Spring came to the valley not with a sudden burst of warmth, but with a gradual, noisy thawing.
By late March, the thick ice covering the River Oakhaven began to crack with loud, booming reports that echoed off the mountain walls like distant cannon fire. Icicles as thick as a man's arm detached from the eaves of the cottage, shattering on the muddy ground below. The white snowdrifts retreated up the mountain slopes, exposing dark, rich earth and patches of pale green moss.
For Leo, now eight years old, the change of seasons brought a welcome shift in physical activity.
After months of being confined indoors, his daily routine expanded to include repairing the damage winter had done to their small homestead. He helped Edmond mend the roof shingles that had been loosened by heavy ice, cleared fallen branches from the forest paths, and dug up the small vegetable garden behind the cottage to prepare the soil for planting.
His physical body had grown stronger over the past year. Though still small for his age, his shoulders had widened, his hands were tough and scarred from handling rough timber and hot tools, and his posture was upright and confident. His control over his internal mana had reached a point where he could comfortably maintain body-warming arrays for hours without experiencing mental fatigue.
One clear morning, while Leo was near the edge of the clearing chopping dry fir logs into kindling, the quiet atmosphere of the valley was broken by an unfamiliar sound.
It was the rhythmic, metallic clatter of iron horseshoes striking stone, accompanied by the creaking of heavy wooden wheels.
Leo paused, lowering his axe, his senses immediately heightening. In the two years he had lived with Edmond in this isolated sanctuary, they had received visits from only three people: the local hunter who brought pelts twice a year, a wandering herbalist who traded salt for dried roots, and a blacksmith's apprentice from the nearest lower village.
This sound was different. It was heavy, organized, and multiple.
Edmond stepped out onto the porch of the cottage, holding a leather-bound book in one hand. His eyes were narrowed as he looked down the narrow forest trail leading up from the valley floor.
"Put the axe down, Leo," Edmond said quietly, his voice neutral but firm. "Stand behind me near the porch."
Leo complied immediately. He wiped his hands on his trousers and moved to stand a few paces behind Edmond, his eyes fixed on the bend in the trail where the pine trees thinned out.
A few moments later, three horses emerged from the shadows of the forest.
The two riders on the flanks were armored men—guards wearing heavy, overlapping leather jerkins reinforced with iron plates over their shoulders and chests. They carried long iron spears resting in leather stirrups, and broadswords hung from their belts. Their tabards were a faded navy blue, bearing the crest of a silver falcon holding an iron chain—the coat of arms of House Vance, the local feudal lords who governed the eastern marches of the Kingdom of Grayven.
Between the two guards rode a man on a sleek, well-groomed grey mare. He was dressed in a fine wool cloak trimmed with fox fur, wearing a wide-brimmed leather hat that shaded his face. A thick leather satchel hung over his shoulder, stuffed with rolls of parchment and official wax seals.
He was a tax collector or a land steward from the regional seat of Oakhaven Keep.
The small party pulled up at the edge of the clearing. The horses huffed, their breath condensing in the cool morning air, their hooves stamping impatiently on the damp earth.
The man in the fur cloak looked around the neat, well-kept clearing, his gaze lingering briefly on the stacked firewood, the stone cottage, and finally settling on Edmond.
"Edmond of the Royal Archive," the man spoke, his voice dry and authoritative, lacking the rough accent of the local mountain folk. He pulled a rolled parchment from his satchel, unrolling it with a sharp flick of his wrist. "It has been three years since your last formal registration with the regional bailiff."
Edmond did not bow, nor did he offer a polite greeting. He stood erect on the wooden porch, his arms folded loosely across his chest.
"Steward Varner," Edmond acknowledged coolly. "I was not aware that retired scribes living on crown-granted wilderness plots were subject to annual inspections."
The steward, Varner, offered a cold, thin smile. "Times change, Master Edmond. The Kingdom's needs expand. His Grace, Lord Vance, has issued a new decree regarding all former guild members and educated citizens residing within his domain."
Varner gestured toward one of the guards, who stepped forward and held out a heavy iron rod wrapped in blue cloth.
"The border tensions with the Caron League have escalated," Varner explained, his tone businesslike. "The Crown requires an inventory of all magic-literate individuals capable of forging enchanted equipment or maintaining defensive wards. Furthermore, all landholders residing within five leagues of the forest trade routes must pay a supplementary security tax in silver or processed materials."
Leo, standing behind Edmond, felt a slight chill that had nothing to do with the spring wind. The abstract political tensions Edmond had discussed during the winter were no longer distant news. They were standing in their front yard, carrying iron spears and demanding coin.
Edmond’s expression remained unreadable. "I am seventy-two years old, Steward. My hands are too stiff to etch military-grade arrays, and my personal vault contains no silver. I survive on what this garden yields and what I trade with the local hunters."
Varner’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked past Edmond, his gaze landing directly on Leo.
The steward studied the seven-year-old boy—his steady posture, his calm blue eyes, and the clean, organized manner in which he stood. Then, Varner’s eyes drifted to the chopping block near the woodpile, where several logs had been split with unusual, pristine precision.
"And who is the boy?" Varner asked, pointing a gloved finger at Leo. "An apprentice?"
"He is an orphan I took in," Edmond replied instantly, his voice tightening slightly. "He helps me with chores in exchange for room and board."
"An orphan..." Varner mused. He nudged his horse forward a few paces, coming closer to the porch. "He looks well-fed for an orphan living in the wilderness. Does he read? Does he possess mana sensitivity?"
"He can read basic Vulgate," Edmond said flatly. "He has no martial training or guild registration."
Varner stared at Leo for a long, uncomfortable moment. Leo remembered Edmond’s instructions regarding strangers: Keep your head down, do not display mana control, and act like an ordinary peasant child.
Leo lowered his eyes, assuming a slightly nervous, timid posture, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot like an uneducated farm boy intimidated by armored men.
Varner let out a dry breath, apparently losing interest. "Very well. But the security tax stands, Master Edmond. Two ounces of refined iron ore, or ten copper groats by the end of the next month. If you cannot pay in coin, the bailiff will accept quarter-rations of dried meat or timber for the garrison at Oakhaven Keep."
Varner rolled up his parchment and shoved it back into his satchel. "Good day, scribe. Do not make us send guards a second time."
With a sharp tug on his reins, Varner turned his mare around. The two armored guards cast indifferent glances at the cottage before wheeling their mounts around and following the steward back down the muddy trail into the forest.
Leo stood still until the clatter of horse hooves completely faded into the distance.
Edmond let out a long, heavy breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as if a heavy weight had suddenly settled upon him. He turned his head, looking down at Leo.
"You acted well, Leo," Edmond said softly. "You kept your composure."
"They are preparing for war, aren't they?" Leo asked quietly, looking at the muddy tracks left by the horses' hooves in the clearing.
"They are preparing for conflict," Edmond corrected, turning to walk back inside the cottage. "War is large, loud, and destructive. Conflict is quiet, greedy, and slow. It starts with taxes, requisitions, and young men being dragged away to guard borders."
Edmond sat down at his desk, staring thoughtfully at the unlit hearth. "This valley has kept us safe for seven years, Leo. But the world outside is expanding its reach. The quiet life we have built here will not last forever."
Leo walked inside and closed the heavy oak door, locking the latch. He looked at his small hands, then at the rows of leather-bound books and runic slates lining the shelves.
"Then we must work faster, Master," Leo said firmly. "I need to learn more."
Edmond looked up at the boy, seeing the calm, unyielding resolve in his young face. A slow, gentle smile returned to the old scribe's lips.
"Yes," Edmond agreed softly. "We must work faster."
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