The day was still young when Deril opened the wooden workshop at the edge of the fields.
He placed bundles of timber on the table, running his fingers along the dark veins of the wood as if reading a line written in fine script.
Moments later, Kaizlan Valric entered, carrying a new rope and an oiled cloth.
Without looking up, Deril said:
"A good rope saves the cart before it breaks. A bad rope makes us heroes… for only a few seconds."
Kaizlan gave a small smile.
"I don't want to be a hero for seconds."
Deril cut the rope's edge with care.
"Nor do I. I want one more day of work."
His words were simple—yet within them lay his philosophy: survival is an art, not a slogan.
⸻
The two stepped into the yard. A small cart awaited repair: a tilted wheel, a loose nail, and an excess load of firewood.
Deril crouched by the axle, set a wedge beneath the wheel, looped the rope at a precise angle, and pulled it tight.
"Lift a little… now hold," he told Kaizlan.
Then he struck the nail three measured blows—no more, no less.
He straightened, wiping his hands.
"Sometimes three strikes are enough. The fourth is just for show."
Kaizlan looked at him with quiet gratitude.
It was these details—unseen in the training yard—that kept carts moving on the road, and houses standing.
⸻
By noon, they went together to the market.
Deril moved with the confidence of craftsmen, not nobles: his eyes on the scales, his ear on the numbers.
They stopped at a northern grain seller, who offered two sacks at a price that seemed steep.
Deril said evenly:
"The weight on your sign is heavier than your sack by a tenth, and you've mixed old barley with new. I'll take one… for half the price."
The merchant bristled, but Deril did not raise his voice. He simply produced a wooden board, covered in fine scratches—his personal record of weights and prices.
The man faltered, then shrugged. The deal was struck.
Kaizlan murmured to himself:
"His sword… is a rope and a ledger."
⸻
Near the market gate, a new tax clerk reviewed records.
Two guards stood beside him, each with a short club at his belt.
When he saw the cart, the clerk raised his hand:
"Increased toll. New decree."
Deril answered calmly:
"Then show me the decree."
The clerk shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the guards.
Deril turned his board around, this time showing the back—marked with the names of officials and dates of the last decrees delivered to town.
"The last change was two months ago, and the southern gate wasn't included. If you want to raise it… then write your name here."
He pointed to an empty line beneath the words: 'Unverified Collectors.'
The clerk hesitated. The guards exchanged glances, while townsfolk began to gather.
One guard finally said, in a neutral tone:
"Let them pass this time."
The cart rolled on. Deril said nothing. The real profit was crossing without noise.
⸻
On the road back, they walked side by side.
Kaizlan said:
"I would've argued louder."
Deril, watching the path, replied:
"A loud voice brings the stone down… on its speaker's head first. Pay when payment is cheapest, refuse when silence is dearer."
Then he turned to him and added:
"And you… save your anger for the time when a sword is the only answer."
The words lingered in Kaizlan's mind as they walked.
The justice he once dreamed of might come… but not always through the first strike.
⸻
At dusk, the light deepened to a copper glow.
They stood at the edge of the fields.
Deril spoke suddenly, without preamble:
"I know you'll leave one day, when the road calls you again."
He paused, then added with a quiet warmth:
"Just learn to count as you learn to strike. Numbers save more lives than the sword."
Kaizlan drew a long breath.
"And you?"
Deril tightened the strap on his wrist.
"I'll keep counting… until it's my turn to strike."
They shared a brief smile.
It was a silent pact between two ways of survival: the way of rope and ledger, and the way of sword and silence.
That night, Kaizlan wrote in his notebook:
"Strength is not of one kind.
Some carve the road with iron, others hold the bridge with an unseen thread.
Both… keep us from falling."