Chapter 15: Whispers in the Ivy Halls

Chapter 15: Whispers in the Ivy Halls

The next morning came dressed in dew and tension.

The city of Farsend had not quieted. If anything, the whispers had grown louder, blooming in noble corridors like ivy vines creeping across old stone. The Hargrove farm, once just a patch of soil beneath the southern hills, now wore a name heavier than gold—The Verdant Root. That was what the Temple had begun calling it.

And the temple was not the only one watching.

🪴 The Manor's Guest Wing

Mira awoke before sunrise, still hugging Sylas' arm like it was her favorite toy. She blinked sleepily, her small face crumpled from the plush pillow.

"Mmnh… Syyy-las," she mumbled, "you're squishy like a potato bun."

Sylas looked at her, wide-eyed.

"I'm not a bun," he whispered, poking her nose.

Mira giggled, wrapping her arms around him again. "You grow plants. Maybe you are a bun. A garden bun!"

Rila would've rolled her eyes at that—but Rila wasn't there. She had gone home days ago. Mira had insisted on staying in the Capital with Sylas. She said someone had to protect him.

"You're still little," Alric had protested.

"I'm big inside," Mira declared with fists on her hips. "And I can bite nobles if they try anything."

Now, she tugged at her slippers and padded barefoot across the room to open the balcony.

The entire city stretched below—clouds catching on the far steeples, and bells tolling distantly in layers.

"They're talking about us," she said, squinting down. "I think that chimney lady just pointed at our window."

🏰 Inside the Temple of Hearth and Harvest

Three robed priests stood before an altar of bark and braided vines, murmuring over a pot of earth. One dropped a single leaf inside.

It sprouted immediately.

They all looked at each other.

"Verdant resonance confirmed," the eldest murmured. "This child… his crops are not merely fertile. They are infused with echoing breath—ancient soul, reborn in soil."

"The boy must be tested," another said. "Gently."

"And if he fails?" asked the third.

The old priest smiled. "Then we shall plant the truth and wait. Seeds do not lie. Nobles might."

🏛️ At the Noble Assembly

In the private hall of the Verdant Chamber—a vaulted stone room where lesser nobles gathered to complain—Lord Velan Darrow leaned against a carved lionhead chair, his voice sharp with envy.

"He healed Lord Eddric's leg, they say. With an apricot." He spat the word like it was venom. "What's next? Miracle radishes?"

Lady Marcille of the Silver Quill smirked. "You're just bitter because your tomatoes turn black in spring."

"They're cursed! Not my fault!"

"You tried to grow them upside-down, Velan."

A more composed voice cut through the argument.

It belonged to Lady Imethra of House Fenwyne, a minor countess with major ambitions.

"I propose," she said coolly, "that we court the family formally. Offer them land within our banner. A few favorable trade deals. Access to our private granaries. They'll yield to reason, if not to gold."

Velan scoffed. "They've already knelt to Ravelin."

"Perhaps," Imethra said. "But Ravelin plays long games. And the boy is only one."

She raised her cup. "I wager three seasons. The roots may reach far—but even roots can be cut."

🏡 Back at the Manor

In the manor garden, Sylas crouched by the vine-trellis, patting the soil gently. A cucumber plant squirmed under his fingers, curling toward the sun. Mira, crouching beside him, stared in amazement.

"It's like it listens to you," she whispered.

Sylas shrugged.

"I just… ask nicely."

Mira puffed her cheeks. "I ask nicely too, but the flowers at home still ignore me."

Sylas reached out and placed her hand on the soil.

"Try again."

"Okay… um… hello, dirt." Mira's voice was serious. "Please wake up and make something happy."

A tiny violet bud poked through.

She gasped, eyes huge. "I DID IT!"

Sylas giggled.

Behind them, a noble entourage arrived at the gate. Two men in layered vests and feathered caps, escorted by their guards, marched into the manor with the practiced pomp of old money.

Alric met them at the atrium.

"We don't sell to those without names," he said flatly.

"We are representatives of House Thornevale," the lead merchant said. "Our Lady wishes to offer a new deal. No contracts, just coin. And your boy—if he wishes—will be given a place at her garden estate."

"No."

The man blinked. "At least hear the offer—"

"I said no." Alric's voice was colder now. "My son is not for barter. And our roots stay where they're planted."

Mira appeared at the door behind him, Sylas hiding shyly behind her skirts.

She pointed at the noble.

"You smell like candle smoke and mean."

The merchant flushed and turned on his heel.

Alric sighed and knelt to them both. "They won't stop trying."

Sylas frowned, then reached into his satchel. He pulled out a tiny potted bean sprout and handed it to his father.

"For you."

Alric took it with confusion. "What's this for?"

Sylas only smiled.

That night, the bean grew twice its height and bore flowers that glowed blue under moonlight.

🦢 Later That Night

Lord Eddric stood in his private garden, cane in one hand, wine untouched in the other.

A dove landed on the branch of a pear tree.

"I thought I was done with hope," he muttered. "But that boy… he's not just magic."

He looked up at the stars.

"He's reminding the world how to feel alive."

Behind him, his steward approached. "Shall I send word to the Temple?"

"No," Eddric said. "Let the Temple come to him. Just like the rest of us."