Anemoi 22 – Anemoi 23, Imperial Year 1645
Newhope – The Eastern Gate
The wagons came over the hill at midday. Three of them, laden with furniture, barrels, and the kind of worn belongings that spoke of generations in one place. The horses were tired, their heads low. The people were tired too, but their eyes were not empty.
Old Man Gerrard drove the lead wagon, his hands steady on the reins. His wife sat beside him, a bundle of quilts on her lap. Aldis walked alongside, leading a mule. His face was still bruised, his arm in a sling, but he walked with a new kind of purpose.
A guard at the gate—a young woman with a spear—stepped forward.
"State your business."
Aldis looked at the wooden walls, the smoke rising from chimneys, the children playing in the square.
"We were told to ask for Edmund Voss."
The guard nodded. "Follow me."
They found Edmund Voss at the edge of the square, mending a net. He set down the twine, wiped his hands on his apron, and walked toward them with the easy stride of a man who had greeted a hundred strangers.
"Edmund Voss," he said, extending a hand.
Old Man Gerrard shook it. His grip was strong, despite his age. "Gerrard. This is my wife, Elara. My son, Aldis."
"You're from the valley?"
"Were from the valley." The old man's voice cracked. "We lost it. Trial by combat."
Voss did not ask who won. He looked at Aldis's sling, at the bruise on his face, and nodded.
"You're here now. That's what matters."
He turned and gestured to the square. "We have empty houses. Food in the kitchen. Work for anyone who wants it."
"We can pay—"
"Keep your coin. You'll need it for seed."
Elara Gerrard, the mother, pressed her lips together. Her eyes were wet, but she did not weep. "Why?"
Voss smiled. It was a tired smile, but genuine. "Because someone helped us when we had nothing. We're just returning the favor."
A few paces away, Gregor had been watching from the well. He walked over, his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual.
"New folks, huh?"
Voss nodded. "The Gerrards."
Gregor looked at Aldis's sling. "Tough fight?"
"Lost."
"Yeah, well. Win some, lose some. At least you still have your head."
Silence. Kithri, perched on the well's edge, flicked an ear.
"That's the worst comfort I've ever heard."
"It's honest."
"It's depressing."
Gregor shrugged. "Same thing."
Aldis almost smiled. "He's not wrong."
Kithri sighed. "Now there's two of them."
While the Gerrards were being welcomed, Beardless Corvin was in the dry dock, as always. The galleon's skeleton was taking shape—ribs of oak rising from the keel, the stem curving like a swan's neck. He was measuring a plank with a piece of chalk, muttering to himself.
Aldis wandered over after the introductions, drawn by the smell of fresh-cut wood and the sound of hammering.
"What is this?"
"A ship."
"I can see that."
"A war galleon." Beardless Corvin did not look up. "Sixty feet. Three masts. Square sails on the fore and main. Lateen on the mizzen."
"You're building it alone?"
"No. I'm building it with help. But I'm the only one who knows how."
Aldis looked at the half‑finished hull. "It's beautiful."
Beardless Corvin finally looked up. His face was smeared with grease, his eyes bright. "You know anything about carpentry?"
"My father taught me."
"Then grab a hammer."
Aldis glanced at his sling. "One arm."
"You have two. One just needs to heal. Sit on that barrel and hand me nails."
Aldis sat. He handed nails. Beardless Corvin kept measuring.
"You're obsessed," Aldis said.
"I'm focused."
"Same thing."
Beardless Corvin almost smiled. "You'll fit in."
At the gate, Bearded Corvin—Hound—stood watching the wagons unload. His hand rested on the shotgun hidden under his coat. His eyes moved from face to face, cataloging, assessing.
Roderick joined him. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Looking for threats."
"That's my job."
"They're refugees. A broken family."
Bearded Corvin did not relax. "Everyone is a threat until they prove otherwise."
Roderick shook his head. "You need to trust someone."
"I trust you."
"That's one."
"It's enough."
They watched as Aldis helped his mother down from the wagon. The old woman stumbled; Aldis caught her arm. Bearded Corvin's hand moved away from the shotgun.
"Maybe," he said.
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe they're just refugees."
Roderick clapped his shoulder. "Progress."
In the kitchen, Mira had heard the news. She was already stirring the pot, adding more vegetables, more meat. Her wooden spoon moved in slow, steady circles.
Vesper leaned in the doorway. "How many?"
"Three. But they'll be hungry."
"You always say that."
"I'm always right."
Vesper smiled. "Need help?"
"Cut the bread. The old loaf, not the new one. Save the new for later."
Vesper took the knife. "You're worse than Patch."
"Patch is a surgeon. I'm a cook. We're both artists."
"That's one word for it."
Mira flicked a drop of water at her. Vesper ducked.
The stew bubbled. The kitchen smelled of thyme and kindness.
By evening, the long table was crowded. The Gerrards sat at one end, quiet, overwhelmed. The class filled the benches around them.
Voss raised his cup. "To new neighbors."
"To new neighbors," the others echoed.
Aldis looked at his father. Old Man Gerrard's hands were still trembling, but his eyes were dry.
"You'll like it here," Kithri said, her tail curling around her leg. "The roofs are climbable."
Aldis blinked. "Climbable?"
"I climb them. It's a hobby."
"She's not supposed to," Elara said.
"I'm not hurting anyone."
"You're setting a bad example."
"For who? The children already climb them."
Elara sighed. Aldis laughed. It was a small sound, surprised, like something he had forgotten he could do.
His mother looked at him. She did not smile, but her shoulders relaxed.
Gregor cleared his throat. "You know what they say about Newhope?"
Kithri groaned. "Not again."
"They say the stew is good, the wine is better, and the blacksmith is—"
"Don't."
"—very dedicated to his work."
"That's not what you were going to say."
"I'm being polite."
"First time for everything."
The table laughed. Aldis laughed again. His father's hands stopped trembling.
Voss watched them. He did not smile, but his eyes were warm.
Newhope had gained another family.
End of Chapter One Hundred Fourteen