Arthur listened while they walked the last stretch to the house, then clapped a hand on Jacob's shoulder and steered him inside.
The warmth from the hearth hit Jacob first, then the smell of stew. May moved between the table and the stove, humming under her breath, pretending not to listen.
"Sit," Arthur said, nudging Jacob toward the bench by the fire. "You look like the wind has been chewing on you all afternoon."
Jacob sank down, holding his hands toward the flames. Arthur leaned against the table within easy reach.
"You would have a hard time finding an adventuring party willing to haul you into that gate," Arthur said. "Not because you are useless. Because they like their freedom."
Jacob frowned. "It is not against the law. During the Trial Year, I am allowed to do anything I want . . . that is what everyone keeps saying."
"That is true," Arthur said. "You can go where you please, take whatever fool risks seem clever at the time . . . you are our responsibility. That is what the Trial Year is built on. But the law still does not like people putting children into undue danger. An adult who drags you into a dungeon and gets you killed can find themselves answering questions nobody enjoys. Like fines, lost licenses, and a judge with questions about judgment."
He gave Jacob a measuring look. "I have full confidence you would walk into an F-ranked dungeon wrapped in enchantments that put most mercenaries to shame. Neither your mother nor I would forbid such a gambit. That does not change the fact that no stranger wants to be the one holding the rope when something goes wrong."
Jacob stared into the fire for a moment, then nodded once.
Arthur scratched his jaw. "Now," he said. "Tell me about this grass you are chasing. What exactly are you looking for?"
Jacob took a breath and tried to untangle the pieces in his head. "I think the field is salted," he said. "Not just tired. When I dug down and checked the soil, it smelled wrong and flat. So I tasted it, just a little, and it was salty instead of earthy."
Arthur's brows climbed. "You tasted the soil."
Jacob shrugged, cheeks heating. "Just a pinch. It was not the worst thing I have put in my mouth. The plants in that field are acting like they are drinking something that is hurting them. Shallow roots, burned tips, no real strength even when they get water."
Arthur stared into the fire, the lines around his eyes tightening. "Salts in the soil," he said slowly. "Nobody ever thought to check that. We always blamed the rain, or the seed, or the way the land lies. How would salt even get in that deep?"
Jacob could have talked about runoff, manure, and things he barely remembered from classes that did not belong in this world. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck. "A lot of years, a lot of animals, and bad water in bad seasons," he said. "It adds up. The land keeps what we pour into it."
Arthur grunted, half agreement and half unease.
"So I went to Old Thom," Jacob continued. "I asked if there was a grass or bush that could drink bad water and shed salt, and he told me it only grows in swamp-type F rank gates. Then he smiled and asked if I knew what kind of F rank gate just opened up."
Arthur went still.
The fire popped once, and May's soft clatter at the counter seemed very far away. Arthur stared into the flames, jaw set, something troubled moving behind his eyes.
Jacob watched his father's face and realized that Old Thom's hint had hit deeper than he understood. There was more to the old man than strange walls and tricks of space. If his father looked like that over a few words, then Thom was threading lines Jacob could not see yet.
Arthur stayed quiet long enough that Jacob started to shift on the bench.
"When Old Thom hints," Arthur said finally, "people should listen."
Jacob watched him carefully. "Has he done that before . . . just like this?"
Arthur exhaled through his nose, slowly. "Not in my lifetime. Not in my grandfather's either. The last time he dropped a hint like that was before my great-grandfather's time. Your great-great-grandfather wrote about it."
He glanced toward the small shelf where a few leather-bound books sat. "Before anyone in our line knew how to inscribe properly, there was just scratching and guessing. Then, one year, Old Thom pulled your great-great-grandfather aside and told him to pay attention to certain lines and shapes, to practice on scrap wood instead of tools, and to travel to a cave that has long been forgotten. A few seasons later, your great-great-grandfather was the first real inscriber in the family. The journals talk about it, but not how Thom knew any of it. And no one knows where that cave was, or where it went . . ."
"Did Thom ever explain?" Jacob asked.
Arthur shook his head. "Not once. He does not speak about it. If anyone asks, he changes the subject or makes a joke. All we have are a few careful notes in the family books and the fact that he was right."
He turned to face Jacob fully, eyes serious. "If that old man is pointing you at a dungeon, then if it is possible for you to get inside, I think you are meant to . . . and I do not say that lightly. I have never heard of a child going into a gate, and I do not know if it has ever happened. But when Old Thom points, something important usually sits at the end of that road."
They sat with that for a long moment, the firelight throwing shifting shadows across Arthur's face.
From the hearth, May's voice cut through the heaviness. "Dinner is ready, you two," she called. "If you keep brooding in there, the stew will think it did something wrong."
Arthur blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh that broke the tension. He pushed himself off the table and clapped Jacob on the back with a gentler hand this time. "You hear your mother," he said. "No doom and gloom at the table. We will leave talk of dungeons and old sorcerers for after bread."
He hauled Jacob up from the bench and steered him toward the kitchen, where the table waited, bowls already set and steam curling from the pot. The solemn weight in his eyes had not vanished, but it had shifted, buried under something warmer.
"There is still plenty of Trial Year ahead of you," Arthur said as they walked. "If Old Thom wants you chasing trouble in a dungeon, I am sure the chance will come crawling out to meet you. For now, you can start by conquering a full bowl and making your mother proud."