Rain pounded hard that night, drumming against the rooftops of Ezzera like a thousand trembling fingers begging to be let in.
Inside the logistics shed, Reno sat across from Mother Yarra, both of them hunched over a fading ledger. Their hands moved quickly, recounting sacks of wheat that had mysteriously shrunk in number.
"The figures Captain Korr recorded two weeks ago… don't make sense," Yarra muttered, frowning at Reno's more recent notes.
"That's because that wheat was never recorded to be stored," Reno said evenly. "It was recorded to be sold."
He slid another sheet forward. "There's a pattern. Every harvest, part of the stock goes 'missing'. A few days later, those same goods show up in the next region's market—under the same trade house label."
Yarra raised an eyebrow. "Trade house?"
Reno tapped a line in an old shipment log he'd dug up from the western granary.
"V.A. Noctera."
The name appeared over and over—sometimes as sender, sometimes as recipient. But never once in direct correspondence with Ezzera.
Yarra grit her teeth. "So Berond's been funneling our produce to an outside trade house. Without telling the villagers…"
Reno glanced out the window, towar
Two nights later, while the rain still lashed against Ezzera, Reno slipped into a building most had forgotten even existed: the village archive house.
He carried a small oil lantern. His footsteps were soft against the damp wood floors, swallowed by years of dust and cobwebs. The room smelled like time itself had been abandoned there.
Inside a rust-hinged cabinet, he found small crates filled with parchment rolls and rough paper—many too brittle to unfold.
He began reading, fingers sifting quickly through contracts and records.
Then:
"Trade Contract No. 017 – Ezzera Village – Sanctioned by the Southern Novera Regional Administration."
At the bottom: a red wax seal depicting a limping crane. And beneath it, one name:
V.A. Noctera
But what made Reno pause wasn't that.
It was the next page. At the bottom, under Regional Supervisor:
Aurelien
The villagers wouldn't recognize the name. But the format, the seal, the precise legal phrasing... it was too clean. Too high-level.
This wasn't just a trade house.
"Could Noctera be a front? A mask for another power?"
Reno didn't jump to conclusions. But he wrote the following in his notebook:
"V.A. Noctera is not an ordinary trade house. Possibly part of a power network… Aurelien?"
V.A. Noctera… V. Aurelien Noctera?
The next morning, Reno walked the soggy fields with Tomas, boots squelching in the mud. He spread word about a wild mushroom that could serve as a spice substitute—growing near the eastern woods.
"If this works out, we could shift Berond's focus to land disputes," Tomas said. "While Mira and I handle distribution quietly."
"Good," Reno replied. "We need a small crisis. Something that shows us who panics... and who thinks."
Over the next few days, Reno orchestrated three minor crises:
A partial fire in the main granary—caused by a quiet oil spark at dawn.
The village's water supply was cut for a full day—under the excuse of "canal maintenance."
Conflicting orders were spread about the harvest collection—one from Korr, one from Tomas.
Reno wasn't looking for solutions. He was looking for people.
And just as he expected:
Tomas formed an emergency distribution team without waiting for orders.
Mira personally calmed the frightened women and children.
Yarra—long before any of it—had already moved a portion of the wheat to a safer location.
They never coordinated openly. But they moved in the same direction.
And for Reno... that was enough.
That night, Reno sat alone behind a stack of grain sacks. Outside, the rain still hadn't stopped. But in his chest, something warm stirred—not from fire, but from confirmation.
Ezzera was still ruled by Berond's dirty hands and Korr's cruel fists.
But a foundation had been laid.
The pillars weren't complete—still fractured, still uncertain. But they were solid. Strong in ways outsiders wouldn't notice.
Mira — a heart that felt the people's pain.Tomas — hands that could command under pressure.Yarra — a mind that understood the rhythms of supply and survival.
And Reno?
The shadow behind them all.
From his satchel, he pulled out a chipped piece of wood—taken secretly from the archive house. Carved into it was a faint wax seal: a limping crane.
He stared at it for a long while. Then smiled faintly.
This wasn't just wood. This was a political artifact.
Proof that Ezzera wasn't always broken. That before Berond and Korr ruled through fear, there was something larger. More structured. Cleaner.
And now, Reno might have found the crack.
Not to beg for help.
But to slip inside.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
"To uproot the rot, sometimes you must pretend you're planting something new."