Kaelen found Seraphina in the training yard, but she wasn't drilling her men.
She was standing before them, her back ramrod straight, her expression a mask of cold, hard duty. Her five guards stood at attention, looking utterly bewildered.
In front of them was a collection of newly-made wooden buckets, each marked with a crude smear of colored paint—red, green, and black.
"This is our new directive," Seraphina announced, her voice as flat and sharp as a whetstone. "By order of the Baron, we are to oversee the Greylock Sanitation Initiative."
One of the guards, a lanky young man named Thom, snickered. Seraphina's head snapped towards him, her glare so intense it could have curdled milk. Thom instantly fell silent, his face paling.
"The green-tagged buckets," she continued, pointing with a gloved finger, "are for vegetable scraps, peels, and cuttings. The red-tagged buckets are for animal waste—dung from the stables and chicken coops. The black-tagged buckets are for wood ash from the hearths. Is that clear?"
The guards stared at the buckets, then back at their Captain, their expressions a mix of confusion and horror.
"Our mission," Seraphina said, her voice tight with the effort of saying the words, "is to ensure every household in the village complies with this... sorting protocol. We will make rounds twice a day to supervise collection. The contents will be deposited in the designated compost sites behind the castle. Do you have any questions?"
A long, awkward silence followed. Finally, a burly, bearded guard raised his hand tentatively. "Captain... are we... are we still knights?"
"You are soldiers of the Greylock Barony," Seraphina corrected him, her voice dangerously low. "And you will follow the orders of your Baron. This is a mission critical to the survival of this barony. You will treat it with the seriousness it deserves. Now, pick up your buckets."
With a collective sigh of profound misery, the five guards trudged over and each picked up a set of the colored buckets. They looked less like a military unit and more like the world's most overqualified and unhappy cleaning crew.
Kaelen watched from the shadows of a nearby archway, a wry smile on his face. She had complained, he was sure of it, but she was a professional. She was following through. His fertilizer was in good hands.
✧✧✧
That evening, as the sun began to cast long shadows across the bailey, Kaelen was walking back towards his chambers, his mind buzzing with logistical problems. As he passed the training yard, a blur of motion caught his eye.
It was Seraphina.
She was alone, a simple steel sword in her hand. She moved through a series of practice forms, a dance of deadly, efficient grace. The blade was an extension of her arm, flowing through arcs and thrusts with a speed and precision that was mesmerizing.
Kaelen stopped, leaning against a stone pillar, and simply watched. This was true skill. The kind of mastery born from thousands of hours of dedicated practice.
He was the Baron. The highest authority in this land. But in this yard, he was just a man with no skills, and she was a master of her craft. The disparity was a vulnerability he couldn't afford.
This was a fantasy medieval world, a world of swords and magic just like those fantasy novels on Earth.
Then a thought crept up in his mind, just like those transmigration novel protagonists. "What if I can be a swordsman or a mage?"
When she finished her form, coming to a stop with her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, he pushed himself off the pillar and stepped into the yard.
She turned, her eyes sharp and alert, her sword held in a ready position before she recognized him. She immediately relaxed her stance and offered a respectful nod. "My Lord."
"That was impressive, Captain," Kaelen said, his voice genuine.
"It is my duty to remain sharp," she replied simply.
"A duty I should probably take more seriously myself," he said, moving closer. He took a breath, feeling a strange sense of awkwardness. "Seraphina... I would like you to teach me how to use a sword."
She blinked, her professional composure momentarily failing her. Her expression shifted from surprise to outright skepticism. "You, my Lord?"
"I'm the Baron," he said, meeting her gaze. "If I can't defend myself, I am a liability to everyone who depends on me. I don't expect to become a knight like you. I just need to learn the basics. How to stand, how to hold the blade, how to not trip over my own feet in a fight."
He was being honest. He saw it as a necessary, if tedious, part of his new job description.
Seraphina studied him for a long moment. She saw no lust for glory in his eyes, only a grim pragmatism. This wasn't a nobleman looking for a new hobby. It was a leader trying to patch a hole in his own defenses.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips before she suppressed it. The idea was still absurd, but his reasoning was sound.
"Very well, my Lord," she sighed, a hint of amusement in her voice. She walked over to a weapon rack and picked up two blunted wooden training swords. She tossed one to him.
He caught it clumsily, the weight unfamiliar in his hand.
"The first lesson," she said, her voice shifting into that of an instructor—crisp, clear, and commanding. "Is the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Lower your center of gravity. No, lower. You are a Baron, not a stork."
The next hour was a lesson in humility for Kaelen. He was clumsy, stiff, and his body refused to cooperate. Seraphina was a patient but firm teacher.
"You're holding it like a club. Relax your grip."
"Keep your guard up. An open chest is an invitation."
"Stop looking at your feet. Look at your opponent."
By the end of it, Kaelen's arms ached, his legs felt like jelly, and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He had never felt so physically incompetent in his life.
"We will continue tomorrow," she said, taking the wooden sword from his tired grasp. Her expression was unreadable. "You have... much room for improvement, my Lord."
"I'm aware," he grunted, rotating his sore shoulder.
As he walked away, Seraphina watched him go. He was a terrible student. Awkward, untalented, and completely out of his element.
But he had shown up. And he had promised to show up again tomorrow. For a lord, that alone was something strange and noteworthy.
✧✧✧
Later, after a much-needed meal, Kaelen sat on the cold floor of his room, trying once more to meditate. His failure in the yard only fueled his frustration. He needed an edge, any edge he could get. He closed his eyes and tried to 'feel' for the elusive energy in the air.
Nothing.
Just as he was about to give up, a knock came at his door. It was Gideon, his old face flushed with excitement.
"My Lord! Your inquiry! A villager has come forward with a story!"
Kaelen got to his feet, his aches momentarily forgotten. "A map? A legend?"
"A story, my Lord," Gideon said, practically buzzing. "About the Red Swamp."
A young man was shown in. It was Finn, the same woodworker who was helping build the new plows. He bowed nervously.
"You have a story for me, Finn?" Kaelen asked, his interest sharply piqued.
"Yes, my Lord," Finn began, his voice barely a whisper. "My grandfather... he wasn't always a woodworker. When he was a boy, he worked for your great-grandfather. For Baron Alistair."
The name from the secret journal. Kaelen's full attention was now on the young man.
"He said that Baron Alistair was obsessed with the Red Swamp," Finn continued. "He paid men to go in there, not to hunt, but to dig. They pulled out 'heavy, red rocks.' My grandfather said they built a strange, new kind of forge, one that roared like a beast, and they made things from those rocks. Secret things."
The pieces clicked into place in Kaelen's mind. His great-grandfather hadn't just known about the gold. He had known about the bog iron. And, more importantly, he had already solved the problem of how to refine it.
"This new forge," Kaelen pressed, leaning forward. "Did your grandfather say where it was? Or what happened to it?"
Finn shook his head sadly. "No, my Lord. He said after Baron Alistair died, the next Baron feared his work. Called it unnatural. He had the new forge dismantled and the 'red rock' operation shut down. The knowledge was lost."
Lost. But not gone forever.
The plans for the super-heated forge might be gone, but the proof of concept was there. It could be done. His idea wasn't madness; it was rediscovery.
"Thank you, Finn," Kaelen said, a new fire in his eyes. He tossed the young man a silver coin from his personal pouch. Finn's eyes went wide as he fumbled to catch it. "Your story has been most valuable."
After the villager had gone, Kaelen turned to Gideon.
"Lead the way to the forge, immediately." he commanded.
The blacksmith was about to get a new, much more ambitious, project.