2. Henry Ford

Francis Kingdom, Middle-East of Division Ceferin, Town of Prada.

The bells of Saint Erwin's chapel had yet to toll, and the town of Prada still wore its fog like a blanket pulled tight against the chill. The wind rustled through the red-tiled roofs, whistling between chimney pots and slate gutters, carrying with it the scent of wet earth, ash, and morning bread.

High above the market square, nestled on a gentle slope behind the weaver's hall, stood a house unlike most in Prada. Built of solid stone with arched oak windows and iron-braced doors, it was large—too large for one soul. Woven tapestries hung from its walls, faded with age but still whispering tales of battles and saints. The floors were polished wood, scattered with rugs imported from southern ports. The hearth was wide, dark with soot, and quiet.

Upstairs, behind a carved door, a boy stirred.

He lay in a heavy featherbed beneath layered wool and linen sheets. The kind of bed made for two—or three—but now belonged only to him. The warmth was hard to abandon. But the light had crept in, golden and insistent, casting lattice patterns on the walls through the leaded glass.

With a quiet sigh, he sat up.

His hair was tousled, his face pale from sleep, and his night tunic wrinkled. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, as though listening to something. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No voices down the hall. No clatter of servants or creak of doors.

That life had long passed.

He moved through his morning slowly, as if time itself bowed to his silence. He poured cold water into a bronze basin, its surface fogged with age, and washed his face with the diligence of habit. On a small oak table rested a comb made of bone, a carved wooden icon of Saint Vale—patron of the hearth—and a waxed cloth for drying. Each piece placed with purpose. Each used as if someone were still watching.

But just as he reached for a wool cloak, something leapt from atop the cupboard with a thump and a hiss.

He flinched.

Two bright green eyes met his.

Mimi.

The cat landed soundlessly on the floor, her black-and-white fur puffed slightly from her dramatic entrance. She stared at him like a scorned noblewoman, her gaze sharp, unblinking, and terribly judgmental.

The boy blinked, startled, then let out a soft chuckle. "You again."

Mimi meowed once—a sound both accusing and demanding.

He bent down, brushing her fur with a hand rougher than his age should allow. "I'm late, aren't I?"

Mimi didn't answer. She merely turned, tail high, and began trotting toward the stairwell, throwing a single glance over her shoulder. Follow. It said everything.

Downstairs, the kitchen still smelled faintly of lavender and old stew. Pots hung from the wall, polished pewter glinting in the rising light. The fire had gone out during the night, but embers still glowed faintly beneath the ash.

The boy grabbed the clay bowl, filled it with fish bits stored in a lidded chest, and set it before her on the stone floor.

"There. Forgive me, Lady of the house."

She began to eat with a dainty air, tail twitching.

He sat beside her on the bench near the hearth, watching her in silence. Through the window, he could see the spire of Saint Erwin's catching light. The town outside was stirring—wooden shutters opening, horses clopping down cobbles, and market stalls creaking to life.

But here, in this moment, there was warmth.

Just a boy, a house too large for one, and a cat who never let him forget his place.

A sharp gust of wind slipped in through the cracked window, stirring the edge of the woolen curtain and tickling the boy's face. He groaned, shifting beneath the blanket, then opened one bleary eye.

It was still dark—just past dawn. The sky outside was a dull grey, and the town of Prada still slumbered beneath a blanket of fog. No bells had rung yet. No footsteps echoed from the stone streets.

He lay still for a moment, staring at the wooden beams above, listening to the faint creaks of the old house. Then, as if waking to war, he threw the blanket aside with determination and sat up straight.

"Today's the day," he muttered, rubbing his face.

A moment later, he was downstairs, barefoot and gritting his teeth as he filled a wide copper basin with cold water drawn from the clay jug. No fire had been lit. No coals glowed in the hearth. This would be a true dawn bath—the kind monks praised and commoners cursed.

He peeled off his nightshirt, dipped a toe in—

"Saints have mercy!" he gasped.

Then, without allowing himself a second thought, he splashed the water over himself in a flurry of gasps and curses. The water struck like icy needles, stealing his breath.

"Aaaah! Cold! Cold! Curse the exam! Curse the university!" he shouted, flailing soap over his chest.

Mimi the cat, curled in the corner, watched him with flat disapproval, ears twitching at every scream.

By the time he finished, shivering and pink-skinned, he stood like a soaked rat in the middle of the room, his hair dripping into his eyes. He grabbed the rough towel hanging from a hook and scrubbed furiously, teeth still chattering.

Once dry, he stumbled to the table, threw himself onto the bench, and tore a chunk from the half-loaf of black bread on the board. He dipped it into a clay pot of golden honey and took a big bite, chewing like a soldier before battle.

The bread was hard, the honey sweet. It filled his mouth with warmth.

Mimi jumped onto the bench beside him, pawing at a crumb.

"Not now," he said between bites. "You already got your fish."

She gave him a long, unblinking stare and flicked her tail.

With the last of his breakfast devoured, he stood, wiped his hands on a linen cloth, and opened the tall chest beside the fireplace. From within, he pulled out a faded brown wool coat and a pair of checkered pajama-style trousers—soft, thick, and patched from long use. The coat smelled faintly of lavender and ink.

He dressed quickly, buttoning the coat with trembling fingers. Then he turned to the small desk near the window.

Books. Scrolls. Loose pages of scribbled Latin. Wax seals. A worn quill.

He had studied here for three years.

Three years at Prada Military University, the finest place of learning this side of the kingdom. He remembered the lectures, the candlelit readings, the freezing winter halls, the strict professors quoting ancient philosophers in broken tongues.

And today—today his final exam results will be out.

If he passed, he could apply for any official position in the town: apprentice scribe, healer's assistant, clerk to the magistrate, even foreign posts in far-off cities.

Everything depended on this morning.

He grabbed his satchel, stuffed in his writing tools, scrolls, and a folded letter of admission. Mimi followed him to the oak door, brushing against his leg.

He paused.

Breathed in the cold morning air.

Then opened the door, stepping into the fog with trembling hands, a racing heart.

....

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him. The boy knelt, slipping a small iron key into the lock and turning it twice. Inside, Mimi meowed in protest, her green eyes visible through the lower window pane. She pawed once at the glass, displeased.

"I'll bring you back smoked trout," he murmured through the wood, patting it once before stepping back.

Shouldering his satchel, he walked briskly through the morning mist. The street was quiet, save for the distant clatter of hooves and the rhythmic turning of carriage wheels echoing off stone. A hired carriage waited near the edge of the market square, its horse snorting white breath into the air.

"University Row," the boy said, climbing in.

The driver, a pot-bellied man with a copper nose and sleepy eyes, nodded. "Five Gaus."

He handed over the coins—five thin silver pieces etched with the old king's crooked crown—and took his seat. The ride was short but uphill, past bookshops, candle makers, and chapel towers. In ten minutes, the wide iron gate of Prada University came into view, flanked by two griffin statues, their stone wings forever frozen in battle pose.

He stepped down and adjusted his satchel. The air here smelled of parchment, earth, and ink—a scent he'd grown to love over the past three years.

It was 7:47 AM.

He was early.

Most came later to avoid the crowding, but he liked the stillness before the swarm. The cobbled courtyard stretched wide and open, the great hall's stained-glass windows glinting with faint morning light. In the center, a tall oak tree stood proud—its leaves gold and red, a final rebellion before winter came.

He made his way toward the notice board beside the stone fountain. The parchment listing the examination chambers wasn't up yet. It would be posted at precisely the ninth bell.

Still, he wasn't alone.

A few students were already scattered across the grounds.

A couple sat close under the oak, the girl resting her head on her partner's shoulder, giggling softly. Another pair jogged around the garden path, boots thudding against gravel, their breath rising in clouds. On the far bench, a boy with thick glasses scribbled furiously in a leather-bound diary, pausing now and then to chew his quill. A cluster of girls nearby whispered and laughed, exchanging last-minute stories about professors, assignments, and who might fail.

The boy stood quietly at the fountain's edge, pulling his coat tighter. He had no one to speak to. No stories to gossip over. No lover waiting beneath the tree.

But that was fine.

He came for one thing: to pass.

And today, he would.

DONG… DONG… DONG…

The ninth bell rang out from the old chapel tower, deep and solemn. As the last echo faded, the university grounds stirred like a nest of birds startled by wind.

Footsteps quickened. Voices rose. Dozens of students hurried toward the old notice board, some gripping their cloaks, others still clutching bread or ink-stained parchments. But Henry Ford was already there.

He stood still as the crowd thickened behind him, his breath held in his chest.

The parchment had just been nailed to the oak board—still curling slightly at the edges, the ink glistening fresh under the morning light.

Names, scores, rankings.

He scanned the list.

Top ten. Not him. Top twenty. Still no sign. His eyes moved faster.

And then, there it was—

"51. Henry Ford."

He exhaled sharply.

He had hoped for better. Dreamed of the top fifty. It felt like a number that meant something—a badge of distinction in a world that respected ranks more than effort.

But 51 was not failure. And in Prada University, where last year sixty percent had failed entirely, it was far from shame.

Still, he stood there a moment longer, staring at the name.

Henry Ford.

Written plain and real.

A boy who had studied in silence, alone in a large house with only a cat for company.

He smiled faintly to himself.

It wasn't glory, but it was enough.

He had passed.

Now, the world outside awaited.

....

The sky over Prada was bathed in a quiet orange glow, the sun melting behind the chapel steeples and distant hills. Market stalls were folding down. Cobblers packed their tools. The scent of roasted chestnuts and burned oil lingered in the streets.

Henry Ford walked alone.

His satchel hung limp at his side, empty now except for a sealed parchment bearing his exam result. 51st. A passing mark. A future secured. But no one on the stone path seemed to notice the young man who had just crossed the threshold of his youth.

The journey home was slow. Lamps were being lit one by one as he passed—soft halos flickering to life under wooden eaves. Merchants shouted their final offers. A pair of children chased each other near the apothecary, laughter ringing like bells.

Henry stopped at a small butcher's stall still open near the plaza and bought a wrapped packet of smoked trout.

"For a friend," he said with a faint smile.

When he reached his house, the street was near silent. He unlocked the door and stepped into the familiar quiet. The air inside was cool and still, holding the faint smell of books and old cedar.

He shut the door behind him and sighed.

Mimi was waiting by the hearth, tail twitching in anticipation.

"Evening, Lady."

She padded toward him, sniffing the package in his hand with bright, demanding eyes.

"Just a moment," he muttered.

Henry peeled off his coat, then his tunic, draping them carefully on the chair. He washed his face and hands with water from the jug, letting the cold pull him fully into the present. He lit each of the oil lamps—one by the hearth, one above the shelf, and the little brass one by the window. Their golden glow filled the house with a soft warmth.

Mimi meowed again.

He opened the packet and emptied it into her bowl. She dove in without ceremony.

Henry sat beside her on the floor, leaning back against the bench.

He stared at the flickering light. The quiet pressed in, not cruelly, but without comfort. He grabbed the photo frame on the ledge of window. There was one man and woman....

Then he said, quietly:

"When you lose, it feels bad… but it feels worse when you've won, and there's no one left to cheer for you."

Mimi looked up, licking her lips, as if in reply.

Henry smiled faintly and stroked her fur.

Perhaps silence was the only applause he'd ever get.

But at least it was honest.