CHAPTER 562: SUCCESSFUL ENDEAVOR (1)

The carts came home under banners still dusty from the road. Three weeks of travel, three weeks of testing Arielle’s board across all the territories—and now Grafen’s hill rose before them like a sigh of arrival. The air smelled of rye and clean stone. Lyan rode at the front, cloak open, letting the wind do what it wanted.

Reedbank had been the first stop. There, children had read the board out loud as if reciting scripture, their small fingers tracing the line that said TRY, MEASURE, SHARE. A grandmother had tapped the words with her walking stick and told them that anyone who remembered these would never starve. Arielle had listened, eyes bright, a hand pressed to her chest as if catching the sound before it left.

In Stonewash, the quarrymen had resisted at first, pride as hard as the rock they broke. But when the first water trench worked as she promised, they nodded, once, and got to work fixing the rest. One old man even lent his spade—the same one he had sworn never to lend to anyone. Lyan had laughed quietly beside her. "You turned stone to soil."

Hollowford had been his favorite. The village used pictures instead of numbers—beans drawn like little hearts, water lines as wavy lines. Small hands chalked faster than big ones. An old farmer who couldn’t read had learned from his granddaughter in a single afternoon. When they left, the girl had waved the chalk like a sword.

By the time they returned, Arielle’s name had already spread. Market criers shouted about "The Stewardess’ Method!" Traders begged for a copy of her Traveling Board Kit—a single slate plank, chalk, and small pictograms. People talked about her like she was half miracle, half merchant.

Taverns filled with stories. "Lord Evocatore and his Stewardess wife," they said, "and the mountain women too. But he honors them all, doesn’t he? No man could manage that if he didn’t love them true." The laughter that followed was the easy kind, proud laughter. Even the skeptical liked him for the way his household looked more like joy than sin.

Boys began to mimic his measured way of bowing, girls copied Arielle’s neat handwriting or Lara’s rope tricks. People said, "Be like Lyan" to mean strong and decent, and "Write like Arielle" for fair and clear. When the wagons finally reached Grafen, banners clean, ant columns carrying bits of road dust like treasure, the whole castle seemed to hum with pride.

At the gate, Surena and Josephine stood waiting, arms crossed. "So the mountain trio got all the campfire ballads?" Josephine asked, her smile much too sweet.

"We brought you some songs too," Lyan said, dismounting. "They just haven’t been written yet."

Josephine’s laugh was sharp, but her hug was real. Surena gave Arielle a long look, then nodded once. "Welcome home, Stewardess."

Town matrons approached next, carrying a carved hazel pointer with an abacus head. "For pointing at faraway truths," one said proudly. Arielle blushed so red Lyan nearly laughed. He stepped half a pace back, watching the applause wash over her like sunlight. He liked her best when she forgot to hide how much she loved the work.

Some of the women glanced at him from the side, eyes half accusing, half amused. We love you, Lord, but we read the road between the lines. Lyan just smiled and bowed to them. He wasn’t stupid enough to pretend innocence.

Arielle raised her cup at dinner. "To the watchers who kept Grafen safe while we wandered like chalk merchants." The laughter that followed was loud enough to shake the rafters.

That night the castle held a feast that ended with more warmth than wine. Laughter turned to whispers, whispers turned to doors closing. The hall lights dimmed until only the moon knew how the night ended—a mix of pouts, teasing, and soft truces that left even Lyan too tired to think of clever words. He drifted off among tangled hair and slow breaths.

Morning found him under a tangle of limbs. The bed looked like a battlefield fought with affection instead of swords. Lyan blinked at the ceiling, feeling every muscle complain in polite rebellion. He smiled. Carefully, he untangled arms and adjusted pillows as if arranging rare books. A wave of his hand cast a light illusion—a gentle glamor to deepen everyone’s sleep, mute drafts, and ease sore muscles. He left a pitcher of water within reach, straightened a fallen blanket, and whispered to no one, "Take it slow today."

From somewhere in the tangle, Arielle murmured half awake, "Gateboard at noon...just...five more minutes."

He grinned, knowing she’d dream of ledgers even in rest. Quietly, he dressed and left the room.

The corridors were alive with the kind of noise only peace made—soft, purposeful, a hundred small chores braided into one steady hum. It was the sound of a place that trusted itself. A line of ants ferried sawdust along the baseboards like tiny porters with someplace exact to be; sunlight spilled down the stairwell and struck the brass banisters so they winked back at the house like old friends. Two maids worked the rail with rags and vinegar, clucking at a stubborn smudge as if it had personally insulted their mothers. A trio of junior clerks—ink on their knuckles, hair escaping ribbons—sat cross-legged by the wall, copying Arielle’s board templates onto travel slates, their tongues tucked out in concentration as they traced the pictograms for beans, water, wind.

Lyan slowed his steps, letting the castle’s cheer set his pace. A boy nearly barreled into him with a bucket, skidded, and went white as chalk.

"Easy," Lyan said, palm up, gentling the air rather than the boy. "Take it slow today. We earned small steps."

The boy darted a glance to the floor, then up again. "Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord." He bumbled into a bow that was two different bows at once.

"Mind the corner," Lyan added, smiling with his eyes. "And the bucket."

"Yes, my lord!" the boy chirped, and fled with the high dignity of the very embarrassed.

The maids with the vinegar rags dipped shallow curtsies, grinning. "We heard the boards traveled as well as a song, my lord."

"They traveled better," Lyan said. "Songs forget details, boards don’t."

One maid—cheeks freckled, forearms strong—beamed. "We’ve a new column on the kitchen slate for who steals the last bun. Fairness is coming for them at last."

"Terrifying," he deadpanned.

He moved on, down the main stair that still creaked in the middle step—no matter what the carpenters said, the step preferred to complain. On the landing, two more clerks were arguing amiably about whether the bean pictogram should have one leaf or three. Lyan paused just long enough to hear the older one concede with a sigh that children learned better from threes. It made him want to laugh. If this is the worst fight we have today, the world is kind.

Eight months. The thought rose like a tide and sat in his chest with the weight of a full bell. Eight months since he’d dropped into this world with nothing but scarred reflexes and a book that promised answers. He ran a knuckle along the rail as he walked. A stranger. A mercenary. A man who slept with a weapon under his shirt. And now— He glanced down a side corridor where someone had hung their laundry to dry over a warm vent, shirts blooming like flags. —now I am arguing about pictograms and buns in a house where the worst step is the middle one.

He chuckled under his breath. "I never pictured a castle," he muttered, mostly to the brass rail. "Much less this many slippers by the door."

(You pictured a battlefield,) Arturia said, crisp as cold steel, but not unkind. (You pictured yourself alone on it.)

"True," he murmured.

At the bend where the corridor met the inner ward, the light changed. The courtyard opened in a green square stitched with paths of crushed shell, the air bright with hammering and laughter. Squads drilled in loose formation—not the rigid snap of parade, but a rhythm that looked like trust. Two veterans corrected stances with patient hands. A young soldier, too eager by half, overswung his practice spear and nearly toppled; the sergeant beside him caught the haft and guided it back, not with a bark, but with a quiet word and an example.

On the far side by the kitchen garden, cooks traded notes with one of the ant foremen—no one questioned that anymore. The ants liked the sugar scraps, the cooks liked the way the ants kept the herb beds neat; it had become the sort of peace contract Arielle would have written if she spoke ant. A pot lid clanged; someone swore; someone else laughed until it turned into a song. Laundry snapped on lines like sails packed for a long voyage. A pair of little girls marched across the flagstones with rope flags, imitating Lara’s wind signals to any adult foolish enough to drift into their path.

(Your keep is bright,) Eira observed, glacier-cool. (Brightness attracts shadows.)

"I know," he thought back. "That’s why we keep the lamps trimmed."

He paused at the arch to the kitchens. Heat rolled out with the smell of yeast and rosemary. The head cook, a compact woman with a temper like a kettle that boiled and boiled and never actually spilled, looked up from a tray of proofing loaves. "Back already, my lord? We were about to send a search party for your appetite."