Aboard the study desk of the D’Claire estate, beneath a flickering oil lamp, Richardson dipped his quill and pressed it to parchment with the slow, deliberate weight of a man not used to asking for help.
[To the Esteemed House of Aetherveil,
I write to you not as a supplicant, but as a steward standing at the crossroads of legacy and future. The orchards of D’Claire—once renowned, now weathered—bear the silent dreams of those who came before us. In recent days, we have begun efforts to revive the Aetherveil Reds which flourished here once, thanks in no small part to your House’s ingenuity and our late Lady’s trust in it.
With respect to the shared history between our two houses, and in the spirit of mutual benefit, we seek your guidance and supervision in reviving what was born of our cooperation. A venture of this scale, if successful, may benefit both names equally—not only in commerce, but in the cultivation of goodwill and comradery between our noble lines.
Should you find value in such a venture, we welcome your aid, your insight, and your presence at D’Claire.
With all due respect and sincerity,
Sir Halden Richardson, Steward of House D’Claire]
He signed it with a flourish that trembled slightly at the end.
Folding the letter, he sealed it with the D’Claire crest, pressing the warm wax firmly.
“Now,” he muttered, “let’s see if old debts still carry any weight.”
***
Aetherveil Estate – Deep within the mahogany halls of its ancestral manor, two figures lounged in a candlelit study cluttered with scrolls, silken maps, and the sharp scent of ink and aged brandy.
The first, tall and draped in velvet robes far richer than their status likely demanded, unrolled the parchment and read it aloud with a voice like chilled syrup.
“Mutual benefit… goodwill… comradery…”
He repeated, snorting.
“Spare me. This is a whimper, not a proposal.”
The second, lounging with a glass of wine balanced on the arm of his chair, chuckled.
“Romantic drivel from a dying house. I’m surprised they still remember how to hold a pen down there in the mud.”
“The D’Claires.”
The first sneered the name.
“Clinging to ghosts and soil like peasants playing nobility. Honestly, even reading this was more time than it deserved.”
The other man scoffed, dragging his fingers through thinning hair.
“House D’Claire is a corpse dressed in velvet, and they expect us to carry the coffin while pretending it dances. They’re scraping the bottom of the barrel—probably wrote this on half-rancid ink because they couldn’t afford fresh parchment.”
The letter dropped onto the desk.
“Lucien Crowley,” the first said the name like it stank.
“The last spark flickering in a family fireplace that’s been out for decades. They think reviving those rotted orchards will make them a house again? How quaint.”
“Romantic idiocy,” the second replied, sneering.
“Just like his mother, Seraphina D’Claire. All sentiment, no strategy. Trusted that lunatic horticulturist like he was some prophet sent to deliver Eden on a silver tray.”
A snort followed.
“You mean Vaelira’s grandfather, the rootless fool who thought splicing apples would save the world. What did he call them? Aetherveil Reds? As if that could scrub off the stench of failure.”
“House D’Claire let him run wild on their land. That alone should’ve been grounds to have the whole estate condemned.”
The two shared a cruel laugh, contempt curling in the corners of their mouths.
The first man leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.
“So. Do we respond? Waste our time and reputation on a last gasp from the grave?”
“I wouldn’t send anyone of value,” the second replied quickly.
“Let them rot. But… perhaps we toss them a bone. Someone from the House, so we look diplomatic—nothing more.”
The room fell into a contemplative silence.
Then, as if the thought had occurred to both of them at once:
“Vaelira.”
The first man nodded slowly.
“She’s here. She’s quiet. Unoccupied. Convenient.”
“Unnecessary,” the other agreed.
“No real connections, no sway. If things collapse—when they collapse—it’ll be her misstep. We say we sent a representative, and if she bungles it, so be it. She falls, we rise untouched.”
“She’s always been… tolerated, hasn’t she?”
The man curled his lip.
“Let her feel useful. Let her think it’s opportunity. No need to sully our hands or names. Besides, they’ll eat her alive at D’Claire.”
“They’ll think they’ve been blessed with Aetherveil grace.”
The words dripped sarcasm.
The laughter this time was sharper, thinner—cruel and final.
Unbeknownst to them, just outside the chamber door, in the quietest patch of hallway shadow, a figure stood perfectly still.
Her cloak was damp from the mist.
Her eyes calm, but unblinking.
She had arrived to deliver a report—routine, unimportant.
Now she said nothing.
She simply listened.
Listened as they plotted to send her away not as a representative, but a scapegoat.
A disposable piece on the board.
They hadn’t even named her until the end.
They insulted her grandfather, spat on the name of Lady Seraphina, and mocked Lucien Crowley, whose quiet conviction she had only just begun to understand.
She heard it all.
And when the laughter ended, she turned on her heel—silent as a shadow—and disappeared into the stone halls of Aetherveil.
The fire behind the door crackled once.
Then faded.
***
The sun hung lazily over the estate, its rays warm and golden, casting a serene sheen over the freshly swept stone steps and the glistening dew still clinging to the orchard trees in the distance.
The clouds that had once threatened to drown the land now seemed a distant memory.
A black carriage bearing the silver crest of House Aetherveil rolled to a graceful stop at the front of the D’Claire estate.
The door clicked open, and with a subtle motion, Lady Vaelira Aetherveil stepped down.
She wore practicality wrapped in elegance—dark riding boots, a navy coat trimmed with silver thread, and a short-caped mantle hung over one shoulder.
Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the estate grounds with a cool sort of interest.
She paused for only a breath before fixing her gaze on the figure awaiting her.
“Lady Aetherveil,” came the warm, gravelly voice of Sir Richardson as he gave a small but respectful bow.
“A pleasure to welcome you once again. I trust your journey was without trouble?”
Vaelira nodded, a flicker of formality crossing her face.
“It was smooth enough, thank you, Sir Richardson.”
“We’ve prepared your quarters in the east wing. Your bags will be brought in shortly. Should you have any preferences, we’ll have them arranged posthaste,” he said with well-practiced hospitality, gesturing toward the steps.
“I’ve taken the liberty to stock your shelves with reading material. Mostly… leisure fare. But we’re happy to make additions.”
“Mm,” Vaelira hummed lightly.
“If you don’t mind, I do have a list.”
From the folds of her coat, she withdrew a parchment—neatly folded and, by the weight of it, deceptively long.
Richardson took it with mild curiosity… which shifted swiftly into bafflement as his eyes began scanning the titles:
“Fundamentals of Heat-Mana Alloy Binding,”
“Comparative Sword Forms of the Southern Reaches,”
“Ritual Steel and Aura Channelling—An Advanced Primer,”
“The Twelve Schools of Duelist Philosophy,”
“Mana-Pulse Resonance in Forged Metal,”
“Blood and Breach: A History of Experimental Blades…”
By the time he reached the seventh title, he looked up, blinking.
“These are… a touch more scholarly than what I had prepared.”
Vaelira smiled, faintly.
Richardson chuckled under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Hah… So the boy wasn’t exaggerating.’
Vaelira arched an eyebrow.
“Lord Lucien,” Richardson clarified quickly.
“Said you had more edge than most swords in the keep. I figured it was a jest.”
He paused, glancing back down at the list.
“I stand corrected.”
Vaelira allowed herself the smallest of smirks—an expression that faded just as fast.
She tucked her gloves neatly into the crook of her arm.
“I assume Lord Lucien is in residence?”
“Out by the orchards, actually,” Richardson replied.
“Took a liking to them, he has. Insists on being involved from root to fruit.”
There was a visible flicker of something in Vaelira’s expression.
Surprise, almost too human to catch, masked by a soft cough and a casual tilt of her chin.
“Oh,” she said, the syllable short, clipped.
Richardson tilted his head, one brow rising with quiet interest.
“If you’d like,” he offered, “I could have someone fetch him.”
“No need,” she replied quickly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“I’m sure he’ll come when he’s ready.”
The breeze picked up gently, rustling the leaves of the orchard trees in the distance—branches full of green hope and half-forgotten legacy.
And for a moment, the air between them hung with unspoken curiosity.
Richardson stepped back and gestured toward the entrance.
“Shall I show you to your quarters, my lady?”
“Yes,” Vaelira replied, her voice returning to its usual composed clarity.
“Let’s.”
And with that, she stepped into the halls of House D’Claire once more—this time not as a guest of circumstance, but as a piece deliberately placed on the board… not yet knowing how many were already watching her move.
***
The sun filtered down in warm golden beams through the tangle of clouds that remained after the storm.
The orchard was still soaked, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and bruised apples, but for once, the skies held no threat.
Birds chirped lazily in the distance, and a pair of old crows squabbled atop a broken branch—two fixtures as old as the trees themselves.
Lucien stood ankle-deep in sodden grass, one boot resting on a stone jutting from the weed-ridden path that led through the heart of the orchard.
The pathway was more suggestion than road now—gnarled roots, scattered debris, and deep puddles making every step a gamble.
He gestured toward it with a frown, brow furrowed.
“We fix this path first,” he declared, wiping his hands on his trousers.
“Before anything else. Doesn’t matter how many apples are ready if we can’t even move a cart without tripping over a stone or twisting an ankle.”
Terrin leaned against the twisted trunk of an old apple tree nearby, arms folded, one brow cocked in amusement.
“Look at you, lad. Talking like you know a damn thing about orchards.”
“I know a thing or two about not dying on the job,” Lucien shot back, smirking.
“That trail’s a bloody death trap.”
Terrin snorted, scratching his chin.
“Fair. But lemme guess, your grand plan next is to climb up the trees and shake the apples out yourself? Maybe tie a few baskets to your back while you’re at it?”
“I was thinking we pick the ones that are salvageable,” Lucien said, ignoring the jab.
“Storm knocked a bunch loose. Even the bruised ones can be turned into mash or cider. Waste not, right?”
The old groundskeeper gave a quiet grunt of approval, stepping forward and toeing the edge of the broken path with his boot.
“Practical thinking, I’ll give you that. Surprising, coming from someone who once thought mushrooms only grew in soup.”
“That was one time,” Lucien muttered, feigning offense.
“Aye, and you called it an ‘earth sponge.’ Still not over that.”
Lucien chuckled under his breath, brushing a leaf off his shoulder.
“You mentioned some of these trees were rotting through, right?”
“More than some,” Terrin said, squinting down the rows.
“Old roots, disease, storm damage… It’s not worth the effort to save ‘em. Best we cut those down and start fresh.”
“Then let’s save the wood,” Lucien said quickly, already walking toward one of the half-dead trees.
“Applewood burns clean. Meat smokers will pay good coin for it.”
Terrin barked a laugh.
“You’re trying to sell the firewood now?”
“Trying to fund this operation, old man.”
Terrin’s eyes crinkled with amusement.
“And here I thought nobles only knew how to spend money, not make it. You’re squeezing the orchard like it owes you rent.”
“Maybe it does,” Lucien quipped.
“Years of neglect—it’s time it paid its dues.”
Not far off, a trio of maids crouched by an overturned wheelbarrow filled with sodden straw, their eyes flicking between the two men in the orchard.
“They’ve gotten close,” murmured one, adjusting her kerchief.
“Too close,” said another, narrowing her eyes.
“Terrin used to bite anyone who got too chatty. Now he’s out there laughing like a drunk uncle at a wedding.”
“I heard he called the young lord clever yesterday,” the third whispered, as though repeating an urban legend.
“Clever!”
“Lies,” the second hissed.
“Absolute lies—”
A sudden burst of motion made them pause.
A maid, younger and out of breath, came sprinting down the path, one hand clutching her skirts to avoid tripping.
“Lady Vaelira has arrived!”
She blurted out, drawing the attention of every worker nearby.
The orchard, for a moment, fell into stunned silence.
Lucien’s head turned so fast a few dark strands of hair whipped across his face.
“She’s here?”
Terrin’s expression went slack, then slowly twisted into a knowing grin.
“Well now, that’ll stir the hornet’s nest.”
One of the maids muttered a quiet prayer under her breath.
“She’s really here?”
“She’s early.”
Lucien cleared his throat and ran a hand through his wind-mussed hair.
“Alright then… Guess it’s time to greet the noble hammer herself.”
Terrin leaned in as Lucien began brushing dirt from his sleeves.
“You worried?”
“A little,” Lucien admitted.
“Good. Means you’re sane.”
***
Author’s Note:
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