Chapter 14: The Root That Reached the Capital

Chapter 14: The Root That Reached the Capital

The Capital of Farsend was a city of towers and tongues. Walls listened, boots echoed, and even the wind carried rumors faster than ravens. But in the heart of it, tucked behind ivy walls and high iron gates, Lord Eddric Ravelin sat in his study, biting into a glowing apricot.

He froze. A single bite and the soreness in his leg—an old injury from falling off a horse—faded.

He turned to the steward. "Fetch the physician."

Moments later, an old man in green robes entered. "Yes, my lord?"

"Test this," Eddric said, handing over the fruit. "Tell me if I'm imagining things."

The physician blinked, took a bite, and raised a brow. Then he set the fruit down and drew a circle of green ink over a parchment rune. The ink flared briefly—then flickered steady.

"Life resonance," the physician whispered. "This fruit contains a low-grade healing property. Not alchemical… natural. But it's subtle, almost… balanced. Grown, not forged."

"From the Hargrove farm," Eddric murmured. "It seems the rumors are true."

A week had passed since the Hargrove family signed the contract.

Sylas and Mira were still guests in the manor's east wing, though Sylas mostly stayed in the gardens, with Mira tagging close behind. She carried her rag-doll everywhere, sometimes dressing it in flower petals, sometimes whispering stories to it about Sylas being a forest prince.

But the Hargrove name was no longer quiet.

It began with a chef.

Lady Irevia of House Tremont, known for her lavish moon-feasts, had tasted a single apricot from the Ravelin table and demanded to know where it came from.

She was told: "The Hargrove Farm. South valley, near the mossline hills."

Then came the alchemist, who bought a bundle of goldenroot for testing. Then a merchant. Then a quiet cleric from the Church of Aivena, who returned three days later and bowed before Sylas in the garden.

"Your vegetables bring clarity," the cleric said. "The orphans we feed no longer cough at night."

Sylas said nothing. Just smiled.

Mira smiled, too, proudly clutching Sylas' sleeve. "He makes carrots that sparkle," she said to the cleric. "But don't eat too many. You'll get glowy burps."

But not everyone was pleased.

At the noble tavern known as The Silver Petal, a few less-favored sons and daughters gathered, sipping spiced wine.

"You heard about the farm boy?" sneered Lord Velan Darrow, son of a viscount whose lands had long gone dry. "Thinks he can charm half the Capital with carrots."

"They say his fruits glow," muttered a girl with fox-fur earrings.

"They say a lot," Velan scoffed. "Magic fruits don't sprout from peasant mud. I bet they've been doctored. Spiked."

"Should we investigate?" another asked.

Velan leaned forward. "We don't need to. If the crop is that good, the Ravelins will lock it down. If not, it'll rot in the market like the rest."

Meanwhile, the Hargroves were watched.

Each morning, Sylas and Mira helped in the manor's experimental garden—Sylas quietly pruning vines or coaxing herbs to sprout, while Mira followed behind with a small watering can shaped like a pig.

One afternoon, as Sylas crouched beneath the peach trees, Mira stacked little stones into a "fruit tower" beside him. "This one's for the Apple Queen," she whispered. "So she protects the garden."

A cloaked noble approached, her boots silent on the cobbled path.

"Lovely apples," she said. "Imported?"

Sylas looked up, quiet.

Mira stuck her chin out. "Nope. Grown by Sylas. He tells them stories and then they grow pretty."

The noble's eyes flicked to Sylas. "And is it true? The boy with the sunflower crown… speaks to the soil?"

Sylas blinked. He didn't speak. Just touched the tree gently, and a single blossom opened in response.

The noblewoman's breath caught. "I see. Tell your father I'll triple whatever the Ravelins pay. No need for long contracts."

A shadow fell across the garden.

Two guards in silver armor stepped forward. One bore the Ravelin crest.

"Lady Rinna of House Vos," the guard said flatly. "You are trespassing beyond the permitted merchant boundary."

Lady Rinna straightened. "I was merely admiring the trees."

"You may admire them from the guest courtyard. This field belongs to House Ravelin now—by agreement."

Her lips thinned. "So it's true. They've sold their soul to you."

"No," Mira said, stepping forward and puffing out her chest. "We kept our soul. We just asked for a sword to watch our back. And a pretty fence."

Lady Rinna raised a brow at the child, but said nothing more.

That evening, Alric sat across from Eddric in the smoking room, a drink untouched beside him.

"I'm grateful," Alric said. "For the protection. Even if it wasn't in writing."

Eddric waved a hand. "The nobles are circling like flies. You needn't thank me—it's in my interest to protect my investments."

Alric smirked. "Honest, at least."

"I've always admired dirt-folk," Eddric said. "You see the world differently. Not in crowns or castles, but in planting seasons and storms."

"You sound like a farmer."

"I wanted to be one," Eddric admitted. "Before my father was injured in the war, and Mother took control of our estate. She believes only gold matters."

"Gold doesn't bloom," Alric said.

Eddric nodded. "That's why I think this—your son, your farm—is more important than she realizes. And why we must be careful."

That night, Mira and Sylas curled up in the guest room. Mira had fallen asleep on a plush pillow, snoring softly, one foot still wrapped around her pig watering can.

The window was cracked open, letting in the sweet smell of night blossoms.

"They're saying your name," Mira mumbled, half-asleep. "Not just the farm's. Sylas Hargrove. They call you the Tree Whisperer. Or the Root Prince."

Sylas blinked. "I don't… like names."

"I like yours," Mira yawned. "Even if people make it too long."

He looked at her. "Are you scared?"

"Of the nobles?" Mira rolled over and squinted one eye open. "A little. They smell like flowers but talk like bad goats."

Sylas giggled, then turned quiet. "They want to take again."

"But they can't," Mira said firmly, curling up tighter. "Because now we're not just the farm in the hills. We're the farm with a shiny wall and a brother who talks to trees."

A light knock came at the door. Eddric stepped in, holding a small scroll.

"This came for you, Sylas," he said. "From the Temple of Hearth and Harvest. The priests want to meet you."

Sylas blinked.

"They say your crops echo ancient growth rituals. Rituals lost to time. They wonder… if maybe you're not just a boy."

Sylas looked down at his hand.

"I'm just me," he said.

Eddric smiled. "That might be the most dangerous thing of all."