Soon, breaktime was over, and Rowan's parents and Nytra had to open the store again. They would stay open until sunset. This meant that kids had time to enjoy the things they had bought today.
Rowan watched them play around in the comfortable living room above the shop.
Lilly was attacking her new practice dummy with the wooden rapier moving with flashes of unexpected speed. The thwack of wood on padded cloth was a familiar sound from when he used to practice as a kid.
Alexia had taken up a corner of the kitchen table, her newly acquired beakers and flasks meticulously arranged. She was experimenting with a few spare oils and essences her grandmother had left out, measuring them with a serious look. A faint, sweet scent of mint and lemon drifted from her station.
Alex was hunched over his new, leather cover ledger, the new silver tip pen gliding across the thick parchment. He was just testing the ink flow and the precision of his lines from it. He also seemed to like how well made the paper was.
In Rowan's arms, Lucia was a warmly tucked in with a small blanket around her. Her peaceful breathing gave him a profound sense of peace in simply holding her.
And then there was Darius.
He was sitting cross legged on the floor, completely absorbed. His grandfather had given him a small, irregularly shaped block of aromatic cedar and a small, dull carving tool. It was meant to be harmless, a simple distraction.
Yet, Darius worked with a look of passion that was remarkable. Unlike what Rowan expected, the boy wasn't hacking at the wood with his usual energy. Darius was taking his time carving a shape out of it.
Tiny shavings curled onto the floor around him. Rowan couldnt yet tell exactly what the boy was creating and didn't want to ask either. He didn't want to distract the boy who seemed to be locked in.
Rowan felt a familiar pang of confusion and hope. The boy still hadn't found his path. Swords, bows, staves, none of those had sparked. But here, with a piece of wood and a gentle tool, he was entirely, peacefully consumed. His hands, usually so tight and disciplined from his military drills, moved with a surprising softness and focus.
Maybe his talent isn't a weapon or magic, Rowan thought, leaning back against the sofa. Maybe it's creation.
Both Rowan and Yue Ling were masters at taking lives and causing widespread destruction. So maybe, just maybe, the world was countering the two of them by blessing their child with the talent to create.
There was more time to explore this as he wanted to entrust Darius to his father tomorrow. The man was planning to work on his newly acquired Shadowfen log. He wouldn't mind Darius watching or helping a bit as an assistant.
Rowan really wanted to see if his father could draw out the talent in his boy. Bjorn would agree as nothing made him happier than if his grandson became a craftsman like him.
He decided to leave Darius to his quiet craft. The boy needed time, and Rowan wouldn't rush him. Not for the possible talent required time and patience. He smiled, holding his sleeping princess close, surrounded by his children.
…
In a nearby inn, Elara Voss was sprawled on her bed. The earlier conversation with Rowan had left her exhausted. She had felt that the monster of a man was scrutinizing her throughout the entire meeting.
She could feel that he didn't trust her yet. That was to be given as her timing was too perfect and her personality and traits were just what he was looking for in a trade partner.
Too many coincidences are not a coincidence at all, and she understood this very well. This was on purpose, a part of the angle she was playing. The more you distrust someone, when they prove themselves innocent, more you trust them.
It was simply her taking advantage of people's willingness to be nicer after you dissuade their doubts. People feel guilty of mistrusting you for no reason and she was going to use that.
Keeping up the persona while feeling that man's power subtly leaking out is nerve-racking. He was hiding it well but I wouldn't mistake that aura of a murderer.
Elara had cold sweats inside her clothes when staying front of Rowan. She knew and could sense that the man could chop her in half the moment he thought of her as a threat.
After lying down for a while, she sighed and got up. She was getting hungry because of that ordeal so she went down and left her inn. A group of professionally dressed 'employees' of her so called merchant group followed her out.
She wanted to try out a restaurant that was highly praised by the travveling gourmets. The restaurant was not something she could usually afford but the agencies had given her a big budget. It was to make sure she displayed the correct wealth level and hobbies of a wealthy woman who enjoys the finer things in life.
The road to the restaurant went past the Blacksun's shop so she naturally walked past it. That's when the overwhelming scent of a hearty boar stew went into her nostrils. The scent was earthy and inviting, making her almost want to go in and taste some for herself,
Elara is reminded of the times when she was younger, and her mom would cook at home. Those meals were the best of her life, it was filled with a mother's love. This smell of boar stew reminded her of those times,
After this mission, I should take a vacation and visit mom.
Elara walked past the shop quickly as she didn't want to linger in the scent that reminded her of her mother. It was already hard enough to keep acting as Lyra. Unlike the Blacksun family, which has 5 generations all alive and harmonious, she just has a single mother.
Her father had abandoned her and her mother before she was born and her mother's side had kicked them out.
Elara internally shook her head at her thoughts. I should report my progress after lunch.
She soon made her way to the restaurant called The Gilded Fork. It is renowned for its delicate and artful cuisine. The interior was covered in white linen and polished silver
She was seated quickly, and her 'employees' positioned themselves discreetly at a separate table, maintaining their cover.
Elara, maintaining the persona of Lyra Thorne, ordered the house specialties: a deconstructed pheasant consommé, a trio of magically infused cheese served with fig foam and quail cooked in wine served on a bed of saffron risotto.
The dishes were a sight for the eyes and flavor for the mouth. The consommé was a perfect amber, held an intense, pure flavor that danced on the tongue. The cheese and foam plate contained tiny bites but also had a complex taste for the 2 seconds she could taste them for.
The quail was tender enough to be cut with a fork and visually stunning. The meat melted in her mouth.
The Gilded Fork excelled at flavor and fine presentation. Each dish was a marvel indeed.
But as Elara cleaned her plate, which took only a few quick, elegant bites for each course. a familiar, hollow feeling settled in her stomach.
She had just consumed nearly 70 silver coins' worth of food, and yet, she felt unsatisfied. The meal had engaged her palate and satisfied her Lyra Thorne persona, but it hadn't satisfied Elara.
The food here was good, no doubt about that, but it possessed no heart.
She thought back to the brief, overwhelming scent of the boar stew wafting from the Blacksun's shop…a smell that was thick, earthy, and inviting. It had the scent of low, slow heat, of hands that had chopped vegetables and stirred meat with love.
That stew, she knew, was a meal. The food on her plate was an not.
She took a final sip of her overpriced chilled white wine. This is what wealth buys, she thought, placing her napkin neatly on the table. Flavors without substance..
She signaled for the check, a cold knot of discontent in her belly. She needed to report her progress to her superiors, but all she really wanted was a single, thick, crusty slice of sourdough bread dipped in that heavy, peasant-simple boar broth.
She was still hungry. The mission and its attached wealth and identity had bought her a perfect meal, but it hadn't given her any true comfort.
Later, Elara returned to her room at the inn, the rich aroma of the boar stew still in her memory and the taste of the meal washed out by water.
She secured the room's deadbolt and walked over to the small desk. From a concealed compartment in her traveling case, she withdrew a small and dull gray stone, smooth as river rock and cool to the touch.
This was a compact and the latest version of the whisperstone, made only for the relevant departments like her's to use. She placed the stone on the desk and centered her meager mana, focusing her intent.
Almost instantly, a faint, metallic voice, deep and gravely, resonated from the stone, filling the small room.
"Report, Thorne."
"General Stonehard," Elara replied, maintaining her clear and confident tone "I have secured the meeting. Rowan Blacksun has agreed to a farm visit the day after tomorrow, nine in the morning. He will meet my carriage at the town entrance."
A brief, low static sound followed, indicating the General was processing the information.
"Excellent. That is faster than anticipated. Give us the full assessment."
"The initial assessment stands," Elara continued. "Blacksun is suspicious, but he is proceeding. I believe he has a slight suspicion of me but it is within planned bounds. That merchant named Hemlock's did his job well."
She paused, then delivered the key intelligence gathered during her visit.
"However, General, I have confirmed a significant detail regarding the children. I saw all five of them. They were present at his parents' shop. But there is a notable security presence around the youngest, Lucia."
"Elaborate." The General's voice was instantly sharper, laced with a new urgency.
"The girl fell asleep in a private room. There was an extremely high-level, subtle noise-dampening spell around her chair. The spell was not his own doing, as we know that his magic control doesn't extend to more precise magics. He relies on brute force magic."
Elara lowered her voice, the professional assessment clear. "The spell was similar to the Bloodsworth clan's secret forces' magic. It can be assumed that Vampire Ninjas are in the area. They have placed a discreet, protective detail around Princess Lucia, as we suspected."
The static on the line intensified for a moment, then a new voice, smooth and melodic, cut in.
"A fine piece of observation, Agent Thorne," said Director Seraphina. "The clan's vigilance is tiresome but predictable. Their agent's presence confirms the child's importance to the clan's elders."
General Stonehard returned. "Understood. Their security net is nearly infallible. It had only failed once...Cheryl Bloodsworth over 5 years ago. And that was only because their foe was equally strong and very well prepared.
Even then, their foe failed because Lady Cheryl escaped and was then protected by Rowan, whose farm she chanced upon.
Do not poke at the princess of that clan at all. Your mission is information. Your current actions are exemplary, Thorne. Maintain the character."
"We are pleased with your progress, Agent Thorne. You are doing well. Keep the stone safe. We will be waiting." added the director.
The whisperstone went instantly quiet, the connection severed.
Elara let out a slow, controlled breath, the tension leaving her shoulders. She had delivered her report and was validated. Soon, she would go to the Blacksun farm. She was ready.
...
The next morning dawned clear, the dry heat already building even before the sun fully cleared the eastern horizon. Rowan stood by, watching his father and Darius walk toward the small workshop attached to the back of the shop.
Bjorn carried a large, gray block of wood under one arm. It was the rare Shadowfen the man had bought yesterday. Darius, walking a respectful half-step behind, held his own small block of wood he'd started carving in the shop yesterday.
"No watching today, son," Bjorn rumbled, stopping to face Rowan. His eyes, usually full of gentle warmth, held a focused intensity. "This Shadowfen log… it's temperamental. It's a master's piece, and I need absolute quiet and focus. It's also my first time teaching, and I want the boy to feel the craft, without an audience."
Rowan nodded, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. He respected his father's request. The legendary Shadowfen wood was not just expensive; it was magically reactive, known for its ability to absorb and dampen sound and mana, and working it required a meditative state.
"Understood, Father. Lunch is at noon as always. I'll call you then." Rowan informed.
Bjorn simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of their shared warrior discipline, and then led Darius into the workshop, closing the thick door with a soft thunk.
Rowan turned and walked back toward the house, a sense of quiet hope settling over him. Darius, the son of two soldiers, was seeking his purpose in crafting and not war.
He never was never a man who wanted war. He didn't want his children to fight if they could avoid it. But the world wasnt that ideal so he didn't mind it when almost all his children had talent that could protect them.
Maybe they could even protect their brother if he wasn't good at fighting. But Bjorn, Rowan's father, was not just a craftsman. He had turned his ability to create into a type of strength.
A hidden type that even he was afraid of. Maybe Darius could do the same. Rowan didn't want to dwell on these ideas too much. What will happen will happen on its own. His job was to just protect the kid.
Inside the workshop, the air was cool and still, thanks to the thick stone walls and Bjorn's subtle ventilation system.
Bjorn set his block of shadowfen on a small, cleared section of the main workbench. He then laid out a modest set of tools. There were chisels of various sizes, simple knives, and planes, each one polished and maintained with the kind of obsessive care only a true craftsman understands.
"This log is for the Archduke's commission, Darius," Bjorn explained, his voice low and serious. "It has to be perfect. Today, you watch and listen. No talking, unless you have a true question. I need to get into the woods' rhythm."
Darius, already sitting on a stool provided by his grandfather, nodded crisply, his own cedar block resting in his lap. He felt the weight of the moment.
Bjorn took a deep, centering breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the world outside the log seemed to cease to exist. He picked up his block and started working.
He didn't sketch or measure. Instead, he simply ran his massive hand over the block, feeling the grain. Then, with a medium-sized, razor sharp chisel, he made his first cut.
It was a gentle, loving shave. The curl of wood that came away was thin and perfect, spiraling to the floor. His movements were slow and precise, a paradox of grace coming from a man of his gargantuan size. The sound of the tool against the wood was a continuous hush hush.
It was a steady rhythm that spoke of a deep conversation between craftsman and his prized material.
"When you carve, Darius," Bjorn murmured, his gaze never leaving the wood, "You are not putting a shape into the block. You are carving a shape out of it..."
He demonstrated, turning the block slightly and making a series of delicate cuts. Slowly, the silhouette of a sturdy bear began to emerge from the oak. The lines were simple, honest, and powerful, capturing the essence of the animal with almost no waste of material.
Darius watched for nearly an hour, motionless, his gaze following the path of the chisel. He watched his grandfather's hands, the subtle shifts in pressure, the way his knuckles would whiten just before a deep cut.
Then, he picked up his own wood block and his dull carving tool. He didn't try to copy the bear. Instead, he ran his small hands over the surface of the dark oak, feeling the grain. He had an idea of what was inside the wood, a shape that felt right.
He started carving. His initial cuts were clumsy, but that quickly changed. He naturally found a comfortable grip, realizing that the shape he wanted required a smooth, circular motion, a scoop rather than a shave. He was instinctively developing his own technique.
Bjorn, working on the Shadowfen log, now carefully outlining the initial framework for the Archduke's gray bear, glanced over. His eyes widened almost instantly.
Darius wasn't carving a bear or a lion. He was carving a sphere. Not a perfect sphere, but a rough globe. His cuts were slow, and the shavings were imperfect, but the intent was pure and focused.
He was peeling away the excess to find the core. Bjorn, a master of his craft for over fifty years, paused his work. He was utterly surprised.
The boy isn't copying my technique.
Darius's style, even in this nascent stage, was a carving form of beauty. It was a quiet, deep talent that felt utterly distinct from the boisterous energy of the rest of Rowan's line.
Bjorn returned to his work, his quiet pride swelling. He didn't need to teach Darius how to carve...he only needed to teach him the basic honesty and respect for the wood. The boy had found his own language.