The sun hung low over Merriton as the agent from the capital, wrapped in nondescript gray, made his way through the town. He did not announce himself. He simply watched—taking in the state of the roads, the laughter of a few children, the cautious hope on weary faces.
He introduced himself as Marell, a traveling scribe. A lie by necessity, though one honed with practice.
It didn't take long before people started pointing him toward the manor—the temporary headquarters where the town's surprising changes had taken root.
---
Jack stood with a few farmers, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a half-peeled potato in one hand.
"We'll stagger the planting rows," Jack explained, using a stick to draw lines in the dirt. "We can't keep exhausting the same patches. Rotate between legumes, grain, and tubers. Your soil needs rest like you do."
Marell observed from a distance, jotting in his book. A man out of place, yet... oddly invested.
When the crowd dispersed, Jack noticed the man still watching him.
"You're not from around here," Jack said, wiping his hands on a cloth.
"No," Marell replied. "I hear you've managed something... curious."
Jack narrowed his eyes slightly. "You mean the potatoes?"
Marell gave a short nod. "I'm a scribe. I document rural innovations for the archives."
Jack gave a lopsided smile. "Archives care about potatoes now?"
"They care about solutions," Marell said calmly. "Especially when they come from a man who once couldn't pay a baker."
Jack's expression didn't change, but a flicker of unease touched his eyes.
"You're here on behalf of the capital," Jack said, voice lowered.
Marell didn't confirm, but neither did he deny. "Tell me about the soil."
Jack shrugged. "Sour when I got here. Too many failed rotations. I used composting methods I learned back... somewhere else. Mixed in ash from the kilns, turned the topsoil every two days, and timed the planting before the last frost."
Marell scribbled. "And the tubers?"
"Hardy, resistant to pests, low maintenance. Grow underground. People underestimated them because they're ugly."
Marell gave a faint smile. "Sometimes ugly saves lives."
---
The next morning, Marell visited the granary and spoke with the blacksmith, the cobbler, even the children. What emerged wasn't just a picture of food production—it was a slow reshaping of community.
And at the center of it all: Jack.
Back in the manor, Jack spoke with Damon.
"He's no scribe," Jack muttered.
Damon nodded. "But he hasn't criticized you either."
"No," Jack agreed. "But he hasn't praised me either."
"Maybe he's waiting to see if you're real."
Jack sighed and looked at the ledger he was keeping. "Aren't we all?"
---
In the report Marell sent back to the capital three days later, he didn't speak of grand strategy or battlefield genius. He wrote of potatoes, children laughing, and a man trying to outgrow the shadow of his name.
And far away in the capital, Minister Harbin smiled as he read Marell's words aloud before the king.
"It's real, Your Majesty. And it's growing."
The king leaned back on his throne.
"Then perhaps... so should he."