A restless wind swept across Ashford Heath, bending the tall grasses and shaking the spindly branches of ancient oaks. By mid-morning, loose shutters rattled, and skirts whipped around the legs of villagers struggling to secure display tables or tidy their outdoor stalls. Though spring gusts were common in the heath, today's carried an unusual weight—one that prickled the skin and whispered of something momentous.

  In the heart of the village, the townsfolk gathered along the main cobblestone street, forming a neat line of parents, children, and curious onlookers. The school's teachers, led by Master Raleigh, stood at the forefront, chins high, their robes meticulously brushed free of dust. A large banner, reading "Welcome, Citadel Emissary!" hung from the eaves of the schoolhouse. Painted flowers adorned the archway near the entrance, and a makeshift podium stood ready for an official greeting. No one quite knew from which direction he would arrive—only that he was due today, on the seventh day since the royal dispatch.

  Near the old fountain, Robert watched with guarded interest, Michael and Leon close. The wind tugged at their hair—Michael's left hand bandaged from morning divinity practice, Leon's satchel bulging with bowcoil sketches and parts. Robert's tension simmered, a terse nod shared with Marcus, who'd arrived earlier but lingered near the workshop.

  Though Robert's face was impassive, tension rolled off him. He exchanged terse nods with Marcus, who had arrived earlier but remained near the workshop to tend to last-minute tasks. They had been told a young master would represent the Citadel, but specifics were vague. Robert had fleetingly hoped it might be Ardan Gale-Warden himself. Yet, with rumors swirling in every corner of the village, it could be anyone.

  A cry rose as the clock struck midday—the wind surged, swirling leaves and dust in wild eddies. The banner thrashed, Raleigh and Helia scrambling to hold it.

  Then, a figure appeared at the far end of the village green—blinking into existence, or so it seemed. Moments before, the lane had been empty save for shifting shadows beneath the restless clouds. Now, a faint puff of dust lingered where he stood—a young man, his cloak snapping sharply around his slender frame, as though caught in an unseen gale.

  He looked no older than seventeen, his sandy hair swept back in wild defiance, as if stirred by an ever-present breeze. Two small satchels dangled from loosely tied ropes at his legs, though he slung them over both shoulders with the ease of long practice. Across his back, two swords rested in crossed scabbards, their silver pommels catching the sunlight and scattering brilliant flashes across the green. For a moment, he stood poised between worlds, as if deciding whether to remain or vanish as suddenly as he had arrived.

  The villagers had braced for the pomp of a traveling carriage or an entourage of mounted knights. Instead, he had simply appeared, and the sight unsettled them. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Where had he come from? The wind, as if drawn to him, surged around his figure—then died the moment his gaze settled upon the villagers.

  Master Raleigh stepped forward, determined to reclaim control. "Welcome to Ashford Heath, honored emissary of the Citadel!" His voice strained to reach the gathered crowd.

  The young man inclined his head in a courteous half-bow. "Thank you," he replied, his tone calm and sure. "My name is Aiden Gale-Warden—son of Ardan Gale-Warden, High Zephyr Master of the Citadel."

  The name rippled through the onlookers. Even those unfamiliar with Citadel hierarchies recognized that lineage alone placed him in a realm few could imagine.

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  A hush spread through the crowd. Some children craned their necks, trying to catch a better glimpse of his face, which still bore the softness of youth, tempered by a confident light in his eyes. He scanned the assembly, as though searching for something... or someone. His gaze flickered to Robert, then shifted to Michael and Leon. An unreadable curiosity crossed his features.

  Master Raleigh and Mistress Helia launched into an enthusiastic welcome, extolling the virtues of the school, the diligence of the students, and Ashford Heath's readiness for the Citadel's rigorous standards. Parents inched forward, hearts racing with pride and nervous energy. Aiden Gale-Warden listened politely but seemed preoccupied.

  After the initial round of formal greetings, Aiden Gale-Warden stepped toward the schoolhouse entrance, his manner brisk, his gaze flitting about with the air of a man seeking substance beyond mere ceremony. Teachers bustled nearby, striving to herd their charges into orderly ranks, eager to demonstrate the discipline they so laboriously instilled. Yet Aiden seemed unimpressed, his expression betraying a certain restless impatience.

  Michael felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned—Saul, broad and wolfish, loomed with a smirk. "Well, priest-boy," he jeered, eyeing the bandages, "prayed too hard for her and burned yourself?"

  Michael met the insult with a measured stare, resisting the pull of ire. He had learned from Robert that men like Saul fed on anger as crows fed on carrion. In the past, he might have averted his gaze and slunk away, but he had changed over the last few weeks. Instead, he smiled faintly, as one does at an errant child, and recalled a line from one of his hero tales. "No Saul, this is an unfortunate result of my new training regimen. It's proven to be quite dangerous but productive. I'd love to show you the results sometime."

  A gust of wind tousled their hair, stirring the banners overhead, but Saul's smirk remained unshaken. "I hear you're not even in school anymore," he pressed, his voice tinged with mockery. "Well that's okay, it's not for everyone."

  Michael exhaled slowly, restraining his tongue where it longed to cut. "In truth, Saul, I left because it was too easy."

  A flicker of irritation passed over the bully's face, swiftly replaced by a sneer. "Pssh. Are you sure you weren't sent back a grade?" His laughter rang out, cruel and gloating.

  Michael's hands curled into fists, though his expression remained composed. His mother had cautioned him against causing further scenes in town. He would not dishonor her wishes.

  But Leon—Leon had other plans.

  While Michael held Saul's gaze, Leon and his ever-faithful mechanical contraption slipped unseen behind the brute. Silent as a shadow, Leon set the small automaton upon the cobblestones, nudging it forward. The little contrivance moved with jerky precision, its metal pincers darting out, twisting and looping Saul's shoelaces with deft mastery.

  At last, Leon dropped three small poppers—tiny firecrackers of his own creation—onto the ground behind Saul's heels and walked calmly away. Moments later, a sharp crack split the air, startling the bully into a backward step.

  He did not fall so much as he collapsed in spectacular ruin, his feet bound, his arms flailing, the dust rising around him as he struck the cobblestones with an ignoble thud. The laughter that had moments before belonged to Saul was now stolen by the onlookers, rippling through the gathered students like the ringing of a triumphant bell.

  A choked gasp of rage burst from the fallen brute. Saul scrambled, his face an alarming shade of crimson, clawing at the treacherous laces as laughter echoed about him. Mistress Helia, drawn by the commotion, strode forward with a glare sharp enough to slice stone.

  "Saul! What nonsense is this?" she demanded, her eyes sweeping over the snickering crowd before landing upon the disgraced boy.

  "I—I just—" Saul stammered, his mind a storm of confusion. He twisted, his glare darting to Michael and Leon, but neither bore the guilty look of conspirators. To all appearances, he had merely been the architect of his own downfall.

  Mistress Helia's frown deepened. "You're making a spectacle of yourself in front of the Citadel envoy. Control yourself!"

  From the periphery, Aiden Gale-Warden observed the exchange, his expression unreadable. Saul, now twice humiliated—once by his fall and again by Helia's reprimand—hauled himself to his feet, brushing dust from his clothes. His lips pressed into a tight, pale line, his hands clenching so fiercely that a thin trickle of blood seeped from his palm where his nails bit deep.

  Leon, ever the master of emotional discretion, nudged Michael saying, "watch out, it's slippery over there".