Chapter 12: The Orchard Pact
The sound of quiet clinks and rain-muffled silence filled the hall, the storm still whispering against the window panes.
Lucien sat stiffly in his chair, trying very hard not to look like a man who had just accidentally proposed marriage.
Which, to be fair, asking a noble lady to train you with a sword might as well have been, judging by her long silence.
Vaelira sat with the poise of someone raised to command a ballroom with a glance, her expression unreadable as she slowly spread golden honey across a slice of toast, then stared at it as though it had revealed state secrets.
Lucien could feel the sweat on the back of his neck and resisted the urge to fan himself with a napkin.
“…Forget I said anything,” he mumbled finally, clearing his throat.
“That was, uh, that was probably presumptuous. I mean, you’re a noble lady, and I’m just....”
She took a bite of the toast.
Lucien shut up.
Then, without looking at him, she said lightly, “I’ll consider it.”
Lucien blinked.
“Wait, really?”
She finally turned to face him.
“Yes. But…”
She dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin.
“I’ll need a favor.”
Lucien sat up straighter.
“Anything.”
“Don’t agree so quickly. You might regret it.”
“That’s never stopped me before.”
That earned him a small laugh, sharp and elegant like a bell in winter.
She tilted her head at him with something bordering on mischief.
“Very well then, Sir Lucien. Here are my conditions. You are to send a formal letter of request to House Aetherveil, asking for guidance and supervision in the revitalization of the Aetherveil Reds. It must be worded properly, sealed and delivered by courier, and not contain any mention of swords, training, or me.”
Lucien blinked.
“…I’m sorry, what?”
“There’s more,” she said, cutting him off before he could spiral.
“You are to never acknowledge publicly that I was here today. If asked, I was never at the D’Claire estate. We have not met. In fact, if you even so much as breathe my name in the wrong context, I will deny everything and have you publicly ridiculed for libel.”
Lucien stared, mouth slightly open.
“…Are you being serious?”
Vaelira delicately sipped her tea, lashes lowered just enough to be dramatic.
“Quite. Do we have a deal?”
Lucien hesitated, confusion scribbled across every line of his face.
“I mean… yeah, I guess, but… why?”
She rose smoothly, smoothing down her skirts.
“Because, Lord Lucien, plausible deniability is a lady’s most effective blade.”
Then, with a sidelong glance and a sly tilt of her lips, she added, “Besides, imagine the scandal if someone found out I’ve been tutoring a boy.”
Lucien nearly choked on his tea.
“It’s not like that!”
She gave him a look that was equal parts amused and amused at him.
“Isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, then gave up entirely and nodded with a defeated groan.
“Fine. Deal.”
Vaelira smiled, this time, a real one.
Genuine and gentle.
“Good.”
***
She made her way to the door where the steward waited, her carriage already prepared.
As Richardson bowed and opened the door, Vaelira glanced back once more.
Lucien stood in the hallway, watching her go with the same look one might give a passing comet, brilliant, rare, and absolutely confusing.
“Try not to hit yourself with your own saber,” she called sweetly.
“I’ll try not to name-drop you and ruin your entire social life,” he shot back.
She gave him a soft laugh.
“That’s the spirit.”
And then she was gone.
The carriage rolled through the mud-caked road as the clouds finally began to part.
Sunlight threaded through the mist like shy fingers trying to reclaim the land.
Vaelira sat with her gloved hands folded neatly on her lap, gaze fixed on the streaks of light painting the distant hills.
“Foolish,” she murmured to herself.
“Utterly foolish…”
She should’ve left the moment the rain slowed.
Should’ve kept her distance.
Should’ve acted as she always had, aloof, untouchable, precise.
And yet…
She remembered the way Lucien had looked at the orchard.
Like he meant it.
Like he remembered it.
That kind of sincerity was dangerous.
But it was also… disarming.
She turned her head slightly, lips quirking despite herself.
“…But perhaps not entirely unpleasant.”
As the carriage turned the bend, and the D’Claire estate disappeared from view, the sun broke through the clouds fully, casting the world in soft, golden light.
And the lady of House Aetherveil found herself smiling, just barely.
***
The scent of pipe tobacco, old parchment, and a slightly overcooked stew hung heavy in Terrin’s modest staff quarters.
A kettle hissed gently on the stove in the corner while rainwater still dripped in lazy rhythm from the eaves outside.
The three of them, Lucien, Richardson, and Terrin, sat in a rough circle on mismatched chairs, with mugs of barely-warm tea in hand.
Terrin cleared his throat and sat a little straighter.
“Young Master Lucien, with all due respect… would you kindly repeat that? Slowly.”
Lucien leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression earnest.
“She said I should send a formal request to House Aetherveil asking for orchard supervision. But I’m not to mention her, sword lessons, or even acknowledge that she was ever here.”
Richardson shifted in his seat, mug held primly.
“And you agreed to those terms, my lord?”
Lucien nodded.
“She seemed serious. I figured I’d go along with it. She didn’t really ask for much beyond that.”
There was a long pause before Terrin leaned forward, his brow furrowed.
“Not to question the Lady’s intentions, of course, but why exactly are we having this… clandestine discussion here, in my quarters?”
Lucien gave him a sheepish look.
“Because she asked for privacy. And I trust you two the most. If this is going to be kept under wraps, I wanted it discussed somewhere quiet.”
Terrin gave Richardson a sideways glance.
“Apparently the young master thinks I’m some kind of steel vault.”
“You're more like a rusted lockbox,” Richardson muttered into his tea.
Terrin huffed, looking around his own small room with a mildly offended expression.
“Doesn’t mean I gotta have noble secrets in my soup pot.”
Richardson chuckled, swirling the last of his tea.
“You should be honored, old dog. This is now the official war room.”
Terrin grunted.
“This war room smells like socks.”
Lucien coughed into his sleeve, hiding a grin as the two descended into their well-worn rhythm of gentle ribbing.
“Gentlemen,” he interjected, “can we stay on topic?”
They both straightened again, almost comically formal.
“Apologies, my lord,” Richardson said, inclining his head.
“Quite right, young master,” Terrin added, though his lips twitched with restrained amusement.
Lucien cleared his throat.
“I wanted your take. Why all the secrecy?”
Both men fell quiet for a moment.
Terrin scratched the side of his head.
“I mean… she’s a noble lady. Swordsmanship’s not exactly a tea-table topic for them.”
Richardson tapped a finger against the side of his mug and gave a thoughtful grunt.
“Maybe. But Lady Vaelira’s not your average noble. She’s a frequent face down at Briarforge, oldest and best smith in the town square. Saw her there myself last week. Had a broadsword slung across her back, casual as anything.”
Lucien’s brows rose.
“That explains a lot. She was oddly knowledgeable about swords. Gave me a whole lecture about saber types and how they suit my build and grip better than a broadsword.”
Terrin raised an eyebrow.
“A saber, huh? Sounds like she’s not just a hobbyist.”
“She isn’t,” Lucien confirmed.
“She’s precise. Technical. Like a tutor. Or… a knight.”
There was a beat of silence before Terrin sighed and leaned back in his creaky chair.
“Well, if she’s that serious, then maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Having an Aetherveil involved in the orchard project could lend it legitimacy. After all, it was their bloodline that created the Reds in the first place.”
Richardson gave a small nod.
“And if she’s willing to help quietly, we would be fools not to take it.”
Lucien exhaled in relief, then looked to Richardson.
“Can you handle the formalities? Draft the letter to House Aetherveil, just like she asked. No mention of her, only the orchard collaboration.”
Richardson gave a mock salute.
“Already writing it in my head.”
“And Mr. Terrin,” Lucien turned to the older man, “start prepping the south grove. We’ll need soil testing, irrigation checks, whatever’s necessary. Restoration begins soon.”
Terrin gave a grunt that somehow translated to ‘About damn time,’ and reached for his coat.
The three of them sat a moment, the storm outside softening to a drizzle.
The fire in the hearth had settled into a cozy crackle, and the air in the little room felt warmer than it had when they started.
Just as the two older men stood to leave, Lucien spoke again.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
They both looked back.
“Would you mind being a little less formal with me?” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
“You’re both old enough to be my grandfathers. Feels strange being called ‘young master’ all the time.”
The two elder men exchanged a glance, and then both let out a quiet chuckle.
Richardson rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Well, hell. I think we already started doing that, didn’t we?”
Terrin grunted.
“You’re not wrong. He got me talking like a tavern rat three minutes in.”
Lucien gave them a wry smile.
“It’s kind of nice, honestly.”
Richardson was the first to chuckle.
“That’s mighty kind of you.”
Terrin nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“But you didn’t have to remind us we’re ancient relics while you were at it.”
Lucien laughed.
“You’re not that old.”
“Yes we are,” they both said in unison.
Terrin stretched his legs out with a grunt.
“Alright then, Lucien. You’ve got yourself a pair of old bones who’ll back you up.”
“And gods help you for it,” Richardson added with a grin.
And then the three of them laughed, three men from three different generations, huddled together in a cramped old room that now housed a plan to revive a legacy thought lost.
Outside, the rain eased into a soft drizzle, as if the storm had finally tired itself out.
The orchards stood soaked but unbowed, waiting.
And within those moss-covered groves, the first seeds of change had already taken root.
***
