Several weeks had passed since the uproar at the school. Where once Michael and Leon walked the cobblestone streets daily, bound for lessons, they now stayed mostly behind the walls of their home. Robert, still simmering after his confrontation with the educators, had pulled both boys out of school the next day. Afterward, the only times townsfolk caught sight of Leon and Michael were during Sunday church services—where they slipped in quietly with their mother and left just as discreetly—or on brief errands to trade scrap metal or handmade goods for fresh produce.
Life in Ashford Heath continued much as it always had. Farmers tilled their plots, merchants hawked vegetables, and neighbors gossiped about the ordinary—roofs needing repair, wolves prowling near the forest's edge, and spring carrots. Yet a lingering tension colored the village, like the hush that follows a thunderclap. Whispers of Robert's outburst at the school remained in circulation: some labeled him unstable, others speculated that his warnings contained uncomfortable truths.
By midafternoon, Michael trudged into the workshop, bruised and aching from Robert's morning drills. His left arm bore fresh welts, his right trembled from sword swings, and sweat plastered his hair to his brow. Joyce waited at a table, her calm eyes tracing his battered form. "Come," she said softly, gesturing him near.
He slumped beside her, wincing as she took his left hand. "Focus," she instructed, her voice steady as prayer. "Ask Him to mend you—for strength beyond your own." Michael shut his eyes, lips moving silently: Lord, heal me, I offer this hand. A sting flared in his palm, sharp as a blade's kiss, then bloomed into a searing burn. He gasped, jerking back—white light curled from his fingers, faint but real, and the welts on his arm faded. Yet his left hand blistered, skin red and raw, the sacrifice claimed. Joyce nodded, her own scarred hand a mirror. "True believers pay, Michael. A stab heals, a burn takes its place—greater pleas demand greater costs."
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Before he could reply, a knock sounded. Leon crossed the room, grease smudging his cheek from his coil bow's latest tweak, eyes sharp with caution. "Marcus," he greeted, stepping aside.
The workshop buzzed quietly—gears piled in one corner, ingots lined another. Michael rose, divinity's glow fading, as Marcus entered. The councilman's gaze flicked to him, then darted away, unease tightening his jaw. He lingered near the door, hands clasped too stiffly.
Robert sat at his table, cane propped, an old war blueprint half-unrolled. He looked up. "Marcus. What is it?"
Marcus shifted, voice tense. "A trio of sleek, silver-feathered carrier pigeons descended upon the schoolhouse this morning. They carried leather tubes bearing the official seal of the capital. Not long after they arrived, Master Raleigh spread news like fire through the village: The Citadels top graduate is coming —a prestigious envoy—to evaluate Ashford Heath's children and potentially select candidates for advanced training. You should have seen Master Raleigh and Mistress Helia...completely elated—they busy telling everyone that its their structured, rule-driven methods that had caught the capitals eye."
Robert set the blueprint aside, brow creasing. "The Citadel," he muttered, looking toward the two boys. "That's... unexpected," Robert said, even as a faint smile threatened the corners of his mouth. He turned his head swiftly toward the boys so Marcus wouldn't see. "We'll have a month, maybe two, before they arrive—"
"But the letter says he's coming in seven days," Marcus cut in, voice tense.
"Seven days?" Robert repeated, his tone disbelieving. "That's impossible."
"See for yourself." Marcus handed over the scroll. Robert's grip on the parchment tightened as he skimmed the lines, jaw set with mounting resolve. Finally, he raised his gaze to Michael and Leon, face grim.
"Boys," he said, "we have a lot of work to do."
