Meanwhile, in Clara's warm, fragrant soap workshop, a different kind of instruction was underway.
Clara, wearing a neat linen apron and a pair of small, protective spectacles, stood before a polished copper cauldron. Alexia, equally serious in her own clean apron, stood beside her.
Lucia sat nearby on a small wooden bench, happily munching a fresh shortbread cookie and sorting a small pile of bright purple and yellow flower petals Clara had given her.
"The secret to true rose soap, Alexia, is the oils you use," Clara explained, her voice a low, focused hum. "The farmed roses are too commercial. We use the wild mountain rose, which your father grows on our farm. It has a slight mana signature, adding to the scent."
She demonstrated, taking a handful of fresh, crimson petals and placing them gently into a large glass flask. She poured in a precise amount of clear base oil, then sealed the flask.
"Now, we infuse," Clara instructed. "Most shops rely on brute heat, but heat kills the subtle mana. We use a gentle, weak mana transfer spell, one part preservation, one part extraction."
Alexia's blue eyes tracked every movement. "The preservation spell maintains the cellular integrity of the petal, thus preventing the degradation of the volatile aromatic compounds. The extraction spell, being low-grade, allows for a slow, full saturation of the base oil without thermal damage. I understand."
Clara smiled. "You understand the words well, little witch."
Clara placed her hand on the flask, and a soft, amber mana pulsed from her palm. The oil inside began to swirl faintly, absorbing the rose essence with patience. The scent in the room intensified, becoming very fresh.
"The better the mana control, the purer the oil," Clara finished, removing her hand. "Try it."
Alexia, intrigued, placed her hand on a small flask containing mint leaves and oil. Her mana, a cold, focused blue, was far more intense than Clara's amber glow. She focused, attempting to replicate the gentle pressure her grandmother had applied.
The oil in the flask immediately began to swirl violently, the mint leaves ripping apart under the unexpected force. The air filled with an aggressive, sharp scent of mint.
Alexia quickly pulled her hand back, her face flushed with scientific frustration. "A clear failure of control. The precision required is exponential."
Clara chuckled, patting her shoulder. "Control is learned, dear. Your mother taught you the power of mana. I will teach you the patience of it. Now, fetch the milled indigo root. We'll work on the base color while the rose oil settles."
Meanwhile, outside in the sprawling backyard of the shop, Lilly was fully engrossed in her own, intensely physical education.
The two padded practice dummies, stuffed with old straw and wearing worn burlap tunics, were her current opponents. Her wooden rapier flashed with a speed that belied her age.
Thwack! A sharp, fast thrust to the gut of the first dummy. THWACK! A quick, circular parry motion that struck the second dummy's head.
She was sweating lightly, her breathing ragged, but her emerald eyes were ablaze with the focus of a true fighter. She didn't have her mother's strength, but she possessed an unnatural, intuitive sense of distance and timing.
She would strike just outside the arc of an imaginary sword, retreating before the counterswing could land.
"Poke and run! Poke and run!" she chanted to herself, a fierce, tiny shadow dancing in the sunlight. Her technique was unrefined, but the intent was pure: to poke and run.
Clara smiled. "You understand the words well, little witch."
Clara placed her hand on the flask, and a soft, amber mana pulsed from her palm. The oil inside began to swirl faintly, absorbing the rose essence with patience. The scent in the room intensified, becoming very fresh.
"The better the mana control, the purer the oil," Clara finished, removing her hand. "Try it."
Alexia, intrigued, placed her hand on a small flask containing mint leaves and oil. Her mana, a cold, focused blue, was far more intense than Clara's amber glow. She focused, attempting to replicate the gentle pressure her grandmother had applied.
The oil in the flask immediately began to swirl violently, the mint leaves ripping apart under the unexpected force. The air filled with an aggressive, sharp scent of mint.
Alexia quickly pulled her hand back, her face flushed with scientific frustration. "A clear failure of control. The precision required is exponential."
Clara chuckled, patting her shoulder. "Control is learned, dear. Your mother taught you the power of mana. I will teach you the patience of it. Now, fetch the milled indigo root. We'll work on the base color while the rose oil settles."
Meanwhile, outside in the sprawling side backyardyard of the shop, Lilly was fully engrossed in her own, intensely physical education.
The two padded practice dummies, stuffed with old straw and wearing worn burlap tunics, were her current opponents. Her wooden rapier flashed with a speed that belied her age.
Thwack! A sharp, fast thrust to the gut of the first dummy. THWACK! A quick, circular parry motion that struck the second dummy's head.
She was sweating lightly, her breathing ragged, but her emerald eyes were ablaze with the focus of a true fighter. She didn't have her mother's strength, but she possessed an unnatural, intuitive sense of distance and timing. She would strike just outside the arc of an imaginary greatsword, retreating before the counter-swing could land.
"Poke and run! Poke and run!" she chanted to herself, a fierce, tiny shadow dancing in the sunlight. Her technique was unrefined, but the intent was pure: to poke and run.
Back inside the second floor living room, Rowan sat at the simple writing desk.
He had dipped a fine quill into an inkwell and was writing on a sheet of his thick parchment. It was to become a personal letter to his former second-in-command.
The letter was direct and filled with the unspoken trust that only comes from years of fighting side by side.
He wrote the following:
To Lieutenant Selene Amon, wherever the waves have taken you,
I hope this letter finds you with a chest full of gold. And perhaps with fewer, almost fatal encounters with sea serpents than the last time we spoke.
I write to you not as your former Commander, but as a father with a peculiar problem. My eldest daughter, Lilliana, we call her Lilly, has decided her path is the blade.
Not the brute force of my old Demon-Splitter, but the speed and finesse of the rapier. She moves like a blur, but she needs discipline and proper form.
Frankly, Selene, I am useless. I know how to chop a demon in half; I don't know how to teach an elegant thrust.
I am requesting a long-term favor. I need you to tutor her. A tutor who understands the dance of the rapier, the art of controlling the distance, and the philosophy of the swift, precise strike. A tutor who is, quite simply, the best rapier master I have ever known.
I am prepared to offer a substantial sum in gold, or, more temptingly, a long-term exclusive supply of my best ingredients and handmade food while you're on the farm. I know you still rely on the sea and its lost treasures but how about a break?
Think about it. A stable supply of food made from fresh ingredients that cost silver and gold.
You would need to commit a significant amount of time to my farm, but that is a plus since it's more comfortable than your rickety ship.
Also, Shiori misses you terribly. She asks about you every morning (in a horse way, of course).
Please respond via the usual Imperial Dispatch method as usual. I will await your answer.
Your friend and perpetually indebted Commander,
Rowan Blacksun.
...
Rowan placed the letter on the desk to dry, sealing it with a small wax stamp bearing the Blacksun crest.
After waiting for a bit, Rowan took the sealed letter from the desk and headed downstairs.
As he reached the main shop floor, he spotted Alex standing near the main counter. The boy was leaning on the oak wood, his gaze fixed on Nytra, who was expertly negotiating the sale of a batch of rose-scented soaps with a noblewoman.
Alex's expression was one of studious concentration, clearly trying to absorb his aunt's business technique.
Rowan gave Alex and Nytra a quick wave. Alex nodded once, his eyes not leaving Nytra's swift calculation of taxes and discounts. Nytra flashed Rowan a brief, bright smile that said, Don't worry, big brother, I've got this.
Rowan pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped back out onto the busy thoroughfare.
He walked a short distance down the main road until he reached a distinguished, well-kept white stone building. An authoritative sign over the entrance read: Imperial Dispatch.
This was the hub where the King's decrees and regional news were printed for local distribution, and, more importantly, where citizens could pay a fee to have messages sent anywhere within the vast Bluecrown Kingdom.
Rowan entered. The air inside was quiet and cool, smelling faintly of old paper and busy old men. He approached a polished wooden counter where a silver-haired, kindly old man with a pair of reading spectacles perched on his nose sat attending to documents.
"Good morning, Mr. Finn," Rowan greeted the receptionist.
Rowan had seen this man on this desk his entire life. The man also knew him very well, seeing the farmboy lad grow up as a knight and then back to a farm man.
"Commander Blacksun," the old man replied, looking up with a respectful nod. "A busy day for a farmer, I see. What can the Empire do for you?"
Rowan placed the sealed letter on the counter. "I need this dispatched to the coast, mister Finn. To Lieutenant Selene Amon. The address is Port of Green, the usual docking area."
Both her name and the address were written on the letter.
Mr. Finn gently picked up the letter, carefully weighing the parchment in his hand and glancing at the specified destination. Port of Green, a major coastal city on the far side of the kingdom. It was one of the furthest standard destinations.
"Port of Green, Commander Blacksun. A long distance for a private letter," Mr. Finn murmured, pulling out a standardized rate sheet. He tapped a number with a practiced finger. "That will be fifty seven copper, all included for express Imperial delivery. A fair price, considering the distance."
Rowan reached into the leather pouch his mother had given him, retrieved the necessary copper coins, and paid the amount without a word.
"Excellent. This will be in the hands of the coastal dispatch rider by noon tomorrow," Mr. Finn confirmed, placing the letter into a slot labelled Coastal Express.
Rowan gave a brief nod of thanks and headed out, the subtle tension of the day lifting a little. The letter was on its way. Now, all he had to do was wait for the response and focus on his meeting with the suspicious Lyra Thorne.
The next morning, it was as hot as usual. Rowan arrived at the town gates with his massive carriage, his children safely settled inside, and him in the driver's seat, just as they had arrived two days prior.
Lyra Thorne's carriage was waiting for them at the gates of the town. It was fancy, but as ostentatious as his. It was a well maintained vehicle pulled by two healthy, strong horses smaller than Shiori and Capper.
They are normal workhorses rather than the specialised warhorses of Rowan's.
Lyra Thorne herself stood calmly outside, dressed in a light, tailored travel suit. She offered Rowan a quick, professional nod of acknowledgement before stepping inside her carriage. Behind her, two basic wagons, each pulled by a single horse and filled with her 'staff,' waited.
Rowan led the way, his carriage moving first, setting the pace for the journey back to the farm, with Lyra's procession following in his wake.