The day stretched long over the fields, the sun glinting off the leaning stalks of wheat.
Kaizlan Valric stood beside his father, helping him fasten coarse ropes around a small cart loaded with harvest.
The work was not unfamiliar, yet it felt heavier than it had in childhood; the arm that had held a sword for years now knew the weight of the earth as well.
His father tied the last knot and said:
"The hand that learns to sow… will not betray when it takes up a sword."
Kaizlan gave no reply. He only pulled the rope tighter, then cast his gaze toward the dirt road leading into town.
⸻
By midday, he entered the town with Deril, who was pulling a second cart.
The markets were busier than before—voices louder, faces more varied.
Strange merchants spoke in different accents, and new soldiers stood at the gate, watching those who came and went with cold eyes.
Deril stopped at a wood seller to haggle over prices, while Kaizlan made his way to the grain vendor.
As he bargained, a young man in a fine coat embroidered with gold thread approached—one of the local nobles' sons.
He glanced at the cart, then at Kaizlan, and said coolly:
"Strange to see a son of House Valric trading with his own hands, like common folk."
Heat rose in Kaizlan's chest, but he held his composure and answered calmly:
"A hand that does not work… cannot know the value of what it holds."
The noble laughed dismissively and turned away, leaving behind a mocking remark that Deril did not hear—but Kaizlan caught every word.
⸻
On the road home, Kaizlan remained silent.
Deril spoke of timber prices and the state of the market, but Kaizlan's thoughts were elsewhere:
"So this is how they see us… even here, in our small town. If this is the weight of the Valric name, how can we stand against greater ones?"
⸻
Back at the house, he sat by the window, staring at the road that led to town.
There was no sorrow or anger in his eyes—only a sharpened awareness.
He opened his notebook and wrote:
"Not all battles are fought in the yard.
Sometimes they begin with a word, a glance, or a mocking laugh.
And the wound left behind… cuts deeper than any sword."