If I were back home, this would be the part where I open Google Maps, zoom in on my new property, and check out satellite imagery to see where to build my empire. But no. Here, my "Google Maps" was a hand-drawn parchment map that looked like a five-year-old's art project.
"This is the estate's agricultural zone, my lord."
My steward, Bartholomew—seventy years old, thin as a rake, and somehow more wrinkled than the map—tapped his bony finger on a brown smudge labeled "Fields."
"They're rectangular?" I asked, squinting at the lopsided blobs.
"In spirit, my lord. On the ground, they… follow the land's natural shape."
Natural shape? That sounded harmless. It wasn't.
The first field looked decent from a distance. Nice open space, plenty of sunlight, a few patches of green. Then I stepped into it and immediately stubbed my toe on a massive tree stump.
"Why," I asked slowly, "is there a tree stump the size of a dining table in the middle of the plowed row?"
Bartholomew smiled like I'd just complimented his cooking. "Ah, yes. A landmark! Farmers have been plowing around it for generations. Wouldn't do to remove it. It's tradition."
Tradition. Right. Because tradition feeds people.
I scanned the rest of the field. It was like a minefield of stumps, all evenly spaced as if some drunk landscape designer had been going for "rustic obstacle course." To plow this land, you'd have to zigzag so much you'd get dizzy.
We moved to the next plot. At first glance, it was gorgeous—rich, dark soil stretching to the horizon.
"This," I said, "is more like it."
Then we rounded a small hill and came face-to-face with… The Rock. Not Dwayne Johnson. Worse.
It was a boulder the size of a cottage, smack in the middle of the field. No, wait—two boulders.
"How did these even get here?" I demanded.
"No one knows, my lord. They've always been here."
"And nobody's tried to move them?"
"Of course not. They're too heavy to move. So we plant around them. The shade is quite good for napping."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. This wasn't farming—it was geological hostage negotiation.
"This next field should be your finest," Bartholomew said cheerfully.
It wasn't a field. It was a swamp. A green, bubbling, mosquito-infested swamp that stank like a giant had dumped all his socks in it.
"This isn't even on the map!" I shouted.
"Oh, the swamp moves, my lord. Last year it was down near the sheep pasture. It has a… migratory habit."
Migratory swamp. I was ninety percent sure I'd read about this in a horror novel.
Speaking of sheep…
"They're hardy stock," the shepherd bragged. Hardy? These things were demons in wool coats.
I watched one bite a fence post clean in half. Another was chewing on another sheep's wool. A third stared at me with the blank, soul-devouring gaze of a serial killer.
"They eat… wood?" I asked.
"Anything, my lord. It keeps them strong."
I made a mental note: Never fall asleep near the sheep.
By this point, I was desperate for some normal medieval incompetence. Bartholomew, clearly sensing this, led me to the irrigation channels.
"They bring water from the river, my lord."
Except they didn't. The channels were dug in the wrong direction, draining water away from the fields like some reverse-farming death trap.
"Who designed this?" I asked.
"Old Master Wilton, the previous steward. A brilliant man."
"Brilliant at what? Killing crops?"
Bartholomew frowned, clearly offended. "It's not polite to speak ill of the dead."
I rubbed my temples. "I'll speak ill of the living if they keep this up."
Back at the estate house, I gathered the "core staff."
Bartholomew, Traditionalist Stump Enthusiast.
Captain Raynard, the guard captain who believed every problem could be solved with armed patrols.
Miriam, the maid who acted like pulling weeds was a mortal sin.
I laid it out plainly. "The estate is a disaster. We're going to fix it."
Bartholomew looked scandalized. "But my lord—"
"No. No buts. The stumps go."
Raynard raised a hand. "Do you require my men to… execute the stumps?"
"…No. Just remove them."
Miriam gasped. "But my lord, the swamp—people vanish there!"
"Then drain it. Or fence it. Or… look, I don't care, just make it stop migrating like it's got travel plans."
They all stared at me like I'd suggested turning the castle into a space station. This was going to be harder than I thought.
That night, I stood on the balcony, staring over my "domain." The moonlight glinted off the swamp. A sheep bleated ominously in the distance. Somewhere out there, a rock sat smugly in its field, daring me to move it.
I clenched my fists. "Fine. You want to fight me, land? I'll fight you. We'll make this place the jewel of the kingdom, even if it kills me…"
A pause. "…Which it probably will."