Chapter 224: Gratitude

Chapter 224: Chapter 224: Gratitude

Martha Vance had already decided how things would go before Sophia’s carriage wheels stopped turning.

The house stood at the edge of the farmland, a low, sprawling place of whitewashed walls and a deep slate roof, with a vegetable garden out front that looked as though it had been arranged by someone who loved it. A wide porch ran along the south side, hung with drying herbs. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the smell of baking bread drifted across the yard.

"You must be Sophia," Martha said, coming down the porch steps with flour on her forearms and her sleeves pushed to the elbow. She was a small, brisk woman with kind eyes and Rowan’s easy smile. She did not offer a handshake. She simply took Sophia’s travel bag out of her hands as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Rowan wrote ahead. Your room’s already made up. We’ll have none of this nonsense about sleeping in the worker barracks."

Sophia opened her mouth, closed it, and looked helplessly at Rowan.

"It’s easier not to argue," he said gravely. "I’ve tried for years."

"Years of losing," came a dry voice from the porch. Arthur stood in the doorway, a tall, weathered man with a farmer’s broad hands and a quiet, steady presence. He studied Sophia for a moment, the way a man studies a field before deciding where to plow, and then nodded once. "You’ll want to eat first. Then sleep. The staff starts at dawn, and Maren doesn’t wait for anyone."

"Thank you," Sophia managed. "Sir. Ma’am. I don’t know how to repay..."

"Repay it by working hard and eating properly," Martha said, already steering her toward the door. "That’s all we ask of any young person who comes through here."

The room was small and sunlit, with a narrow bed, a writing desk by the window, and a view over the fields. On the sill sat an empty clay pot, plainly left there for a reason. Sophia set the cloth pouch with her sprout inside it, pressed the soil down gently with her thumb, and stood for a moment watching the thread-thin leaves lean toward the light.

Behind her, in the kitchen, she heard Martha lowering her voice to speak to her son, and Rowan’s low reply. She did not catch the words. She did catch the tone, which was the tone of a family speaking easily, and it warmed something in her that she had not known was cold.

Rowan left the next morning before the sun cleared the hills.

He stood at the edge of the courtyard in his cloak, with a small, carefully packed crate at his feet. Arthur checked the straps with the thoroughness of a man who had never trusted a single knot. Martha pressed a wrapped parcel of bread into his hands and told him to eat it, not carry it.

"You’ll give the Princess our best," she said.

"I will."

"And you’ll sleep at the palace. Real sleep. Not three hours on a chair."

"Mother."

"I’m only saying."

Arthur’s mouth twitched. "Go on, son. Give her our regards."

The crate held what Rowan had spent the previous evening choosing, one crop at a time, in the greenhouse lamplight. A cluster of Verdant Crown Tomatoes, picked at the exact hour of peak calm. Three Azure Dew Berry sprigs, still beaded with their self-made moisture. A half-dozen Amethyst-Gold Peaches, each one balanced to the second between violet and gold. A single Earth-Core Root, chosen for its weight and warmth. And a small sack of Vitality Grain, milled that morning, because someone recovering from a long illness needed something gentle to start with.

Beneath them, wrapped in straw and padded cloth, sat a row of sealed bottles. Primordial spring water, concentrated. Extra, as he had promised himself. The surplus that had saved her once would do no harm now, and he was not willing to be caught short a second time.

The Imperial Palace received him as it always did, with polished stone, soaring ceilings, and a hush that felt more like discipline than silence. A palace steward met him at the outer gate, bowed low, and led him at a respectful half-step ahead through a succession of corridors that Rowan had walked more often than he cared to count in the past weeks.

He had braced for guards, ceremony, and a long wait. Instead, the steward turned down a quiet east wing and said, "His Majesty has asked that you be brought directly to her."

The Princess’s chambers lay at the end of a corridor lined with tall windows. Two palace physicians stood outside the door in low conversation, and both fell silent as he approached. The older of them, a gray-bearded man Rowan recognized from the dispatches, bowed deeply.

"Sir Rowan. Forgive the formality, but we’ve been told to expect you." His voice softened. "She woke four days ago, for the first time. Only briefly, at first. But yesterday she took broth and held a conversation for nearly an hour."

Something in Rowan’s chest, held tight for weeks, finally loosened. He had read the dispatches. He had known. But a written line was not the same as a man’s voice saying it plainly.

"Thank you," he said. "May I see her?"

"Her Highness has asked for you twice."

The door opened onto a bright, airy room, with the windows thrown wide and curtains stirring in the breeze. Emperor Aurelius stood at the far side, a tall figure in simple dark robes, with his back to the door and his hands clasped behind him. Without the throne, the crown, or the court, he seemed less like the ruler of an empire than a father keeping watch. He turned at the sound of footsteps, and for one unguarded second Rowan saw the full weight of the past weeks in his face before the Emperor composed himself.

"Rowan," Aurelius said. Just the name, and then a nod. It said more than a speech.

On the great canopied bed, propped against a wall of pillows, sat Princess Lyra.

She was thinner than he remembered, and paler than the dispatches had suggested, but her eyes were clear, and her cheeks carried a faint, healthy flush. Her hair had been brushed and loosely braided. A bowl of untouched broth sat on the tray beside her, and she was in the middle of a polite argument with a nurse about it.

She looked up and saw him in the doorway. The argument stopped.

"You came," Lyra said. Her voice was soft and a little rough from disuse, but unmistakably hers.

"I promised I would." He crossed the room and stopped at the foot of the bed, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. In the end, he took off the straw hat and held it against his chest. "How are you feeling, Your Highness?"

"Like I’ve been asleep for a hundred years," she said, and a small, tired smile crossed her face. "Everything aches. Everything’s too bright. And I’m told I’m not allowed to leave this bed for another week." She tilted her head. "But I’m here. They tell me that’s because of you."

"That’s because of a great many people," Rowan said. "I only carried the water."

"The water." She said it with mock severity, and Aurelius made a sound that might have been a laugh, hastily smothered.

Rowan set the crate on the table beside the bed and lifted the lid. The scent rolled out at once: sweet fruit, warm grain, fresh earth, all folded into one. Lyra’s eyes widened. The nurse leaned in despite herself.

"I brought a few things from Sunny Vale," he said. "Nothing elaborate. Berries for refreshment, tomatoes and root for steady strength, peaches because I hear they’re easy on a tired stomach, and a little grain you can have as porridge once the physicians approve." He glanced at the old physician, who nodded gravely. "And more of the spring water. A small amount in each day’s drink. It should keep her mana channels clean while they finish healing."

Lyra picked up one of the peaches and turned it in her hands, watching the skin shift from violet to gold. She did not speak for a moment. When she did, her voice was quieter.

"You didn’t have to do all this."

"I wanted to."

She looked up, and her gaze held his steadily, with a clarity that belied her frailty. "Then thank you. Truly." She raised the peach slightly, almost a toast. "I’ll eat it. Even the broth, if the nurse insists."

"The nurse insists," the nurse said, relieved.

The Emperor stepped forward then, and set one large hand briefly on Rowan’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything. The pressure of his fingers said it for him.

Outside, the afternoon wind pushed the curtains wide, and sunlight spilled across the bed, across the open crate and the peach in Lyra’s hands. For the first time in weeks, the palace felt like a home.