Jacob stepped back to study the four beds while the sun pressed heavily against his neck.
The soil was dry and shared the same thin layer of manure across the entire grid. He had decided to use a single type of seed for every plot, all to be planted on the same afternoon.
The only thing setting them apart was the hidden patterns in the stakes. While the marks were lost to the eyes of a normal farmer, any mage nearby would feel the distinct throb of power coming from the wood.
The first bed would be his baseline to see how the dirt behaved on its own. The others would reveal if healing magic, shaped toward different goals, could actually force a better harvest from the ground.
By the time the last stake was driven home, sweat had soaked through his shirt and made the fabric stick to his spine.
The midday sun made the world feel warm and bright. From the road, the field looked much the same as it always had, but Jacob knew better.
His corner was now a network of twine and hidden intent that pulsed in the back of his mind whenever he checked the magic.
The sound of bootsteps crunched on the packed path near the fence. Arthur leaned against the rail with one leg propped on the lower board.
He watched in silence for a moment while holding a clay jug of water. He had the look of a man who had seen too many seasons fail, yet he still found the energy to walk out and check the furrows.
"You look like you picked a fight with the dirt," Arthur said. His voice carried across the space with a playful tone. "And it looks like the dirt is winning."
Jacob straightened his back and noticed the dark streaks of earth covering his arms. "I am not trying to win the whole field today. I am just making sure I stay in the fight."
Arthur handed him the jug, and he took a long drink that cooled his throat before nodding toward the small grid.
"I split the area into four beds," Jacob explained. "One is planted exactly the way you and Caleb always do it. The other three use different runes in the stakes. If the normal one fails while the others thrive, I will finally have a lead to follow."
Arthur's brows rose as he looked at the twine and the potential patterns hiding in the wood. "You are turning my fallow patch into a counting table and a ledger for your runes."
"I am turning it into proof," Jacob corrected. "If these beds do better, we can use the same patterns on the main fields later. If they fail, I only lose a bit of time and some seed. Everyone already treats this field as a loss anyway."
Arthur stared at the beds for a long minute while the wind moved across the open ground. He looked at the second bed and then toward the slight ridge Jacob had carved into the fourth plot.
"What did you put on the second one?" Arthur asked.
"I took the healing rune we use for cuts," Jacob said. "I removed the parts that work on skin or blood and turned the rest toward the roots. It should encourage the plants to grow deeper and recover from the heat. I made sure to keep the flow steady."
Arthur grunted, his mouth twitching with a bit of reluctant humor. "As long as the weeds do not enjoy the magic as much as the crops, we might survive this."
"If the weeds love it, then I know the pattern is wrong for farming. I'll mark it as a failure and move on," Jacob said. He accepted the risk without trying to hide it.
Arthur pointed with his chin at the third bed. "That one looks different. I assume you didn't just repeat yourself."
"It is the same idea but much more stubborn," Jacob said. "It is not about fast growth. It is about not giving up when the rain stops. If the summer turns dry, that bed might stay green while the others turn brown. Either way, we will know more than we did yesterday."
Arthur shifted his focus to the fourth bed, noting the raised lip of soil. "I assume that little ditch has its own trick. I doubt I am just looking at a pile of dirt."
"Healing for the stress of the sun, plus a nudge to keep water from running off," Jacob said. "It gives the plants more time to drink after a storm. I am hoping it might even help the dew drip from the leaves a little longer in the mornings."
Arthur's mouth curved. "You sound like the old men at the festival when they argue over crop rotations. The only difference is you have twine and etchings instead of just dusty boots."
"They have years of experience to back up their talk," Jacob noted. "I am still trying to find my first real success. I need to move faster before my Trial Year is over."
They stood together for a while and listened to the wind. A crow called from near the lane before falling silent again.
"You understand that the dirt might not give you an answer this year," Arthur said. His tone was a mix of warning and respect. "Bad soil takes time to forgive the past. Sometimes it never does, no matter how clever you are with a tool."
"I know that," Jacob said. "But I have to start somewhere. I cannot just sell enchanted brooms and hope the farm fixes itself while we sleep. If we want a real harvest in the future, we have to change what we are doing right now."
Arthur's gaze softened. He looked at his son with a new kind of weight in his eyes.
"You talk like a man twice your age," Arthur said quietly. "I am not sure if I should be proud of that or worried about the burden you are taking on."
"You can be both," Jacob replied. He let a tired smile slip through the grime on his face.
Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. "All right then. Just make sure you write everything in that notebook when you get home. Record the weather and the seeds. If you are going to spend your time on this field, do it like a professional who expects his work to be checked."
Jacob's smile grew steadier. "I will write it all down, Father. Even the stupid ideas that end up failing."
Arthur turned back toward the lane. "I will leave you to it. Don't plant more than you can look after, and stay away from the far end where the ground starts to crack. The soil is even worse down there."
When his father was gone, Jacob walked the perimeter of his plots one more time. He checked the tension of the twine and the seat of the stakes.
He let his mind rest against the vibration of the enchantments. There was no sudden growth or flashy display of power. That suited him.
Real work on a farm moved slowly. He wanted honest progress, not a quick spectacle that would fade by morning.
He looked out over the rest of the exhausted field as the furrows marched toward the trees.
"This is where it starts," he whispered to the dirt. "If I can convince you to grow, I can convince any field in the kingdom."
He tightened his satchel and turned toward the road. As he walked home, he began sorting his notes, already planning how to twist his next healing pattern.