The morning sun stretched long golden rays across the courtyard of Thorne, illuminating a bustling scene that had become a welcome norm. Children laughed near the bakery, the clang of metal rang from the forge, and young men and women marched in tandem at the training yard under Victoria's sharp eye. I stood at the center of it all, surrounded by parchment scrolls, voices of townsfolk, and problems to solve.
"Lord Cedric," Hans said, bowing slightly as he approached, soot still smudged across his face from a long morning at the forge. "We've received requests from three other villages to purchase Thornemetal. I've inspected the stock and believe we can begin export."
"That's excellent," I nodded. "Marlowe should handle the merchant terms, but ensure our own village retains first rights. The blacksmiths in the outer villages won't forget who introduced them to it."
Hans grinned. "Already on it."
I moved on to the town square, where Annika was coordinating a group of teenage girls to help with baking and distribution. The scent of honeyed bread filled the air.
"Lord Cedric," she beamed, wiping flour from her cheek. "I've trained two new apprentices. We're able to supply both hamlets to the north now, and the old well's been repurposed as an underground flour storage."
"Well done, Annika. Consider them for formal vassal status once they've completed training. Their loyalty will anchor this operation."
As I moved on, a few elders approached with concerns about recent newcomers camping at the edges of the village.
"They say they're refugees from the west," the old man muttered, "but we don't know their skills, or if they're trustworthy."
"Send them to the trade square," I instructed. "Marlowe's men can assess their skills and put them to use. If they resist integration or cause trouble, Victoria will deal with them."
The elder gave a short nod. "You truly are your mother's son."
That comment lingered in my mind as I returned to the manor. I'd never known her, not that I'd care either, since it was this body's mother, but it seemed her legacy lived on in how the people remembered the past. Just as I was about to enter the grand foyer, a sharp whistle pierced the air. Victoria approached, dressed in her light armor, a bead of sweat glistening at her brow.
"The envoy, my lord. They've arrived."
I raised an eyebrow. "Not the Duke's men again?"
"No," she replied, tone firm. "This one bears the royal crest."
I stepped inside, heartbeat steady, as a footman presented a scroll sealed in deep crimson wax—emblazoned with the mark of the Crown.
The summons had arrived.
The morning sun filtered gently through the silk curtains of my chamber, casting faint gold across the obsidian detailing of the manor walls. I stood before the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of my deep-blue formal jacket, laced with silver filigree. It had been tailored recently, stitched by none other than the weaver from Market Row who claimed her fingers were guided by divine thread. I smiled faintly at my reflection.
Today felt... different.
I was mid-thought when a knock sounded against my door.
"Come in," I called.
It was Benwick, his face unreadable but posture unusually stiff.
"A courier has arrived from the capital. Sealed with the crest of House Leontheir."
My brow arched. House Leontheir. The royal family.
Benwick stepped aside, and in walked a solemn man in silver-trimmed black, bearing the weight of age and title alike. He gave a deep bow and held out a scroll, tied with crimson silk and stamped with a wax emblem of the twin gryphons of the Crown.
"By order of His Majesty King Albrecht Leontheir III," the man intoned, his voice echoing faintly through the chamber. "You are hereby summoned to the Royal Court in Veloria within a fortnight."
I took the scroll in hand, breaking the seal with a deliberate calmness I didn't feel. The words within were written in immaculate script:
To Cedric Alwyn Thorne, Baronet of the South,
By virtue of the Crown's attention to recent developments within your holding and on recommendation of Ducal Auditors and Her Ladyship Mirelda of Highcourt,
You are henceforth summoned to the Capital City of Veloria to present yourself before the High Council and His Majesty in person.
May you bring record, witness, and prepare for audience.
Failing such shall be met with censure.
Signed and marked,
Lord Valen Harcrow, Steward of Royal Affairs.
My hands lowered slowly, the weight of the parchment disproportionate to its physical mass.
"They noticed," I murmured.
Benwick, ever pragmatic, simply said, "Of course they did. You've turned a dying baronetcy into a gem. And you did it quickly."
I exhaled through my nose and rolled my shoulders. "Then I suppose I must make preparations."
-----
Word spread quickly through the estate—Lord Cedric was to appear before the King. The people of Thorne were equal parts proud and nervous. For many, this was their first brush with true royal affairs.
Cedric convened a meeting that very afternoon. Gathered in the estate hall were Benwick, Victoria, Marlowe, Hans, Annika, and a handful of other respected figures.
"This is more than a visit," Cedric said, standing before a broad table where a map of the realm was unfurled. "It's an inspection. Of us. Of what we've done. So we show them what Thorne stands for."
Victoria stepped forward, arms crossed. "I'll ready a formal escort detail. No more than ten—light but formidable. I'll choose our best. You'll enter Veloria like a true noble, my Lord."
Marlowe adjusted his vest. "I'll prepare a merchant's summary—charts of profit, volume of trade, surplus reports. They'll want numbers. They'll get perfection."
Hans grunted in agreement. "And I'll send word to my apprentices. The forge will produce a ceremonial blade and armor, forged from Thornemetal. You'll wear our work like a badge."
Annika nodded with pride. "And I'll bake a small gift assortment—something refined, but unmistakably ours. Let them taste what they're missing in the capital."
Cedric gave a grateful nod to them all. "Good. We do this together. Not just for me—but for our future."
------
The following two days saw the village transformed with almost festival-like fervor.
Stitchers and tailors worked tirelessly on ceremonial attire, rich with Thorne's midnight blue and gold motif. Victoria oversaw drills in the training yard, putting Cedric's escort through a grueling regimen to ensure their bearing would reflect the estate's martial discipline.
Children ran errands, fetching bolts of cloth and lacquered boxes. Farmers brought in their best produce to be dried and packed for gifts. Even the village square was swept clean and decorated with streamers for Cedric's final sendoff.
Inside the manor, Cedric practiced his courtly speech with Benwick, ensuring every word dripped with calculated deference and strength. He reviewed land records, tax summaries, and political reports late into the night.
Meanwhile, Hans toiled over the ceremonial armor in the forge. The cuirass gleamed with blackened silver steel, etched with swirling motifs that mimicked Thorne's crest. Annika's bakery smelled of roasted hazelnuts and spiced fruit tarts—delicacies she had innovated just for this occasion.
Eloise, now more involved in Cedric's personal affairs, assisted with correspondences, etiquette review, and travel logistics, all without question. She had taken her role seriously, and Cedric couldn't help but notice how well she blended into both noble and common company alike.
When the third morning dawned, Thorne stood ready.
A column of riders formed at the village gates—Cedric at the head, clad in ceremonial armor, his cloak lined with gold. Victoria rode at his side, in polished gear and a hardened expression of pride. Behind them, a wagon loaded with documentation, gifts, and traveling gear rattled into place.
As the villagers gathered, the mood was thick with anticipation.
"You bring us pride, Lord Thorne!" shouted one farmer.
"Make them remember our name!" called another.
Cedric gave a final wave as the gates opened. "Onward—to the Crown."
-----
In the heart of the capital, within the high golden walls of Veloria's palace, the Lion's Hall lay steeped in sun-filtered majesty. There, beneath arched stained-glass windows depicting the kingdom's long line of monarchs, King Albrecht IV of House Leontheir stood silently before a map of his realm.
His beard was trimmed in the style of kings before him, his robes white with gold-thread lions running along the edges. Behind him, silent and poised, stood two royal advisors.
"Lady Mirelda's report was thorough," Albrecht said, not turning to face them. "Too thorough. It reads more like a poem than a bureaucratic ledger."
"She speaks highly of the boy, Your Majesty," said Chancellor Verdan. "He has turned a ruin into a stronghold. A village into a nearly self-sufficient trade town."
"Such ambition from a baronet?" Albrecht murmured. "Reminds me of another young upstart... my uncle Reinhardt in his youth."
The second advisor, High Marshal Dorian, crossed his arms. "The South has been quiet. Perhaps too quiet. If this Lord Cedric is as capable as described, he may stir unrest—rival barons may grow envious."
"Then we must see for ourselves," the King said. He turned slowly, his gaze sharp. "The lion tests its cubs before calling them kin. If he's worthy, I may yet offer him the path to Countship."
Verdan bowed. "He will arrive in three days' time."
"Then prepare the court," Albrecht commanded. "Let us see what sort of man this Cedric Thorne truly is."