"And there we were, halfway to the next oasis in the desert, when desert men came and raided the caravan. There I was with me bow. Me bein' less tall than I was, had a hard time drawin'…"
Galwell's voice rang across the street. He told travel stories the way other people breathed, loud and animated, as if the whole city had paid to listen. Over the past year there had been many. They kept trying to cheer Ezra up, and Galwell never ran out of tales. Ezra didn't know if Galwell made half of them up.
Ezra only half listened.
His mind was still stuck elsewhere. In last year. In the room. In the ceiling. In Evan.
Ezra sat in front of Galwell on the saddle. He was too short to ride even a pony properly.
Apparently Galwell had been a merchant's son. A commoner one.
His father had made a good fortune by marrying into a declining noble family. Fortune being the same thing he used to coax the baron into giving away his daughter.
Initially there had been pushback from his mother, but the marriage happened anyway.
Galwell's mother had brought a house name with her, but she had not passed it down to him. Her father had been one of the unlucky ones under the Aufsteigfrieden. Born a Viscount, he'd gotten into a conflict with one of his vassals that escalated into a feud. He lost the duel.
Their viscounty was cut down to a barony. Mine disputes went to the winner. People went hungry. And in the end he married off his daughter to stabilize the holding, feed the residents, and claw back some prestige for their House.
Galwell hadn't inherited that name.
But Galwell had become good enough to be raised as a landed knight, and with that he'd been allowed to take a house name of his choosing.
Now: Galwell Ironbale, after the name of their own merchant house.
They'd been granted a respectable holding in the southeastern part of Fulmen for service.
Galwell's cadence continued, but one line finally caught Ezra's ear.
"They were just hungry, but we needed to eat too. What could we do? The whole district was like that. Just hovels, rags, and basically dried vomit."
Ezra's curiosity rose before he could stop it. "How do they eat, then?"
"Well, they steal, m'lord," Galwell replied like it was obvious. "An' they hope they don't get beat up enough to die. It's a rough world out there, m'lord."
"So this happened after the duel?"
"Aye. Jus' the year after, when the seizures finally took place, an' the Officum Ascensus stripped it." Galwell's tone shifted. "It was too much work for the Officum too, y'know? That particular fiefdom and the other one who the baron dueled kept changin' hands every Aufstiegsjahr. I kinda get why sometimes the Officum needs a lot of hands."
"But that's stupid," Ezra snapped. "Shouldn't they care about their own subjects more?"
"M'lord," Galwell said, careful, "for some nobles, pride comes before their own."
"But industry just stops. No one can eat."
"Th' lords can though," Galwell replied. "That's enough for 'em, I think."
Ezra's blood boiled. He said nothing.
"When the people sawr us, they just lined up, askin' to be fed," Galwell went on. "Me father was too kindhearted, but… instead of coin or bread, he gave 'em work. Since he had dealings with the baron, he used some o' them to carry th'goods to the castle. Gave 'em bread an' coin as payment. M'father thinks kindness given is kindness returned." His mouth tightened. "Haven't been to that barony ever since."
"Where is that, Galwell?"
"Further north."
Ezra's brow drew together. "Are you saying half the Empire is starving? Is this the same in Fulmen?"
"Omniscience, no," Galwell said quickly. "Fulmen is well run. We may be a marcher county, but even though people go hungry sometimes, overall, commoners are fed. Your father makes sure of it. If we don't have 'nough grain for the year, he buys it."
"Why hasn't my father been challenged?"
Galwell barked a short laugh. "Yer crazy, if you want to bring the Ashbringer down as a vassal. Most o' them vassals depend on Lord Blackfyre anyway. Keeps the whole domain healthy enough that coin can keep circlin'."
He glanced ahead, as if the street itself proved the point.
"Along with most o' 'em half scared to death o' fightin' Lord Blackfyre," Galwell continued. "There ain't just no point on weakenin' the Marches. It's jus' a bad thing goin' on if you're gonna fight brothers who bleed for you, besides." He shifted the reins slightly. "Every time we get to expand the domain, some noble gets part of it anyway."
"So we aren't marching on the borders because of logistics, isn't it?"
"Aye," Galwell said. "But not only that, m'lord. Why pile bodies at land? For a war we need people, m'lord, and as much as Lord Blackfyre's reputation precedes him… he ain't no warmonger. Wars need bodies an' steel. Not everyone can cast a spell."
"But they are arcanists, right?"
"Yer right," Galwell said. He shrugged under his cloak. "But in my opinion, long as they don't attack us, I don't see why we should kill 'em."
Ezra was still boiling over what they'd done to Evan. He knew dwelling in it was dangerous, but right now he wanted to touch the anger because it made him feel less hollow.
Evan's commission still echoed in his mind. He wanted to do something about it.
As they passed by they heard some shouting. A few boys in the street. Two standing. One on the ground. The standing ones stopped the instant they heard hooves, but the boy on the ground didn't.
"You keep on saying dirtblood and nullborn, like it's the same thing," the boy snapped. "Nullborns can't cast magic, imbecile. Dirtblood is someone who has commoner blood in them, in your terms a nullborn. You can't mix them up because they don't mean the same thing. Dirtblood can be trueborn. Nullborns can't be dirtborns."
He took a breath and kept going, ignoring Ezra's retinue. While they weren't wearing walking with any banners, most of the people in the inner district who noticed had stopped what they were doing as a sign of respect.
"Listen. Trueborn means your line carries magic. It's blood, not manners. A man can be trueborn and still be born in a kitchen. That's what you're trying to say when you spit dirtblood."
"And nullborn means no magic at all. No spark. No casting. It doesn't matter if your father has a title or if your mother was a washerwoman. If you're nullborn, you're nullborn."
He snorted. "So if you want to insult me, pick one and stick to it. If you mean I'm common-blooded, say dirtblood. If you mean I can't cast, say nullborn, but I am not, last time they tested me for magic, I had better scores than you. If you can't even bully correctly, you should keep your mouth shut and just hit me."
The two standing boys didn't answer. They just stared, faces tight, eyes flicking past him.
Ezra waved his hand and Galwell stopped the the procession.
"Who is that?" Ezra asked Caspian, "he looks like a squire, do you know him?"
"Yes milord, his name is Extos, he is one of the squires. He's a bit of an oddball," Caspian answered.
"Sire, he scores well on written tests, but is really bad when it comes to drills and duels," Hearth added.
The two standing boys recovered first. They bowed fast, eyes down. Galwell's tabard made it plain enough even without banners.
Extos blinked, like he'd only just remembered there were people behind him. Then he pushed himself up from the street, brushed grit off his sleeves, and bowed too. A beat late, but correct.
Ezra looked at him. "What's your name?"
The boy lifted his head.
"Extos zu Bren," he answered.
Zu Bren, no proper house name. Ezra thought.
Ezra asked, "Extos. Why does winter come?"
Extos blinked. Then he answered quickly, like he'd been waiting for someone to ask a proper question.
"Because the sun's path shifts," he said. "In summer it rides higher. The days are longer. In winter it rides lower, and the days shorten."
Ezra watched him. "And why does the sun's path shift?"
Extos hesitated, then pressed on anyway.
"Because the sky isn't fixed," he said. "The stars drift through the year. The sun moves against them. If you mark where it rises at the horizon, it doesn't rise in the same place every morning. It walks north, then south."
One of the standing boys tried to cut in. "My lord, pardon us if—"
Galwell looked down. "Quiet."
The boy shut his mouth.
Extos kept going, unable to help himself.
"That's why we have solstice days," he said. "When it stops shifting for a moment, then turns back. Farmers watch it even if they don't name it." He huffed. "And if you want to be exact, the cold isn't only day length. Winds change too. But the day length is the easy part to measure."
Ezra kept his eyes on Extos. "You're a squire."
"Yes, m'lord."
"And you score well on written tests," Ezra said.
Extos hesitated. "Yes, m'lord."
"But you're not good in drills," Ezra continued. "Or duels."
Extos's mouth opened, then closed. He didn't have a clean answer for it.
After a moment he said, "The world isn't only about fighting."
Ezra's expression tightened. "The Aufsteigfrieden is."
Extos looked at him, curiously and tilted his head. He didn't look away.
"That's for lords," he said, as he shrugged, his tone, uncarring. "I'm not part of it. There are more interesting things than fighting."
Galwell made a low sound, like he was holding in a laugh he didn't want anyone else to hear.
Ezra said curiously, "You like books."
Extos's face changed as he nodded earnestly. "Yes, m'lord."
"I like books too," Ezra said. "Come to the keep sometime. We'll talk. I'll show you some I've read."
Extos paused, thinking hard, like he didn't understand why a toddler asked him to make a book club with him. Then he continued nodding. "I've read most of the books in the squires' barracks," he said, like that was the only sensible starting point.
He looked down at himself, realized his tunic was dirty, and dusted his shoulders and sleeves before bowing again.
Ezra stared at him for a second then smiled. He was kind of funny. Nerds who got bullied in highschool types.
"Thank you," Extos said flatly. "For the books."
The two boys who had been standing went still. The meaning landed on them all at once. Their eyes flicked between Ezra and Extos, then away.
One of them tried to recover. He stepped forward half a pace and bowed deeper than before.
"My lord Ezra," he said, voice careful. "If we may—"
Galwell's gaze dropped onto him again.
The boy stopped.
Extos looked at the two of them like they were about to be a headache. He didn't seem to understand what had just happened in the street. He only looked back at Ezra once, as if confirming the invitation was real.
Ezra lifted his hand slightly.
"I'll send word when, I am free," he said.
The boys backed away silently, now that Extos had been invited they knew what that meant. Extos was already noticed by the future Lord Blackfyre and if they continued to pester him, they would probably be punished.
Extos remained where he was, dusting his sleeve one more time, then looking up again with the same sharp, puzzled focus.
Extos nodded but didn't even look at Ezra. "Yes, m'lord." still dusting his knees for dirt.
Galwell smiled, this was a the first time Ezra took initiative being social. In his mind Aerwyna's plan for Ezra had already been a success.
They continued the march until they reached the gate toward the outer ring. The procession began to angle back. This outing had been supposed to be short, just to the inner gate and back.
"I want to see the outer ring," Ezra said.
Galwell hesitated. Ezra could see him thinking through it. Send a messenger to Aerwyna. Check whether the boy was allowed. Ezra was still… precarious.
But Aerwyna hadn't explicitly forbidden it. Her orders had been clear: Ezra was to be accompanied within Bren.
Galwell made the choice.
"Open the gates," he shouted to the gatekeeper.
The gatekeeper looked at the armor, then at Ezra, and didn't ask questions. He signaled, and the gate began to move.
***
After they went outside the gatehouse, Ezra decided to walk part way. Galwell didn't like straying too far from the gate so they decided to leave the horses at the gatehouse and continue walking.
In the inner ring, people gave them careful respect. Here, it was more open. Men stopped work long enough to nod. Women dipped their heads without slowing down. These were people who had seen patrols on the roads and grain in the storehouses before winter. They knew what House Blackfyre meant in practice.
The children didn't sit and play.
They worked.
That wasn't even the part that bothered him most. There were too many children out here by the outer wall. It didn't add up. One in five was a child.
"There are a lot of them," Ezra said, brow drawn tight.
"Beg pardon, m'lord?" Galwell asked.
"Children," Ezra said. "There are a lot."
Galwell looked around, then got it. "Aye. More commoners live out here in the outer ring."
"What do you mean?"
"Inner district's mostly noble blood," Galwell said. "Relatives, household, that sort. Trueborns don't have many—two or three, if they're lucky. But the ones they do have usually make it to grown."
"Commoners," he went on, his mouth tightening, "they have a lot because they can't count on keepin' 'em."
"What's the mortality rate?" Ezra asked. "How many die?"
Galwell swallowed.
Dynham answered instead. "One in three barely make it past their tenth name day, sire. That's from my own rolls from my keep." His voice stayed even. "Worse on bad years. And some don't mark it at all if the babe dies before it's named."
Ezra knew the statistic in his head. He'd read it, pulling it from books he'd read about old civilizations on Earth, but he'd always thought magic would change it.
"What about healing magic?"
"That needs coin M'lord," Galwell relpied.
Dynham nodded. "And it isn't as simple as people think," he added. "Healing's had a stink on it since the Empire branded it Arcanist work. That's old law now, but folk remember. Some won't take it. Some can't afford it."
"And there are things healing don't fix, water goin' bad," Dynham continued. "Famine. Plague."
"Plague?" Ezra asked.
"Aye," Galwell said. "Some years it gets bad enough that even trueborns catch it."
Interesting, Ezra thought. So there are limits. Things healing magic doesn't actually cure. Maybe I can figure out why.
Seeing it with his own eyes—children everywhere, small hands doing grown work—something in his chest swelled.
He needed to do something about it.
A boy barely five dragged kindling. Two older boys wrestled a barrel onto a handcart while a girl wedged stones under the wheels so it wouldn't roll. In an alley, kids scrubbed shirts in a trough, hands red from cold water.
Ezra clenched his jaw.
"How often?" he asked quietly.
Dynham glanced down. "How often do they work?"
"Yes."
Galwell answered before Dynham could. "Most days, m'lord," he said. "Seven in seven, if they're lucky enough to have work."
"That's normal?" Ezra asked.
Galwell gave him a look like Ezra had asked whether rain was wet. "Aye. You carry water as soon as you can walk straight. By ten you're doin' a man's share if your da can't. That lot have it better than we did. At least there's coin in it."
"Even when we had coin," Galwell added, "me father still had me doin' the small work. 'Sweep the cart bed. Count the sacks. Learn what a spill costs.' He said a merchant's son who won't do menial work grows into a lordling who can't run nothin'."
"In the keep," Ezra said, "you told the staff to slow their work on the seventh day."
"That isn't everywhere," Galwell said. "Old Earl before Reitz, his grandsire, started it here. Said even the stories talk about gods restin' one day in seven." He shrugged. "Outside most domains, you work until you drop. Bread doesn't care what day it is."
Dynham nodded once. "Inside the walls it eases a little," he said. "Outside, not much."
Ezra took that in and didn't like it.
A sharp voice snapped him back.
"Hoy. Move."
A boy about eight balanced on the lip of a drainage channel, bare toes gripping stone. He carried skewers of fish, still steaming. He was using the narrow edge to avoid mud.
Ezra pulled Dynham aside. The boy wobbled past, then froze when he finally looked up and saw armor, then Aerwyna, then Ezra.
"I," the boy started.
"It's fine," Ezra said. "I was in your path."
"You're Lord Ezra," the boy blurted. "I didn't see, I swear, I was watching my feet."
"Keep watching your feet," Ezra said. "Spills cost coin."
Behind him, someone hissed, "Vendis, stop talking and bring the skewers."
Another boy leaned out of the stall. Slightly older. A small grill smoked behind him. Coals glowed.
Ezra looked over the stall. Fish, bread, grease, and a man in the back gutting another catch.
"Are they any good?" Ezra asked.
The older boy blinked, then snapped into manners. "Yes, milord. Fresh from the river. My uncle does the gutting."
A third boy stepped forward. Younger. Smudged with ash. Quick hands.
"I keep the fire from eating half the profit," he said, then gave a half-bow. "Raydal, milord."
Ezra's eyes stayed on him. "How many do you sell in a day?"
Raydal thought, calculating. "Depends," he said. "Patrols. Weather. Whether men get cut loose early." He paused. "Yesterday, thirty-four. One dropped in the mud when the spit cracked."
The older boy scowled. "He shoved me."
"And who ate it?" the runner boy asked quickly.
"All of us," Raydal said. "Equal portions."
Ezra stared at them.
They were children. They should have been throwing stones at each other in a yard.
Instead they were running profit margins and splitting a ruined skewer so nobody went hungry.
"Do you do this every day?" Ezra asked.
"Most days," the older boy said. "If we don't, the grown-ups work more. If they work more, someone drops."
Ezra nodded once.
"Thank you,"
Raydall tilted his head, "For what m'lord?"
"Grounding me," Ezra replied leaving Raydal bewildered.
Galwell could you note the names of those children.
"Aye, M'lord."
As they walked back. Ezra had already started planning the next steps in his mind.
Before Evan's death, he was too focused on the impractical things in life. Too focused on the mechanics of this world, to the point that he forgot to live in it. Being heir back then was just a word—now it had weight. He carried knowledge from another world, and with that came the responsibility to bring what he knew into practical terms.
Being heir was just a word back then. Now it had weight.
He had knowledge from another world. That meant responsibility. Practical work. Ground up. Not theory.
Something needed to change.
He had to bring what he knew to where he lived.