The door closed behind Kel von Rosenfeld with nothing more than a soft click.
Yet in that gentle sound, both Count Vanhart and Viscount Malloren felt something settle—and something else begin to move.
As though the winter inside their estate shifted ever so slightly.
And the frost… inhaled.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Count Vanhart's gaze lingered on the doorway while Malloren remained by the window, watching distant frost-covered fields where harlroot sprouts pierced through white soil, faint and stubborn.
Both men were noble lords—veterans of politics and land management.
And yet both stood in silence before admitting what they had just heard was beyond what they would have conceived.
Finally, Count Vanhart turned.
"He's gone," he said softly.
Malloren slowly looked away from the window.
"…and left a storm behind."
The count exhaled faintly.
Not with fatigue.
But with something like relief.
He walked slowly to the desk where Kel's earlier presence still felt lingering, fingers brushing lightly against the report parchment.
"He asked," Vanhart muttered, "not how we intend to maintain our land… but how we intend to rise."
Malloren approached the desk as well.
"And he told us not to plead," he said quietly, "but to offer privilege."
He looked up.
His eyes trembled faintly despite the calm of his voice.
"That is not recovery. That is redefinition."
Count Vanhart slowly sat.
The chair creaked quietly.
Malloren remained standing.
Silence stretched like thin ice over a frozen lake—fragile, dangerous, holding truth beneath.
Then the Count spoke, quietly, expression unreadable.
"Let us measure the plan."
Malloren nodded once.
Both men shifted into posture of deliberation.
Not as lords weighing suggestion.
But as survivors dissecting a lifeline.
Analysis
Count Vanhart folded his hand over the parchment detailing harvest projections.
"First," he said, "the early harvest of fifty-five percent."
Malloren's eyes narrowed.
"That leaves less for initial sale."
The count nodded.
"Yes. But it ensures future yields expand rather than deplete. Rather than short-term coin, we gain future control."
Malloren crossed his arms.
"And the twenty percent reserved for internal recovery—using alchemical processing to boost productivity, worker health, land vitality."
His jaw clenched slightly.
"That means we reinvest early while others attempt to profit before proving value."
Vanhart's fingers drummed lightly.
"And when the next round grows with higher effectiveness—"
Malloren finished without hesitation.
"—those who purchased early stock will be recognized as privileged, creating competitive loyalty."
The count's eyes sharpened.
"That's why the ten-merchant incentive is perfect."
Malloren exhaled.
"A forty percent discount for a year is… reckless."
"No," Vanhart corrected quietly. "It is deliberate."
Malloren looked at him.
Count Vanhart lightly lifted the parchment.
"We can afford to reduce initial cost, because the thirty percent commission from every tier-two sale from those merchants—and with product effectiveness rising twenty percent above normal stock—"
Malloren's lips parted softly.
"—would result in each merchant paying back four times more over the year than they would with normal purchase rates."
"And," the count continued, "the limited access competition guarantees they raise visible awareness aggressively."
"Meaning…" Malloren murmured slowly, "…they will practically market us themselves."
Silence again.
Count Vanhart leaned back, eyes shifting toward a faint reflection in the window.
"He is forcing the market to run here first," he said softly. "And binding it to our land, not to our coin."
Malloren looked at the floor.
"That is… imperial thinking."
He lifted his gaze.
"Not of a noble."
Vanhart's lips curved slightly.
"No."
He stared at the door through which Kel had left minutes before.
"He speaks like someone who has seen the end of this land many times… and has decided that this time, it will not happen."
Malloren's eyes dimmed, recalling something Kel had said earlier.
"Because this land gave me what I needed to save a life. So now I return it."
Malloren let the words settle inside.
Quiet.
Cold.
And strangely warm.
"He does not think of territory," Malloren said softly.
"He thinks of purpose."
The count's gaze lowered.
"…and because of that, this territory may remember how to breathe."
Profit & Reconstruction Projection
Malloren returned to his rigid merchant mindset.
"If the first ten merchant houses arrive within three days of announcement," he said, "projecting fifty percent stock transfer—"
Count Vanhart replied instantly.
"—we generate liquid capital equivalent to half a year of current deficient budget."
Malloren nodded slowly.
"And once our infusion achieves recognition of potency… estimated increase of purchase scale from tier-two nobles…"
Vanhart's tone fell colder.
"—doubles. Minimum."
Malloren continued.
"Meaning within four months—"
"—the territory becomes self-sustaining," Vanhart finished.
"And within eight—"
"—capable of expansion."
Both men looked at each other.
Not searching for agreement.
But witnessing it settle between them.
Long-Term Benefit
Malloren spoke softly.
"If territory stabilizes, demand shifts from crisis relief to strategic expansion. At that point, we discuss trade routes rather than survival. And contract extension requests from merchant houses likely follow."
He hesitated.
Count Vanhart watched him.
Malloren looked out the window.
"And when Lysenne walks…"
He stopped.
Words caught.
He did not continue the sentence.
Vanhart filled it for him quietly.
"…she will not walk as the daughter of a crippled house."
Malloren closed his eyes.
"Nor as burden."
Vanhart leaned forward.
"But as someone who was once denied movement," he whispered, "and now supports it."
Emotion surfaced very faintly in Malloren's expression.
"And what of Sera?" he asked softly.
Vanhart inhaled.
"When they see land reborn," he murmured, "they will not look at her past—they will see her lineage."
"And Kel?" Malloren asked.
Count Vanhart did not answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was deep.
"He will be seen," he said, "not as an heir… but as force."
Malloren looked at the desk.
"At that point…"
Vanhart nodded.
"…the land may recover faster than we do."
Silence took the room again.
Not heavy this time.
Settled.
Measured.
Malloren finally looked up with quiet disbelief.
"I find it… surreal," he whispered, "that everything we discuss now hinges on the plan of a thirteen-year-old boy."
Count Vanhart smiled faintly.
"Do not call him boy."
Malloren frowned.
"He is thirteen."
Vanhart's gaze lowered.
"Yes."
But his next words carried a weight that seemed far older.
"But he speaks like someone who has seen the fall of kingdoms and still chose to mend soil."
Malloren stared at the window once more.
"Then perhaps," he said slowly, "the land understands something we do not."
Vanhart followed his gaze.
Outside, snow drifted softly around young sprigs pushing through frozen earth.
Still alive.
Despite frost.
"Perhaps," the count murmured, "it follows not strength… but resolve."
The Decision
Malloren turned from the window.
"We execute his plan," he said firmly. "No delay."
Vanhart nodded.
"I will have official dispatch drafted within the hour. We signal limited merchant compliance and prepare legal binding."
"Send word to the cities first," Malloren added. "The ones with hunger for influence."
"And," the count continued, "in four days, adjust alchemical chamber for compound processing."
Malloren turned to the table.
"And brace for arrivals."
Count Vanhart exhaled another quiet breath.
"We must prepare to receive them—as land rising. Not pleading."
Malloren nodded sharply.
Both men straightened.
The air between them no longer felt heavy from decay.
It felt like the air before frost breaks.
Cold.
Still.
Expectant.
As if the ground held its breath.
Waiting.
The count's voice drifted soft, ancient.
"Sometimes," he said, "a land does not heal because it is taught how."
Malloren looked at him.
"…but because someone reminds it that it once lived."
Vanhart's eyes reflected the pale winter sky through the frost-cracked glass.
"And this time," he whispered, "it will live because someone demands it to."
Malloren exhaled one final time.
"With words—"
Count Vanhart finished.
"—that carry spring."
Outside, through the window—
snow fell quietly.
But harlroot stalks did not bow.
They stood.
Thin.
Cold.
Defiant.
Like a promise whispered in winter.