulf Sithe, a man with calloused hands and an unshakable will, accompanied by his son, Elandor. Alongside them came the Halvers masters of ditch-cutting and water control, who set to work carving narrow channels to bleed the swamp dry. The Merrecks brought livestock tough enough to endure wet seasons and thin grazing.
The Yarrens, vintners from the south, planted vines where the soil began to firm, their roots drinking greedily from the reclaimed ground. The Branthorns carried young fruit trees from their old home, planting them on the highest ridges to keep them safe from the floods.
The work was brutal. In summer, clouds of biting midges swarmed their faces, and the mud swallowed boots whole. In winter, the marsh froze into jagged sheets, and the wind sliced through wool and leather alike. More than once, harvests failed—cabbages rotted in standing water, and grain blackened before it could ripen. They shared what they had, taking turns tending to each other's animals during storms and pooling salted meat when the crops gave nothing.
Year by year, the marsh yielded.
Ditches deepened, soil darkened, and the first stubborn shoots of wheat pushed through where stagnant water once lay. Orchards took root, and the vines began to produce grapes worth the pressing. By the time a decade had passed, the swamp had vanished, replaced by a patchwork of fertile fields.
The Sithe family, with Ranulf's steady leadership and Elandor's tireless work, became a cornerstone of the community. The marshland, once dismissed as a hopeless wasteland, now thrummed with life the laughter of children chasing chickens, the creak of wagon wheels along dry, solid roads, and the smell of fresh earth after a rain.
It was not simply farmland anymore. It was proof that grit, unity, and sheer stubborn hope could wrest something beautiful from the grip of despair.
Elandor stepped out of the main farmhouse with Victor at his side, the crisp bite of early morning air filling their lungs. Though the sun had yet to rise, the vineyard was already bathed in a steady, pale glow. Across the acre of carefully tended vines, fifteen sturdy wooden poles stood at even intervals, each crowned with an illumination crystal that hummed faintly with magical energy. Their light cast soft silver halos across the rows, driving back the shadows and ensuring that no prowling creature would dare trespass.
Such precautions were necessary here on the edge of settled land. Goblins, boggles, and even the occasional roaming satyr had been known to test the boundaries of farms in the dark hours. But under the watch of those warding lights, the vineyard stood safe and silent—save for the rhythmic thud of feet pounding the packed earth of the outer path.
Elandor's gaze shifted, catching sight of a lone figure running the perimeter trail that wound around their farmland. Even at a distance, the form was familiar—broad-shouldered, moving with controlled urgency, and burdened with heavy weights strapped to both arms and legs.
"Is that Daniel?" Victor murmured, squinting through the crystal light.
"Aye," Elandor replied, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Up before dawn, and already on his fourth lap, by the looks of it."
As if to confirm, Daniel came into view moments later, his boots kicking up little puffs of dust. His shirt clung to him with sweat, and each breath came in steady, disciplined bursts. When he spotted the two brothers, he slowed to a jog, then finally stopped a few paces away.
"Morning, Elandor. Morning, Victor," he greeted, his voice warm but edged with the rasp of exertion.
"Morning to you as well," Victor said with a raised brow. "You're out early."
"Earlier than us, even," Elandor added. "I take it the enchanted weights aren't enough of a challenge, so you're running the whole farm?"
Daniel smiled, adjusting the straps on his weighted arm bracers. "Trying to keep myself sharp. The road ahead isn't going to be kind to those who slack off. Figured I'd get in a few extra laps before the day starts."
"Four laps already?" Victor asked, half-amused. "Are you planning to run until the sun gives up and stays in bed?"
Daniel grinned faintly, shaking his head. "Not quite. But I should finish before the vineyard's awake with work. Don't want to be in the way when you two start moving crates."
"I still need to practice, master my craft to its maximum potential…"
"Well, don't let us keep you," Elandor said, giving him an approving nod. "It's good to see you pushing yourself."
" I hope Lora and the rest of your classmates are doing the same. It's important to keep improving and challenging yourself."
Daniel straightened, breathing deep before breaking into a smile. "Thanks. I'll catch up with you later."
With that, he shifted his weight forward and took off again, his steps striking the earth in an even rhythm as he vanished into the glow of the crystal-lit path. Thefather and son watched him go, the faint echo of his run s fading into the morning stillness.
By the time the sun finally rose in full, its warm light spilling across the farm, Daniel had left the vineyard path behind. His steady run carried him past the barns, where the last of the morning mist clung to their shadowed sides. Behind the third barn, the one that housed the animals—he came upon a broad, open clearing.
The ground there was firm and well-trodden, the grass worn thin in places where heavy wheels had once passed. Faint grooves, the old scars of wagon tracks, cut through the dirt in parallel lines, marking where cargo carts had been parked in years past. The space stretched wide and flat, offering enough room for more than a dozen wagons to maneuver. Daniel slowed to a walk, surveying it with a soldier's eye. It had the quiet seclusion he needed, far from the bustle of the main house and the watchful eyes of the vineyard. Yes—this would serve well as a training ground.
Daniel stepped into the clearing, drawing a deep breath as the morning sun warmed the dirt beneath his boots. The quiet hum of magic rippled faintly through the formless armor wrapped around his forearms and shins. It responded to his will, condensing and hardening until it weighed far more than before, enough that his next step struck the ground with a muted thud, the soil giving slightly beneath his heel.
He began to move. Each motion was deliberate, sharp, and disciplined, the stance of a man who had drilled these patterns countless times before. His strikes cut through the air with precision, the weighted bracers forcing his muscles to work harder, testing his endurance and control. A rising kick followed by a swift pivot sent a spray of loose dirt from his heel; the next sequence brought his fists forward in a double strike, the impact of his blows sending small tremors through the packed earth.
From the far side of the barn, two figures appeared, Thalen Merrow and Galen Althus—drawn by the sound of Daniel's training. They paused just beyond the fence line, their eyes narrowing as they watched the rhythm of his movements. It was not the chaotic energy of a reckless fighter but the measured strength of someone who understood every inch of their own body, every breath, and every shift in weight.
Galen leaned slightly toward Thalen, his voice low. "Now I understand how he did it."
Thalen's gaze didn't leave the clearing. "Velric Draan, Cassien Eladar… and that illegal summoning during the combat trial. He didn't just win; he made it look easy."
"And saved dozens of students in the process," Galen added, almost as if reminding himself.
Daniel was unaware of their presence. His focus was absolute, each movement flowing into the next like water channeled through stone. Sweat gleamed along his jawline, catching the sunlight as he pivoted, kicked, and struck again. The heavy steps and the compressed bursts of power in every strike. As both were then secretly watching, Daniel knew they were seeing the source of his strength. It wasn't just raw natural talent; it was relentless, unyielding focus and discipline to survive.
Thalen Merrow and Galen Althus had been raised in families that were neither noble nor wealthy, yet their childhoods had been safe and comfortable. They had grown up without real hardship—coming home each day to a warm bed, hot meals, and the easy security of knowing tomorrow would be much the same as today.
Training for them had always been a choice, something pursued within the bounds of comfort and familiarity. But Daniel… his story was different. They had heard the whispers: that he had survived alone in the deep forests of the Gorge for eighteen long years, living off whatever he could find, facing dangers they could hardly imagine. It was survival, not training, that had forged him.
As they watched him move with tireless focus in the clearing, the truth of that difference settled heavily in their chests. His discipline and his strength—these weren't products of luxury or leisurely practice. They had been carved into him by necessity, sharpened by a life that had never once allowed him to grow complacent.
Daniel finished his sequence, his breath steady but his body gleaming with sweat beneath the morning sun. Without a word, he reached down, tugged his shirt over his head, and cast it aside. Thalen and Galen both froze. His torso was a map of old battles, scars of every shape and depth crossing his skin like pale lightning over tanned muscle. Some were thin and clean, the marks of blades; others were jagged, the brutal signatures of claws or teeth. Each one told a story neither of them wanted to imagine.
For the first time, both men felt a quiet shame twist inside them. Not because they had been weak, but because they had never truly understood what strength cost.
Daniel turned slightly, running a hand over his face to wipe away the sweat, and that was when he noticed them. Thalen and Galen stood by the fence, silent, their expressions caught somewhere between respect and guilt.
He tilted his head. "How long have you two been standing there?"
"Long enough," Thalen admitted, his voice quieter than usual.
Daniel's gaze lingered on them for a moment, calm but unreadable.
"You see the scars," he said simply, "but you don't see the nights I went hungry… or the mornings I woke up wondering if I'd make it to the next."
His tone was neither bitter nor boastful, just matter-of-fact. "This world doesn't care how strong you are. It teaches you fast, or it kills you."
Thalen and Galen exchanged a glance, their shame deepening.
Daniel pulled his shirt back on and tightened the straps on his weighted bracers that were secretly formed by the formless armor.
"Strength isn't something you're given. It's something you have to earn… every single day."
With that, he turned back to the center of the clearing, resuming his training as if they had never interrupted. The rhythmic thud of his steps filled the air once more, each movement a living reminder of what it took to survive.
Soon the two turned around and walked back toward the main farmhouse. When they saw Melgil walk past them carrying a tray filled with food, the two smiled as Melgil simply asked them,
"Don't worry, I'll save you some back at Loras's place." The aroma of the food wafted through the air, making their stomachs growl in anticipation. They quickened their pace, eager to join Lora and Ysil Thorne back at the Sither house for a well-deserved meal. As she was passing the barnhouse toward where Daniel was located, Melgil felt somebody was watching her, so she assumed these hidden eyes were sent by Count Ailmar Dreswick to investigate them as they cleared a sanctioned quest by the royal guild. .
The request to investigate and eliminate the source of the water contamination in the Weeping Vines had come from an unknown patron, someone with enough influence to ensure the quest was issued without delay. The matter was urgent, for the poisoned waters threatened not only the forest's delicate ecosystem but also the Hallowtree treants who guarded it. These ancient beings were said to be peaceful protectors of the glade, yet reports had surfaced that one among thema massive elder treant, had turned violent and corrupted.
Seven academy students accepted the quest, traveling to the site without any formal assistance from the Riverton guild. Astonishingly, they returned in a single day claiming to have slain the corrupted treant and cleansed the source.
The speed and ease of their success were immediately suspicious; such a task should have required experienced adventurers, not untested youths. Whispers began to spread that something was amiss. Two of the students, in particular, drew more attention than the rest their manner, their skill, and the way they avoided direct questions suggested they were concealing their true identities.
For Count Dreswick, that was more than enough reason to act. Without hesitation, he dispatched his own spies to shadow the group, determined to uncover who they really were, how they had accomplished the impossible, and whether their victory in the Weeping Vines was as straightforward as they claimed.
Melgil spotted Daniel seated on a weathered tree log at the far edge of the Sithe property, where the vineyard fence met the shade of the orchard. His elbows rested on his knees, gaze fixed on the rolling fields beyond, as if he were lost in thought. With a gentle smile, she crossed the grass toward him, a wooden tray balanced carefully in her hands.
"Daniel," she called softly.
He turned, his expression easing when he saw her.
"Are you hungry?" she asked, lifting the tray to show him its contents—a simple but inviting spread of fresh bread, cured meat, and a small pot of stew still warm from the kitchen.
Daniel's lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. "I am," he admitted, accepting her offer with no hesitation. She settled beside him on the log, and together they shared the food, eating in comfortable silence broken only by the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant sounds of the farm at work.
Meanwhile, back at the Sithe farmhouse, Thessa Sithe stood at the kitchen table, her hands busy with a bowl of dough, while Lora leaned against the counter. Without looking up from her work, Thessa asked casually, "Lora… what about the other two in your class? The quiet young man and the white-haired girl. What's their story?"
Lora blinked, caught off guard. She hadn't expected her mother to press the matter—after all, she'd already told her family about Daniel and Melgil's true status. "I've… mentioned it before," she said slowly, unsure how much to repeat. But the way her mother's eyes lingered on her, curious and just a little suspicious, made it clear the question wasn't going away so easily.
Thessa Sithe and Rebeca, Victor's wife, had assumed Lora was merely teasing when she spoke of Daniel and Melgil's backgrounds. Lora often mentioned her fellow classmates who had earned places in Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester's prestigious scholarship program, and the names alone sounded like something from an embellished tavern tale.
But as Thessa recalled, Lora had once stated with complete seriousness that Daniel was not just another student; he was the long-missing son of the Duchess herself. More than rumor, his heritage had been formally recognized by the royal palace, marking him as the true heir to the Rothchester bloodline. And then there was Melgil Veara Gehinnom, striking and ethereal, with hair as white as snow under moonlight.
Lora had claimed she was the last surviving descendant of the ancient Gehinnom clan, a bloodline thought erased from history since the fall of their homeland, the forsaken land of Obrelin. To hear such things was one matter; to believe them was another. Yet the way Lora had spoken, without hesitation or jest, left both women unsettled, as if they were only beginning to glimpse the truth behind the quiet strangers in their midst.
Lora shifted uncomfortably, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Daniel… he's the missing son of Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester. The palace officially recognized him as her heir not long ago. And Melgil Melgil Veara Gehinnom is the last living descendant of the Gehinnom clan from Obrelin."
Thessa's hands stilled over the dough. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the kitchen was the faint crackle from the hearth. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to her daughter, her expression unreadable, though a flicker of something wariness, perhaps awe passed through her eyes.
"The Rothchester heir," she murmured, almost to herself, "and a Gehinnom… under my roof."
She set the dough aside, wiping her hands on her apron, as if the motion could steady her thoughts. "Do you understand, Lora? These aren't just classmates. These are people whose names carry weight across kingdoms, names that can open doors… or bring danger to anyone near them."
Lora nodded but held her mother's gaze. "I know. But they're also my classmates and kinda , somewhat friends. They've saved lives, my life. Whatever their titles mean to others, to me they're just Daniel and Melgil."
Thessa exhaled slowly, torn between pride and apprehension. She had welcomed travelers and merchants before, but this… this was different. Somewhere deep down, she knew the Sithe farm had become part of a story far larger than anything she had imagined.