The first merchant arrived three days after the new tax decree. He came with six wagons, twelve armed guards, and a smile that never reached his eyes. His name was Harlan Falor. The crest on his caravan banners belonged to one of the largest trading houses in the southern provinces. The same house that had once held most of Villeran’s outstanding debts. Jade received him in the repaired great hall. The roof still leaked in two places. The long table was scarred and uneven. Soldiers stood along the walls, not in ceremonial armour but in the practical gear they wore for wall duty. The message was deliberate: Villeran was working, not performing. Falor bowed with practiced elegance. “Lord Astoria, or do you prefer the name the soldiers have begun whispering? Lord Hayden.”Jade did not rise. “Jade is sufficient. Sit.” The merchant sat. His gaze flicked once to the golden mark on Jade’s right hand, then away. “I bring goods,” He said. “Salt, iron tools, dried meat, seed grain of hi

The first green shoots appeared twelve days after the seed went into the ground. Jade stood at the edge of the southern fields at dawn, boots sunk in soft earth, and stared. What should have been fragile sprouts no higher than a finger joint already reached past his ankle. The leaves were darker than any grain he had seen in this world, almost blue-black at the edges. And they drank the early light with an intensity that felt wrong. The old farmer who had spoken at the tax gathering stood beside him, his hat in both hands. “Never seen the like, milord,” the man said quietly. “Not in forty years of working this soil. Not even in the good years before the land turned sour.” Jade crouched and brushed a leaf with his thumb. The golden mark on his palm warmed at once. A faint thread of something cold and deep moved under the surface of the field, like a buried current. “How widespread?” he asked. “All the new ground the beast turned. The old fields are growing normal. These…”