Chapter 21: Negotiations (5)
The sun hung lower in the sky now, painting the orchard in a palette of deep golds and soft greens.
A gentle breeze stirred the rows of trees, carrying the faint scent of blossoms and tilled earth.
Near the western trellis where the estate’s best orchid plots had recently been revived, Thalia Fey stood beside Terrin, crouched slightly to trace his finger along the edge of a blossom.
“-loamy topsoil,” he was saying, “but what really changed was introducing the mulch layering with crushed shell fragments. It retains moisture without rotting the roots.”
Thalia jotted notes in her leather-bound book.
“And average output per square meter?”
“Too early to say with certainty,” Terrin replied, his tone level, as always.
“But if the current yield pattern holds, we may be able to triple the previous harvest numbers. Provided no frost ruins the early bloom.”
“Practical, grounded, and precise,” Thalia murmured, glancing at him sideways.
“You’re wasted as a gardener.”
Terrin didn’t smile, but the faintest twitch of his brow could almost be mistaken for amusement.
“I like the quiet.”
Just up the hill, Vaelira and Lucien stood at the edge of the gravel path, watching them.
The two figures below looked like a scene from a painting, notes and soil, sharp words and blooming roots.
Vaelira sipped the last of her tea, her gaze thoughtful, before turning to Lucien with a raised brow.
“So,” she said lightly, “you remember earlier today when you said, and I quote, ‘I need you there to feel confident’?”
Lucien narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“I might’ve said something vaguely along those lines.”
“Vaguely?”
She echoed, tilting her head.
“Because what I saw was someone practically one clause away from signing a contract that could fund half the estate’s rebuild.”
She folded her arms with a wry smile.
“Not bad for someone who was clinging to my sleeve like a nervous child this morning.”
Lucien grinned, smug but warm.
“And yet… you were there. So how can you be sure that all my dazzling confidence didn’t come from your presence?”
She blinked, caught for half a second, and just half a second, before turning her face away, ears slightly tinged red.
“Well,” she said after a beat, composing herself with practiced grace, “if it did, then your confidence has surprisingly good judgment.”
Lucien raised a brow.
“Was that a compliment?”
“That was a deflection,” she replied coolly.
Then, after a breath, she added, “But also… yes. What you showed in that negotiation room wasn’t just confidence. It was competence. Genuine skill.”
Lucien’s smirk faded, replaced by something softer, surprised, but quietly pleased.
“And to be honest,” she continued, her voice dipping just slightly, “I don’t understand why you’re even bothering to learn the sword if you’re this good at commerce.”
Lucien looked down at his hands, flexed them once, as if remembering the weight of the wooden practice sword from days prior.
“…Because I don’t trust this world enough to let talking be my only shield,” he said quietly.
Then he glanced up, grin returning. “And also, it’s a little hard to punch someone with a trade agreement.”
Vaelira shook her head, laughing under her breath.
“Spoken like a man who’s almost impaled a training dummy through the groin.”
Lucien looked mock-wounded.
“Once! It happened once!”
“Oh, I remember. Quite a brutal technique I must say.”
Their laughter mingled with the soft rustle of orchard leaves, floating down the slope where commerce and cultivation continued quietly below.
***
Lucien's smile lingered even as Vaelira turned away, but behind that grin, his thoughts churned like a pot left too long on the stove.
‘Why am I learning to use a sword?’
He nearly scoffed aloud.
‘Yeah, because I really wanted to look cool while tripping over my own feet in front of the blacksmith? No, it’s because there’s someone I want to stab. Badly. Repeatedly. With flair, if I can manage it.’
He glanced down the orchard path where Thalia and Terrin were still deep in discussion, then back up at the dappled canopy above.
The breeze rustled the leaves gently, but his jaw tightened all the same.
‘Leonardo.’
The name burned behind his teeth.
‘That smug, manipulative bastard. The fact that he’s reincarnated as the golden boy of the original story makes it worse. If I ever needed proof that the universe had a terrible sense of humor, that was it.’
Lucien’s fingers twitched unconsciously, half remembering the weight of a wooden sword, half imagining the grip of something sharper. Something that could actually draw blood.
‘This was the easy part. Negotiating apple margins with a pencil-pusher pretending to be an adventurer? Sure. Fun, even. But soon, I’ll have to leave for that damned academy. And odds are, I’ll run into that son of a bitch face-to-face.’
‘And if he recognizes me from our past lives…’
Lucien exhaled through his nose.
‘There’s a non-zero chance he goes straight for the throat. Or worse, plays it nice and stabs me in the back like a proper “hero.””
His jaw clenched.
‘And I can’t afford to walk in there wide-eyed and empty-handed. I need the basics. I need something. Right now, too many pieces on this board are still face-down. I don’t know what cards he’s holding, but if I don’t prepare…’
He paused, brow furrowing.
‘...Then I’m just another background character waiting to be axed for plot progression.’
But, at the very least, he thought, glancing toward the distant Everwind seal on Thalia’s notebook,
‘If this deal goes through, I won’t die broke. That’s something.’
He could afford tuition.
Equipment.
Maybe even a few favors.
‘It’s hard to play 4D chess when you can’t afford the board.’
The corner of his mouth lifted into a sharp smirk as a half-dozen contingency plans unfolded in his mind like blueprints.
He mentally ran through them, Plan A, B, C-through-S-for-stabbing, with a side order of plausible deniability.
Not all of them were good ideas, but some were fun, and that was a decent start.
Behind him, Vaelira stole a glance.
From the outside, Lucien looked calm, maybe even content.
But that smile…
The smile of a man quietly spiraling into what she could only describe as charismatic menace.
“He is making that face,’ she thought, ‘the one that makes people wonder if you’ve been talking to ghosts or haggling with demons.’
He was so still, so composed, but there was that little twitch in his jaw, that faraway gleam in his eye, like someone mentally planning to commit arson or tax fraud.
‘There it is. The villain's face. Gods, it’s dramatic. Kind of... impressive.’
She raised her napkin and dabbed some sweat off her forehead, watching him over the rim.
Lucien said nothing, his eyes now scanning the orchard like a general surveying a battlefield.
Vaelira exhaled quietly.
***
Far from the chatter of orchards and sunlit negotiations, atop a weather-beaten ridge just beyond the estate’s southern treeline, a figure sat mounted and still, his dark cloak swaying faintly in the breeze.
The world below was cast in warm amber light, but up here, the shadows clung like oil.
He raised a battered pair of binoculars, the brass rims dull and scarred with age.
The lenses caught the glint of civilization, marble walls, manicured gardens, distant silhouettes.
His gaze lingered.
First: two shapes near the rose terrace.
One sharp and statuesque, the other leaning in too easily, too comfortably.
A shared moment.
Then: a different pair farther off by the trellised orchard.
The exchange there was more deliberate, professional, transactional.
Purposeful.
A soft crunch of hooves announced another rider’s arrival.
The first didn’t look away.
He merely passed the binoculars to the newcomer, who took them without a word.
The second rider let the silence stretch before finally speaking, voice low and dry.
“Didn’t expect it to look this... tidy.”
The first gave a slow nod, eyes now fixed on the fading sun.
“Tidy’s just a coat of paint.”
A beat.
“Still,” the second said, adjusting the lenses, “more value here than promised.”
Another pause.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
The first rider didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was with a voice stripped of emotion, more observation than opinion.
“We were paid to remove a problem.”
He turned, cloak brushing dry pine needles from the earth.
“But problems come in all shapes. Some… leave behind leverage.”
The second rider gave a soft grunt. Agreement, perhaps. Or amusement. It was hard to tell beneath the hood.
They both looked back down at the estate, quiet again.
“Nightfall,” the first said finally. “When the masks come off.”
“And the real work begins,” the second replied.
Neither named a target.
Neither needed to.
Down below, the last rays of sunlight danced across rooftops and orchard leaves, making the D’Claire estate glow like a painting.
High on the ridge, two shadows watched it burn golden... and waited for it to darken.
***
The sun was melting into the horizon, the sky awash with hues of burnished amber and smoldering plum.
From the crest of the garden steps, Sir Richardson adjusted his gloves and called out with impeccable posture and the crisp authority of a man who had announced both dinner and duels in equal measure.
“Lady Vaelira. Lord Lucien. Madam Thalia. If you would be so kind, please, do come inside. The evening grows cold, and I suspect supper will be a touch more agreeable than orchard dust.”
Lucien raised an eyebrow, brushing off his coat.
“Does he rehearse those lines in the mirror?”
He muttered to Vaelira.
She didn’t answer, only smiled faintly.
As the trio began to move, Richardson gently stepped to Thalia’s side with a slight bow of the head.
“Madam, might I suggest you remain with us tonight? The forest paths are… less than accommodating after sunset, and it would displease me greatly to hear of your horse or person meeting with unnecessary hardship.”
Thalia arched a brow, then gave a tired but genuine chuckle.
“Considering the poor thing looked ready to keel over when we arrived, I think I’ll take you up on that. One night indoors won’t kill me.”
“Very good, madam. A guest room shall be prepared at once.”
With measured steps and a quiet air of practiced dignity, Richardson led the three back toward the estate, his presence always a step behind, like a well-trained shadow.
Terrin remained where he stood beneath the orchard arch, arms crossed as he watched them go.
After a moment, he called out, “Things’re gettin’ lively around here, eh?”
Richardson paused at the threshold, the glow of the manor lamps catching the silver of his hair.
This time, his voice was lower, flatter, none of the polish, just the man behind the posture.
“Aye,” he said.
“Too lively.”
Terrin grinned, leaning on his rake.
“What, you getting the itch again? Feels like your bones are predicting bandits, storms, or tax collectors.”
“You joke,” Richardson said, still watching the orchard with narrowed eyes, “but my bones have outlived better men than me by listening to those itches.”
He turned halfway, just enough for Terrin to see the change in his expression.
“Keep your shovel close tonight.”
Terrin blinked.
“What?”
Richardson’s tone dipped further, soft and grim.
“There’s something in the wind. It’s off. Feels… wrong.”
Terrin tried a chuckle, but it came out thin.
“You think it’s trouble?”
“I don’t know what it is,” Richardson muttered.
“But I don’t care for the taste of the evening. And I’ve learned not to ignore that kind of thing.”
There was a long beat of silence between them, two old men, one in waistcoat and cravat, the other in mud-caked boots, both listening to the wind whisper through the trees.
Terrin finally exhaled and gave a slow nod, tapping the wooden shaft of his shovel.
“Right,” he said.
“I’ll keep it close.”
Richardson didn’t respond.
He just turned back toward the manor, footsteps silent over the stone path, the door closing softly behind him.
And in the growing dark, the wind blew colder.
***
