The Aldrens' eastern orchard sat on a sloping patch of land, shielded from the wind by a row of old oak trees that no one remembered planting. Apple trees took up most of it—twisted trunks, low branches, small, sour fruit better suited to preserves than the table. In the farthest corner, where the soil was darker and damper, there was an empty rectangle surrounded by wooden stakes.
"Here," Aldric said, pointing. "The Count had this plot set aside for you."
Rem looked over the land. It wasn't large—maybe thirty paces on each side. But it was more than enough.
"Perfect."
Aldric stood there for a moment, as if he wanted to say something. Then he shook his head, muttered a "good luck" that sounded more like a prayer, and went to work.
Rem crouched and touched the earth with both hands. He felt the moisture, the texture, the scent of something alive. He closed his eyes and let the tingling rise through his fingers.
This time, he didn't think of tomatoes. He thought of wheat.
The kind of wheat he'd seen in a documentary about agriculture in ancient Egypt—hardy grains that grew quickly even under difficult conditions. He adapted it in his mind: denser, more nutritious, with ears that produced twice the usual yield. Not so absurd that it would seem impossible, but good enough to make a difference.
When he opened his hands, the seeds were there. Golden, small, perfect.
He planted row after row, with the methodical care of someone who knew every detail mattered. He covered them, leveled the soil, and when he finished, he stood looking at that rectangle of turned earth that didn't look like anything.
But it would. Soon.
Edgar appeared on the third day.
Rem was crouched between the rows—the sprouts had already broken through the soil, green and sturdy like little soldiers standing at attention—when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and found Edgar standing at the edge of the plot, arms crossed and wearing an expression somewhere between curiosity and suspicion.
"My father said you were going to work here."
"I am working."
Edgar looked at the sprouts. Then at Rem. Then back at the sprouts.
"Those grew in three days?"
"The soil is good."
"This corner's soil has never produced anything. My mother tried planting herbs here twice and gave up."
Rem didn't answer. Edgar was silent for a moment, chewing his lower lip as if deciding whether to ask more or let it go. He chose the middle ground.
"Can I help?"
Rem looked at him. The Count's nine-year-old son, heir to a house that could barely pay its taxes, offering to work the land beside an employee's son. Roberto would have found it strange. Rem thought it was right.
"Do you know how to weed?"
"I do."
"Then start over there." He pointed to the corner where the weeds were invading the rows. "Pull out everything that isn't wheat."
Edgar nodded without complaint and crouched down. They worked in silence for nearly an hour—the kind of silence that didn't need filling, that existed between people doing the same thing and knowing it.
Edgar was the first to break it.
"The Viscount Harlen's official came again yesterday."
Rem stopped weeding. "What did he want?"
"The taxes. My father said he'd pay by the end of the month, but..." Edgar yanked out a weed with more force than necessary. "He always says that. And the Viscount always charges more."
"More than he should?"
Edgar looked at Rem with an expression far too old for a nine-year-old.
"My father says the Viscount charges what's fair. But I hear him talking to my mother at night, when they think we're asleep. And fair isn't the word he uses."
Rem fell silent. Roberto's mind was already working—fitting pieces together, calculating possibilities. If Viscount Harlen was charging more than he should, that meant two things: first, that the Aldrens were being squeezed on purpose; second, that any new wealth that appeared in the territory would be swallowed before it could make a difference.
Producing more wasn't enough. He needed to produce it in a way the Viscount couldn't simply take.
"Edgar."
"Hm?"
"If the wheat grows well, will your father sell it at the village market?"
"Probably. That's what everyone does."
"And how much does the Viscount get?"
Edgar stopped weeding. He looked at Rem with that expression again—the one that said he understood more than he should.
"A third. Sometimes more."
Rem nodded slowly. A third. On top of taxes that were already far too high. That meant for every three sacks of wheat the Aldrens produced, they only kept two. And from those two, they still had to feed the workers, maintain the territory, and save seeds for the next season.
The numbers didn't add up. They never had. That was why the Aldrens were poor—not because they lacked hard work, but because the system was designed to keep them that way.
Roberto knew that kind of trap. He'd lived inside one his entire life.
"What if you didn't sell it at the village market?" Rem said, almost to himself.
"What do you mean?"
"If you sold directly. To other houses. To travelers. To someone who'd pay more and didn't go through the Viscount."
Edgar opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"That... my father never thought of that."
"Maybe he should."
Edgar stared at Rem for a long moment. Then he let out a short laugh—not mocking, but surprised.
"You're strange, Rem."
"I know."
"No, I mean... good strange. My sister's right about you."
"What did Celine say about me?"
Edgar went back to weeding, but Rem saw the corner of his mouth lift.
"That you think like a grown-up."
That night, lying in bed, Rem stared at the ceiling and organized his thoughts.
The wheat would grow. It would be good—good enough to attract attention. And when it did, Viscount Harlen would want his share. He would want more than his share.
So Rem needed something the Viscount couldn't simply take. Producing wasn't enough—he needed to create value that depended on him. Something that only worked as long as he was there, doing what he did.
Seeds. The disguise was perfect for that. If his ability was to create special seeds, then the seeds only existed as long as he did. An ability couldn't be stolen. Someone couldn't be forced to use an ability—or at least not without consequences that even a Viscount would think twice about facing.
Rem was the product. And the most valuable product was the one that couldn't be copied.
He turned onto his side and closed his eyes. Tomorrow the wheat would be taller. In a week, the ears would appear. In two, Count Aldren would have the first real harvest in months.
And then, Rem thought, we'd see who paid attention first.
Outside, the wind moved through the Aldrens' fields, carrying the scent of wet earth and growing things. It was a good smell. The smell of a beginning.
Rem fell asleep smiling.