Chapter 18: Negotiations (2)
The negotiations began not with diplomacy, but with veiled declarations of conquest.
House Arloine went first.
“As per our preliminary proposal,” said a portly representative with jewel-crusted sleeves, “we are prepared to absorb the full harvest of common produce at a fixed rate—assuming exclusive distribution rights for the next ten years. Naturally, any surplus beyond expected yield shall be stored in our facilities for… ‘quality assurance.’”
He smiled with teeth far too white for his blackened soul.
Lucien blinked.
‘Ten years? And they get to hoard the extras? That’s a hostage deal wearing a handshake costume.’
House Merriweather followed.
Their representative, thin as a stiletto and twice as cold, adjusted her pince-nez and delivered her pitch with surgical precision.
“We offer a flexible quota model. You’ll send us half the harvest up front, we pay in installments over the year—based on market performance. If prices rise, you gain. If not… well. That’s the market for you.”
Lucien translated that mentally.
‘Ah. So if the prices rise, I get blamed for greed. If they fall, I get poverty. Inspiring.’
Then came House Corven.
“We’re prepared to fund orchard repairs directly,” their representative announced.
“In exchange, we ask for naming rights to future produce. Branding is the lifeblood of progress, after all. Imagine it—‘Corven’s Crimson Orchard: Taste the Prestige.’”
Lucien stared.
‘They want to rename the apples? Do they plan to slap their family crest on every tree while they’re at it?’
The offers kept coming.
—One merchant suggested converting half the orchard to a "specialty nut yield" more suitable for export.
—Another offered “labor support,” which upon questioning translated to importing their own workers to “standardize efficiency.”
—One particularly smug delegate casually suggested that, given the estate’s financial standing, “a joint-ownership structure might be best—just until you're on your feet again, of course.”
Lucien’s ears rang.
He could feel his temples pulsing with each new clause, each weaponized contract clause disguised as charity.
He glanced at Vaelira.
Her smile was pleasant.
Her eyes were frozen steel.
She hadn’t moved in ten minutes, except to tap a single gloved finger against her chair's armrest—precisely every twelve seconds.
Then he looked at Richardson.
The old steward was clutching his teacup like it was the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.
His mustache twitched with every audacious clause mentioned, grinding his teeth so hard Lucien feared they'd spark.
Lucien sighed inwardly.
‘They’re all trying to bleed us dry and frame it as irrigation. Of course they are. I came in expecting help and found a buffet where I’m the main course.’
His inner monologue began composing a eulogy for his pride.
‘Maybe I just pick the least worst one. Damage control. Mitigate the losses. Find a clause or two I can stomach and sign fast before someone tries to buy the land out from under me.’
He straightened a little, resigned.
And then, as if fate had grown bored of watching him squirm, one of the representatives spoke up.
“Lord Lucien,” came the oily voice of the delegate from House Arloine, steepling his fingers with faux reverence.
“We’ve heard quite a bit from ourselves. But what we’d like to hear now is… your plans regarding the Aetherveil Red.”
The room fell silent.
The name rang out like a gunshot.
The Aetherveil Red—Aetherveil’s famed crimson fruit. The jewel of the estate. The rare, richly aromatic, almost mythic apple that once made nobles whisper and chefs weep.
All eyes turned to him now.
There was no more noise.
No more distractions.
Just that question hanging in the air like a noose.
Lucien sat very still.
‘Of course. That’s what they’re really here for.’
The vultures weren’t circling a dying orchard.
They were circling a crown.
And they wanted to know what the young, unproven heir planned to do with it.
***
Lucien stood.
Well—he attempted to stand with all the grace and dignity of a noble heir, but his body had other plans.
Pain lanced up his calves like betrayal in muscle form.
His knees cracked like old floorboards.
His back felt like it had personally lost a war.
‘Gods above’, he thought, ‘has anyone ever dislocated a lung by standing up too fast?’
He braced a hand against the table, jaw clenched, drawing in a sharp breath that immediately punished him with a spasm in his side.
A reminder that yesterday’s “light jog” with Vaelira had apparently been a full-on death march.
Still, he stood.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
And entirely upright.
The gathered representatives watched in silence, half-expecting him to fall over.
One even nudged his assistant as if placing a private bet.
Lucien ignored them.
He looked first to Sir Richardson.
The old steward, white-knuckled and puffing into his teacup like it was a stress inhaler, met his gaze with something between panic and trust.
Lucien exhaled.
Let it settle through his spine.
Then he turned toward the table of vultures and began to speak.
“Gentlemen. Ladies. Merchants of name and renown,” he began, voice steady despite the twinge in his back.
“I thank you for your enthusiasm and interest in Aetherveil Red’s future. Truly.”
Several leaned forward, ready to pounce at signs of weakness.
“However,” he continued, “I believe some of your proposals—while certainly ambitious—have overlooked the very heart of the matter.”
He gestured lightly toward the door.
“This estate has been battered, yes. Neglected, perhaps. But broken? Never.”
He placed a hand on the table.
“And as such, I will not be relinquishing its name or its heritage to the highest bidder.”
A few brows twitched.
A chair creaked.
Lucien turned slightly to Vaelira, giving a courteous nod.
“Lady Aetherveil and I have spent the past week devising the restoration plan for the orchards—specifically the Aetherveil Reds. We intend to separate the harvest into graded tiers to ensure maximum value extraction across different markets without compromising the brand’s prestige.”
He looked to Richardson again.
“If you would, Sir Richardson.”
The steward, wordless but grateful to be doing something that wasn’t tea-related, snapped into motion.
With surprising energy for a man who had been vibrating with anxiety ten minutes ago, he disappeared behind a side door and reappeared moments later, awkwardly rolling in what could only be described as an unreasonably massive blackboard.
It screeched across the floor.
One of the merchant reps winced.
Lucien, not missing a beat, picked up a piece of chalk with a tiny flourish, turned to the board, and began drawing.
First, a triangle.
“This represents the entire harvest,” he said.
“We’ve modeled five tiers of apple quality based on firmness, sugar content, aroma profile, and visual perfection.”
He numbered the layers of the triangle top-down as he spoke.
“Tier One: These are flawless. These are the face of Aetherveil. Luxury fruit sold individually, packaged with the estate seal, limited quantity, used for brand reinforcement and establishing prestige. Each one gets its own box.”
Someone scoffed.
He ignored them.
“Tier Two: Excellent apples with minor cosmetic flaws or slightly irregular sizing. These are for the general noble market, sold in crates but still maintaining premium pricing. They flood noble kitchens and peasant stalls alike.”
“Tier Three and Four: Pie stock and cider-grade. Still delicious, still aromatic, but not presentation-grade. These will move in bulk—breweries, bakers, and taverns. Lower margin, higher volume.”
He underlined the bottom layer.
“Tier Five: Bruised, discolored, or partially overripe fruit. These are designated for seed extraction. We’ll also harvest wood from dying trees—sold as applewood chips for culinary smokers, firewood, and other crafts.”
The room had fallen into silence.
Eyes flicked from the board to Lucien.
Some skeptical.
Some surprised.
Lucien turned back around, chalk dust on his fingers, heart still thudding from the simple act of standing upright like he hadn’t been on the verge of falling apart an hour ago.
He smiled faintly.
“We aren’t selling fruit. We’re selling legacy. From the first bite to the last ember of the tree it grew on.”
He paused.
“And we intend to profit from every piece of it.”
Lucien stepped back from the blackboard and gave a brief nod toward the side door.
“Mr. Terrin,” he called, “if you’d be so kind.”
The door creaked open, and in came Terrin, rubbing his hands on a slightly soiled apron that he hadn’t bothered to change.
If this arrival was well planned and known prior, perhaps the old gardener could have stayed in a more presentable state.
But when pulled out from his regular work, this was the best state one could find him.
His boots left faint tracks of dried soil across the floor—something that caused a few of the more polished representatives to lift the hems of their cloaks in mild horror.
Terrin didn’t notice.
He moved with the slow, sure gait of someone who had walked these halls for decades, blinking under the bright chamber lights like he’d just emerged from a cave.
“You need me to talk about the orchard plans?”
He said, scratching his beard.
Lucien gestured toward the blackboard.
“If you could explain the new structural layout and pruning cycles. Specifically, how the division of soil and the changes in water runoff will affect the southern rows.”
Terrin’s eyes lit up.
He stepped forward like a man called to sermon.
“Well, then.” He clapped his hands together.
“Right, so—first off, those south-facing rows? They're over-soaked. Roots have been drowning for two years at least. We’re reworking the channels to let proper runoff and aeration hit the base layer. That way, the fungal blooms won’t return after the last frost.”
He pointed vaguely at the diagram.
“Now, the trellis system’s outdated. We’ll be resetting it with reinforced ironwood beams—staggered verticals, see—so the grafted hybrids in section B won’t sag once they hit the fourth bloom cycle. That gives us a higher fruit ratio in a smaller space and keeps the younglings from cannibalising each other’s sun.”
He went on.
And on.
Speaking of nitrogen depletion, root crowding, bee colony incentives, natural windbreaks, and blossom timing with a kind of rustic poetry only years of dirt-under-the-nails devotion could conjure.
His hands danced through the air as he explained microclimates and ideal sun angles like a man recalling stories of old lovers.
He ended with a humble shrug.
“And that’s all before I even get into compost layering or pest rotation.”
Silence followed.
Then—a chuckle.
And then a full laugh.
And then another.
Soon several of the more flamboyant representatives were holding their sides, snorting like pigs in silk.
One of them—a wide-bellied man with golden cuffs and too many rings—wiped a tear from his eye.
“I came here to discuss investments, not take gardening lessons from a dirt-stained goat,” he said, still chuckling.
“What’s next, shall we bring in the chicken boy to talk about crop insurance?”
More laughter.
Another merchant leaned forward, eyes glinting.
“With all due respect, Lord Lucien, is this truly the best your house can muster? A prattling farmer who probably talks to trees?”
A murmur rippled through the others.
Even those who hadn’t laughed now whispered to each other behind cupped hands.
The smell of blood was in the air—social, not literal—and they were circling for weakness.
Lucien’s hand slammed down onto the table, hard.
The sharp crack echoed like a whip through the chamber.
All laughter died mid-throat.
He straightened his back, ignoring the fresh spike of pain in his shoulder.
“And what, exactly,” he said, voice ice-cold, “is the meaning of this disrespect?”
A few flinched.
A few more averted their gaze, pretending their existence will be forgotten if they did so.
Though one recovered enough to sneer.
“The disrespect is yours, Lord Lucien. You and your estate insult us by dressing up fables as business plans and parading an old gardener like he’s a master of coin. We came for serious negotiation—not peasant daydreams and rustic poetry.”
Lucien inhaled sharply, about to respond—only to feel a shift beside him.
Vaelira stood.
She didn’t raise her voice.
She didn’t need to.
The very tone of her words cut cleaner than any yell ever could.
“You insult not just this house, but the man who kept it alive when the rest of you had already declared it dead.”
Her eyes swept across the room like drawn steel.
“Terrin Marrow has spent more time among these trees than your families have in this valley. He knows the soul of this land. Its breath. Its bones. He nursed the last of our orchard through blight, storm, and neglect—while the rest of you were too busy watching from your balconies and sipping imported wine.”
Several merchants had the decency to look away.
“When it comes to the Atherveil Reds,” she continued, voice still perfectly even, “there is not a single person in this room more qualified to speak than Terrin Marrow. Not me. Not Sir Richardson. And certainly not any of you.”
There was no mistaking the heat in her gaze now.
“And if any of you dare to laugh at him again—then you will kindly see yourselves out, and leave your proposals behind.”
Silence.
Utter, ringing silence.
Vaelira sat back down without ceremony, calm mask slipping perfectly back into place.
Lucien blinked once.
Slowly.
And for the first time that morning, he smiled.
***
