Morning came slowly to Vanhart territory.
The sky wasn't painted with the gold of sunrise—it was brushed with muted silver, as if sunlight hesitated to touch land that had spent too many seasons surrendering to cold.
Frost clung to the soil.
And yet…
In the eastern fields, something shifted.
The first harlroot shoots, normally sluggish and bitter in winter, had begun to stand taller.
Color normally dull was now tinted with soft emerald and faint crimson.
Breath from the soil felt warm.
Workers stared without speaking.
There were no trumpets, no miracle announced—
Just earth deciding, for the first time in years…
to grow.
Inside the estate
Count Vanhart stood by his office window, watching his worn lands through thin morning light. His expression, as always, was composed—but his fingers tapped slow against the ledge.
Three soft knocks.
"Enter," he said.
A steward stepped in nervously, carrying a parchment sealed with the field overseer's mark.
"Count…"
The steward hesitated, then bowed.
"…reports from the eastern farm sector."
Vanhart gestured silently.
The man approached, laid the parchment flat upon the desk.
Vanhart broke the seal.
His eyes moved slowly across the ink.
Not widening.
Widening would imply surprise.
He had not allowed himself that in years.
But something shifted beneath his gaze.
"…twelve percent increase in stalk elevation…" he read, voice quiet. "Root structure expanding below frost depth. Nutrient saturation… optimal?"
The steward swallowed hard.
"There is more."
The count looked up.
"At dawn," the man said softly, "one of the laborers tried sampling a leaf."
Vanhart stared.
"They… ate harlroot leaf?"
The steward nodded hesitantly.
"…and didn't spit it out."
Count Vanhart slowly rose from his seat.
Quietly stepped to the window.
Below, frost-covered land glistened under muted light, and amidst the barren stretches…
small threads of color appeared.
Like veins rediscovering flow.
"Kel von Rosenfeld," Vanhart whispered, almost to himself.
At the same time
In a different wing of the manor, Viscount Malloren sat alone at a long table, hands folded around a cup of warm barley tea. His daughter was in treatment. He could do nothing but wait.
He didn't look up when he heard approaching footsteps.
"May I enter?" Count Vanhart asked at the threshold.
Malloren gave a short nod.
The count stepped inside.
He did not sit immediately.
He placed a report upon the table beside Malloren.
The viscount looked at it.
"Field data," Vanhart said simply.
Malloren lifted the parchment, scanning. His expression was flat until line seven.
Then his brow furrowed.
"…growth rate increase?" he muttered. "Temperature retention—past previous records?"
He turned to the count.
"This is not seasonal anomaly."
"No," Vanhart replied softly.
"This is intervention."
Malloren's fingers tightened over the paper.
"Alchemy?" he asked.
"Adjustment," the count nodded.
Malloren's eyes narrowed.
"How long until harvest?"
"Early indication," Vanhart replied, "is three months ahead of standard winter projection."
Malloren slowly set the report down.
His voice came quiet, strained.
"You are saying… this territory might recover sooner than next year."
Vanhart said nothing.
Then—
"Yes."
Malloren stared.
Slowly, he stood and walked toward the window.
Outside, white fields speckled with new color lay like a promise laid under snow.
He exhaled.
"…In one week," he whispered, "Kel begins where most scholars end."
Vanhart joined him at the window.
They looked in silence.
Not at the land as it was.
At what it was beginning to become.
"My daughter," Malloren said quietly, "feels her legs again."
"My land," Vanhart replied, "feels the sun."
Malloren closed his eyes briefly.
Between them—
the truth neither voiced:
And we did not do it.
He opened them.
"Do you realize," he said quietly, "what happens when word of this spreads?"
"Yes."
"Every northern house will want him."
"Yes."
"Every noble will fear him."
"Yes."
"Every kingdom will watch him."
The count nodded once.
"From a boy who was supposed to die before becoming name."
The words lingered like frost that refused to melt.
A pause. Then—the quieter truth.
Malloren turned toward Vanhart.
His gaze held something hollow.
"We are men who failed what was handed to us," he said.
"And yet…" Vanhart murmured, "…a boy who was handed decay chooses to mend."
Malloren's eyes fell to the report.
A slow breath.
"If harvest comes early…" he said, "my territory will no longer need imperial financial support."
"The same for mine," Vanhart added.
"…which will mean we are no longer considered burdens," Malloren continued.
"…but assets."
"And if Lysenne walks by then," Count Vanhart spoke softly, "so will House Malloren."
"And Sera," Malloren finished, not lifting his eyes. "She will stand not as curse, but as potential."
Vanhart looked at him now, voice tightening.
"As will Kel."
Silence.
Then—
Malloren asked, quieter now than before:
"Will you stand with him if opposition comes?"
The count's eyes shifted to the harlroot leaves pushing through frost.
"I did not stand for him," he said.
"I will stand behind him."
Malloren looked up.
A slow, reluctant smirk formed at the edge of his tired expression.
"…He is the kind of man you do not stand in front of."
Vanhart slightly smiled.
"He is the kind of man who walks forward even if no path exists."
Malloren's smirk lingered a second.
"Does that not concern you?"
"It concerns me greatly," Vanhart replied.
Malloren's eyes returned to the window.
"Then why do you look at your land," he asked softly, "as though you are relieved?"
"Because," the count replied, voice gentle and ancient, "for the first time since she ran, I believe my daughter will return."
Malloren did not reply immediately.
He only stared at the field, at young shoots unafraid of frost.
Then—very quietly—
"…for the first time since she fell, I believe mine will rise."
Outside—
a gust of winter wind swept across the land.
Snow shifted.
Roots held.
And two men—who had failed their own legacies—watched from a window as a young heir reshaped fate.
Quietly.
Without permission.
Without waiting.
The territory began to grow.
And so did the future.