The breeze was soft. Birds chirped from the roof's edge, and sunlight spilled lazily over the vineyard's outer wall, gilding the stones like gold coins. A hoe struck soil with rhythmic thumps—methodical, almost meditative.
Callan Thorne—age twelve, heir to the most useless baronial line in southern Vantress—wiped his brow with a dirt-smeared sleeve and looked down at the tomato sprout.
"Too shallow," he muttered.
He dug deeper, then patted the earth gently around the root system. The sprout sat upright, defiant against the wind. Callan nodded in approval.
Three rows down, his younger sister Lyra peeked over a broad pumpkin leaf. "Brother, why are you still doing that by hand? You can just use growth tonic. Father said it's approved for noble crops now."
Callan glanced at her. "Because magic makes the roots lazy."
Lyra blinked. "Plants don't have a work ethic."
"They do when you talk to them. Try it sometime. Tomatoes are surprisingly dramatic."
She snorted and vanished behind the vines again, muttering something about "sunstroke." Callan returned to his planting.
A decade ago, he had burned cities to the ground with a wave of his hand. Now, he debated fertilizer ratios with a twelve-year-old who thought carrots had feelings.
And he was content.
Or at least, he had been.
Until the letter arrived.
The servant approached with caution. Young Alfred, barely old enough to shave, tiptoed over like a boy delivering poison to a sleeping beast.
"My lord," Alfred murmured, "a sealed message from the capital. The wax bears the royal crest."
Callan paused.
He reached out, took the envelope, and examined it in the sun. Blue wax. Three lions. Genuine.
He didn't open it.
Instead, he said, "Alfred, did anyone see this delivered?"
"No, my lord. It came by hawk, directly to our rookery."
Callan nodded.
He walked over to the well, looked around, and dropped the letter into the bucket. He turned the crank, lowered it deep into the cool darkness, and let it soak.
Lyra popped her head up again. "What was that?"
"Spam," he replied. "Probably cursed."
"Again?" she frowned. "I thought the king liked us now."
"He likes using us as leverage. Not the same thing."
He looked at his sister, then toward the horizon, where a thin plume of smoke was rising far to the east. His senses, long dulled by peace, whispered of something familiar.
Something hungry.
Something that knew his name.
The Thorne family manor was smaller than most noble estates—a humble three-story stone structure with faded green shutters and ivy crawling up the western walls. Its library was dusty, its guards underpaid, and its wine cellar mostly vinegar.
Still, it was home.
At dinner, Baron Thorne was drunk before the soup arrived. As usual.
"Callan, m'boy," the old man slurred, waving a spoon like a scepter, "the capital remembers us! I told your mother, gods rest her soul, that one day we'd be called to serve again! Eh?"
Callan sipped his water. "They remember that you owe them taxes, Father."
The baron's smile faltered. "Well. That too."
Lyra cleared her throat delicately. "I think we should consider hiring a tutor again. For court etiquette. If we're really going to attend the summer assembly—"
"No," Callan said flatly.
Both heads turned toward him.
"No?" the baron echoed, squinting.
Callan met his gaze. "We're not going to the capital. They want something. And whatever it is, it's not good."
The old man frowned, but Lyra spoke first.
"But if we refuse, it might seem suspicious. We're already seen as provincial. Strange, even. That letter was from the king's secretary."
"It wasn't a request," Callan said. "It was bait."
There was silence. Then the baron chuckled bitterly.
"Still convinced the world's out to get you, eh? One too many old stories from your books?"
Callan didn't reply.
Because he wasn't wrong.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He stood shirtless in the garden under the moonlight, arms folded, back straight, eyes closed.
He listened.
Wind. Leaves. Insects. The heartbeat of the land.
Then—just faintly—he heard footsteps that made no sound. A weight in the grass that didn't bend the blades. A shadow that moved against the moonlight.
He opened his eyes.
"State your purpose," he said quietly.
Silence.
Then a figure shimmered into view—cloaked in black, face veiled, one hand on the hilt of a curved dagger.
Callan didn't move.
"You've been watching for two days," he said. "I thought you'd approach sooner."
The assassin tilted her head. "You sensed me."
"I smelled the poison on your blade."
She hesitated. "That's… not possible."
"I also know your left knee trembles slightly when you stand still too long. Old injury?"
She blinked. "…How?"
Callan smiled. It was a small, dangerous thing.
"Your stance is identical to the Scorpion Fang style. You're from the western marsh. Probably trained under Sifu Drezzan. You're good. But you're not the first to try."
The assassin stepped back.
Callan vanished.
One heartbeat later, her dagger flew from her hand, clattering into the garden stones. He stood behind her, holding the hilt of his hoe like a sword.
"Tell your master," he said, pressing it to her throat, "that the Demon General died with honor. But the man who replaced him has no patience for cowards in the dark."
Her breath hitched.
"You're not supposed to have power," she whispered. "You're just a noble heir."
Callan leaned closer. His voice dropped.
"I buried kings with less power than I keep in my pinky."
The assassin fled.
Callan didn't chase her. He just returned to his room, sat on the floor, and stared at the moon until dawn.
He had hoped he'd be able to stay dormant.
To let this new life wash the blood off his soul.
But power is a scent. And the world had caught it again.
The next morning, he stood at the gates as a royal carriage pulled into view. White and gold, six horses, a fluttering banner that marked high nobility. It stopped ten paces from the gate.
A woman stepped out.
Young, elegant, and dangerous.
Lady Mireille D'Avane. The Queen's niece. A diplomat with a reputation for twisting words like blades.
Callan bowed slightly. "You're early."
She smiled. "You're difficult to read, Lord Thorne. I thought it wise to come in person."
"To deliver a letter?"
"To assess the man who ignored it."
Their eyes met.
For a moment, neither blinked.
Then Callan smiled. "Tea?"
"Please."
Inside, she took in the modest house with something between amusement and approval. "No portraits. No velvet. Not even a chandelier. Refreshing."
Callan poured. "We don't need glamour to hold our heads high."
"Is that what you think you're doing? Holding your head high?"
He said nothing.
She set down her cup. "There are whispers. Of a boy who moves like a god and defeats knights with garden tools."
"Gossip spreads faster than truth."
"I've made a career from knowing the difference."
Callan leaned back.
"Say what you came to say."
Mireille's eyes sharpened.
"War is brewing. The east borders are shifting. Border lords are amassing troops. And someone tried to assassinate you two nights ago."
"I noticed."
"We believe it's a prelude. A test. Your family has land along a crucial pass. If Valtara falls, the empire burns from the inside."
Callan's gaze didn't waver. "You want me to defend it."
"I want you to survive it."
Silence.
Then Callan said, "Tell your queen I'll stand my ground. But I won't wear her leash."
Mireille rose.
"Then I hope you've kept your sword arm sharp, Lord Thorne."
"I've been farming," he said. "It's surprisingly good training."
As the carriage rolled away, Lyra came out from behind a column.
"She knows," she whispered.
"She suspects," Callan corrected. "But she won't confirm it until she sees blood."
"And if blood spills?"
He looked at his hand, the faint scars glowing like old runes.
"Then may the gods have mercy on whoever draws it first."