Location: Branhal – Healer's Hut and Longhouse Time: Morning to Night, Day 43
Arrival
The horse was pale and clean, its barding stamped with the sun-and-crown insignia of Midgard, though subtly — no fanfare, no banners.
The rider wore traveling leathers and a short cloak. Not armored, but certainly not unarmed. A shortsword hung at his hip, clean but well-used. He dismounted outside the square just past dawn, his boots barely stirring the dust.
His eyes swept the village.
Not in awe.
In evaluation.
Alec stood near the well with Dal and Fenn, marking irrigation flow with a charcoal stick. The moment he saw the horse crest, his body stilled.
He handed the stick to Dal. "Take over. Use a sharper angle at the west slope. It'll adjust."
Dal blinked. "What? You're not staying?"
"I've just been summoned."
First Contact
The rider was greeted by Headman Harwin, who met him near the granary. Mira and a few other villagers watched from a safe distance — close enough to hear, far enough to pretend they weren't.
Alec approached slowly.
The rider noticed immediately.
He stepped forward, pulled a sealed scroll from his satchel, and offered it with a courteous bow.
"A message, by the grace of Her Grace Vaelora of Midgard," he said. "To Alec — the man who turned a dying village into a rising one."
Alec accepted the scroll without expression.
The seal was crimson wax, embossed with a curling sun edged in golden flames. No broken edges. Fresh.
He nodded. "You've delivered it. Are you to wait for a reply?"
"I am to escort you, if you choose to accept."
Alec tucked the scroll under one arm. "Then wait."
And walked away.
The Letter
Inside the healer's hut, Alec lit the corner of the scroll gently to melt the wax and opened it.
The writing was fluid, elegant — a practiced noble hand with a scholar's mind behind it.
To the one known as Alec,
Your work in Branhal has not gone unnoticed.
While the land remembers the rot of famine, it now also whispers of rivers flowing where they never reached, of gears turning where none turned before.
I am not a woman prone to fantasy, nor one easily impressed.
But I am one who listens.
I extend to you an invitation — not a summons — to speak in my court at Armathane, as a guest under Midgard's protection. No man shall bind you, nor burden you, nor press oath upon you under my seal.
I would simply hear from your own lips what the wind seems so eager to carry on its back.
Come, Alec. Let me understand what it is the world has gained — or what it is about to lose.
— Vaelora, Duchess of Midgard
Alec read it twice.
Then once again.
Reading the Subtext
He set the letter down on the cot and sat beside it, elbows on his knees.
It wasn't a command. That was deliberate.
No claim of dominance. No assumption of allegiance.
Instead, she chose language of invitation — power disguised in politeness. She left the door open wide, but subtly let him know she was watching. Listening.
She offered protection not because she thought he feared death, but because she understood he feared containment.
And the closing?
"Let me understand."
That wasn't curiosity.
That was control.
She was asking if he intended to be a kingmaker, a threat… or a mistake.
She would determine which.
Harwin's Advice
Later that day, Alec sat across from Headman Harwin in the longhouse, the letter lying flat between them.
The old man tapped the edge of it with a thick finger. "I've seen summons before. Never this... graceful."
"It's bait," Alec said. "Laced in flattery."
"Yes. But it's not poisoned."
"Not yet."
Harwin studied him. "Do you intend to go?"
"I haven't decided."
Harwin sighed. "I'll say this — when I first saw you, I thought you were a storm in waiting. Now I see you're a map, unfolding line by line. And the duchess?"
"She's the one holding the compass," Alec said.
Harwin gave a grim chuckle. "Just make sure she doesn't draw you into her legend. Once you become someone else's story, it's hard to reclaim your own."
Mira's Warning
That evening, Mira found Alec standing outside the granary, watching the sun fall behind the tree line.
"You got the letter," she said.
"I did."
"And you're going."
He didn't answer.
Mira stepped beside him. "You always go toward fire. Even when you don't need to."
"She's not fire," Alec said. "She's cold steel, waiting for the forge."
"And you think you'll shape her?"
"I think she'll try to shape me."
Mira folded her arms. "And when she sees you're not a man who bends?"
Alec finally looked at her. "Then we'll both learn something."
Mira was quiet for a long time.
Then she said, softly, "You won't come back the same."
He didn't respond.
She didn't expect him to.
Jorren's Perspective
Alec found the blacksmith by the forge fire, hammering out teeth for a new waterwheel gear. Sparks danced in the low dusk.
"You saw the rider," Alec said.
Jorren didn't stop hammering.
"Hard to miss a man with that many rings on his belt and no dirt under his nails."
"She's calling me to Armathane."
Jorren set the hammer down, wiped his brow, and looked at him.
"You goin'?"
"I think I have to."
"Then listen to me," Jorren said, voice low. "Whatever you're building here — machines, maps, methods — they don't mean a damn thing if you don't protect who they're for. This village is changing because you showed us how. But they'll take it. Twist it. Use it for war if they can."
"I know."
"Do you?" Jorren stepped closer. "'Cause once you stand in a court, you're not just a man. You're a symbol. And the world tears symbols apart faster than it builds them."
Alec met his gaze. "Then I'll make sure I'm not easy to tear."
The Decision
That night, Alec sat by candlelight at the small desk in the healer's hut, staring at a clean parchment.
He dipped the quill, then paused.
Words came easily to him. But this letter… required something else.
Finally, he wrote:
To Her Grace, Duchess Vaelora of Midgard,
I have read your invitation.
I will come.
I do not come as a subject, nor a tool, nor a trophy.
I come as a man with eyes open.
And I expect the same.
— Alec
He signed it, sealed it with wax, and left it outside for the rider to retrieve at dawn.
Then he returned to the cot, lay down beside the hearthlight...
And stared at the ceiling for hours.