I woke up to the sound of birds arguing outside my window.

  I stared at the wooden ceiling above me for a long moment, letting my eyes adjust to the light leaking through the curtains.

  The events of last night came back slowly. The fence outpost. The wind over the plains. Kens Kaeluse leaning against the railing like this was a casual evening stroll instead of a border between civilization and whatever nightmare lived past it. Monsters. Missing scouts. The way Kens spoke, half serious, half joking.

  I rolled onto my side and buried my face into the pillow.

  I exhaled.

  I really had picked a wonderful place to vacation.

  I pushed myself up and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my face. The room was quiet. Too quiet. No servants bustling about. No advisors whispering. No aides waiting with ledgers and schedules. Just the creak of wood and the smell of fruit left overnight.

  That was when it hit me.

  There was no one here.

  Not really.

  Last night, after returning from the outpost, I had stayed awake longer than planned. At first it was because my mind refused to shut up. Then it was because I started noticing things.

  Small things.

  When I asked for hot water, it took almost half an hour. When I requested for extra candles, the servant brought mismatched ones from three different rooms. When I casually asked who handled the village’s ledgers, the answer was Wilmoris. When I asked who assisted him, the answer was silence.

  That silence had been loud.

  Wilmoris was competent. Earnest. Hardworking. He was also old, tired, and doing the work of five people alone. Everything ran through him. Taxes. Supplies. Requests from the northern Watch. Crop records. Labor disputes. Storage. Repairs.

  That was not governance. That was survival through necessity.

  In the Jakobster estates, this kind of setup would have collapsed within a week. Here, it somehow limped along because no one expected better.

  I stood and walked toward the window, pulling the curtain aside.

  Foklunn spread out below me.

  Morning smoke rose from chimneys. Farmers were already out in the fields. A woman carried buckets from a well. Children ran barefoot through the dirt paths, laughing, shouting, alive.

  Simple. Quiet. Fragile.

  If I leave this place alone, I thought, it will stay exactly like this.

  And that was the problem.

  I leaned my forehead against the glass.

  At first, when Father sent me here, I thought he had handed me a gift. A quiet exile. A soft corner of the world where I could do nothing and be forgotten. A place where I could delegate everything and spend my days resting, reading, and occasionally pretending to govern.

  That fantasy died the moment I realized there was no one to delegate to.

  This village did not have advisors. It did not have administrators. It did not have educators. It barely had redundancy. If Wilmoris fell sick, half of Foklunn would stop functioning within days.

  If the northern Watch pulled back, the other half would be eaten.

  I scratched my head.

  So I have two options, I thought.

  Hiring people from outside was an option. A bad one.

  Any competent advisor from the Jakobster territories would demand payment. High payment. Loyalty stipends. Housing. Authority. They would also report everything back to Father, whether intentionally or not. Sending outsiders here would turn Foklunn into a listening post.

  I did not want that.

  Spend money I do not want to spend.

  Or spend time.

  Time I had.

  The idea formed slowly, not as a spark, but as a quiet pressure behind my eyes.

  If Foklunn could not support administrators, then it had to produce them.

  If the villagers lacked education, then education had to be introduced.

  If governance required manpower, then manpower had to be cultivated.

  Not imported.

  Grown.

  I straightened.

  Build the village up. Slowly. Carefully. Turn it into something stable. Something that did not need me hovering over every decision. A place that could function even if I disappeared.

  A city.

  Not now. Not soon. But eventually.

  I smiled faintly.

  Father wanted me buried in the work of a village chief.

  I would build a city to spite him instead.

  I dressed at an unhurried pace and stepped out of my room. The manor was already awake. Servants moved quietly through the halls. When they saw me, they froze, bowed, and waited for instructions.

  That hesitation again.

  Breakfast was simple. Bread. Fruit. Milk. Honest food. I ate slowly, thinking, watching the way servants moved. Who spoke confidently. Who avoided eye contact. Who answered questions clearly. Who deferred to others.

  I was not gathering information yet.

  I was observing the absence of it.

  After eating, I sat at the desk in my room with a blank sheet of paper.

  I did not write.

  Instead, I closed my eyes and imagined the village.

  Where were the farms located. How far from the river. Which paths were used most. Where carts passed. Where people gathered. Where they did not.

  I did not know the answers.

  That was the point.

  Before I can fix anything, I thought, I need to know what actually exists.

  Imports and exports.

  Food surplus. Storage methods.

  Trade frequency with nearby villages.

  Coin circulation.

  Education level.

  Craftsmen.

  Labor division.

  How people lived. How they survived. How close they were to failing.

  I opened my eyes and looked at the paper again.

  Still blank.

  Good.

  If I started writing now, I would be guessing.

  Guessing was how people like me died in forests.

  I folded the paper and placed it aside.

  Today was for planning.

  Tomorrow was for walking.

  I would stroll through the village. Casually. Ask questions like a bored noble pretending to take interest. Listen more than I spoke. Let people talk about their lives. Let them reveal patterns without realizing it.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  No announcements. No inspections. No grand speeches.

  Just curiosity.

  I leaned back in the chair and laughed quietly.

  I sound like a scheming old man.

  Then again, scheming was what kept me alive.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Come in.”

  Wilmoris stepped inside, holding a small stack of papers. He looked surprised to see me awake and dressed.

  “Young master. I did not wish to disturb you. I assumed you would be resting after last night.”

  “I slept well,” I said. “Too well.”

  He smiled, relieved.

  “I wanted to inform you that the village is functioning as usual. No incidents reported. The northern Watch sent a brief update earlier this morning.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Already?”

  “Yes. Routine.”

  Routine.

  For men who watched monsters pace beyond a fence.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Leave the papers here. Also, Wilmoris.”

  “Yes, young master?”

  “Tomorrow, I plan to walk through the village.”

  He stiffened slightly. “Should I gather the people? Prepare an escort?”

  Words I would never hear in the Jakobster Estates.

  “No,” I said quickly. “None of that. I just want to walk.”

  He hesitated. “Is that wise?”

  I smiled. “Probably not. But I will do it anyway.”

  He nodded, resigned. “As you wish.”

  When he left, I stared at the closed door.

  This place did not need a lord who barked orders.

  It needed someone who paid attention.

  I stepped out of the manor just as the morning finally warmed into something pleasant.

  The sky above Foklunn was a pale blue, stretched wide and uninterrupted, and the air smelled faintly of soil and grain. It was the kind of morning that made people forget their worries for a few minutes. I understood why this village endured so stubbornly out here, pressed so close to danger. The land itself was generous. Almost kind.

  The moment my boots touched the dirt road, heads turned.

  Not in fear. Not really in reverence either. More like curiosity mixed with excitement that had nowhere to go.

  Word traveled fast in a place this small.

  “Good morning,” I said, raising a hand when a group of farmers froze mid-conversation.

  They stared for half a second too long before bowing awkwardly.

  “Good morning, Lord Jakob.”

  “Please,” I said, already tired of the title. “Just Jakob is fine.”

  They exchanged looks, clearly unsure if that was allowed. One of them laughed nervously.

  “Ah… yes. Jakob.”

  That was good enough for me.

  I walked slowly through the village, letting my pace stay casual. If I moved too fast, people would panic. If I moved too slow, they would think I was inspecting them. Neither outcome was useful.

  I passed rows of wooden houses with stone foundations, most of them patched and repaired countless times. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. Children ran barefoot through the roads, their laughter echoing between buildings. Somewhere nearby, metal clanged rhythmically. A blacksmith, probably.

  It all looked normal.

  Too normal.

  I stopped by a woman kneeling beside baskets of grain. She wore simple clothes and had dirt under her nails, but her posture was straight and steady.

  “What do you grow?” I asked.

  She looked up, startled, then smiled when she realized I was not angry or demanding.

  “Wheat mostly. Some rice, when the water allows it.”

  “Do you enchant your tools?” I asked, pointing at her sickle.

  She blinked, then nodded like the answer was obvious. She tilted the blade so the sunlight caught it just right.

  For a moment, I saw it. A faint purple sheen, barely visible unless you knew what to look for.

  Level one enchantment. Maybe two.

  Just enough to keep the blade sharp longer and reduce strain.

  “How long have you been doing that?” I asked.

  “As long as I can remember,” she said. “My mother taught me. Everyone here does some magic.”

  Everyone.

  I thanked her and moved on, my mind quietly clicking.

  That was odd.

  Not unheard of, but odd.

  Magical aptitude was genetic, but distribution was rarely this even. Villages like this usually had one or two gifted people at most. Here, it seemed casual. Like breathing.

  I stopped a pair of boys carrying wooden crates.

  “Where are you taking those?” I asked.

  “To the storehouse,” one of them replied proudly. He puffed his chest out a little. “We enchanted the base so it does not crack.”

  They tilted the crate slightly. Again, that faint purple reflection.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Ten,” the other boy said. “He is nine.”

  I stared at them for a moment.

  Level one enchantment at that age meant they had at lnorth decent aptitude. Not genius level, but stable. Reliable.

  Interesting.

  As I walked deeper into the village, the pattern repeated.

  Farmers enhancing soil moisture with low-level magic. Children reinforcing ropes and nets. Simple enchantments everywhere. Nothing flashy. Nothing wasteful.

  Efficient.

  I chatted with fishermen near a shallow stream.

  “Do you sell your catch locally?” I asked.

  “Some,” one of them replied. “Most goes out with the grain shipments.”

  “Who buys that grain?” I asked.

  He hesitated.

  “Middlemen,” he said carefully. “They come by every few weeks to buy our yields and sell them some place else. ”

  “How much do the farmers get back?” I asked, trying to gauge our biggest export.

  He replies, “10 Penmarks per sack”

  I smiled politely.

  That price was way too low.

  Just… wrong.

  I continued walking.

  I spoke to mill workers, bakers, guards, even an old man repairing fences with magic so casual it looked like muscle memory. Everywhere I went, the same answers surfaced in pieces.

  Wheat. Rice. Some fish. Some leather. Minor enchanted goods.

  Exports were consistent. The quality was high.

  Yet income was… thin.

  Not starvation thin. Not desperation thin.

  Just barely enough.

  That bothered me more than outright poverty.

  People who starve revolt. People who barely survive endure.

  That endurance could be abused for decades.

  By the time I circled back toward the manor, the sun was higher, and my head felt heavier than my body.

  I thanked a group of children for showing me how they enchanted pebbles to glow faintly at night. They beamed like I had crowned them knights.

  I waved and walked faster.

  Something was wrong here.

  Very wrong.

  Inside the manor, I found Wilmoris hunched over a table stacked with papers and ledgers that looked older than both of us combined.

  “Wilmoris,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  He startled and stood up immediately.

  “Of course, young master. Did something happen?”

  “Yes,” I said, sitting down. “Or rather, something did not happen.”

  He blinked.

  I leaned forward.

  “These people work too hard for what they earn,” I said. “Their output is high. Their methods are efficient. Many of them have magical aptitude, and they use it well. Yet their income barely lasts a month.”

  Wilmoris swallowed.

  I continued.

  “That means the problem is not production. It is not a lack of skill. It is not laziness. So tell me.”

  I met his eyes.

  He hesitated.

  That was answer enough.

  He sighed and sat back down, suddenly looking older.

  “Merchant groups under the Jakobster Dynasty rarely come this far,” he said. “The border scares them. Monsters. The fence. The northern Watch. They prefer safer routes.”

  “So?” I asked.

  “So,” he continued, “we rely on independent peddlers and middlemen. Small groups. Individuals. They buy our goods inland to be sold elsewhere.”

  “They buy our goods,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “For how much?” I asked.

  “...The average villager here gets back around 1,000 - 2,000 Penmarks for their yield.”

  This time, I did not bother hiding my expression.

  I need to confirm, “And this is every 3 to 4 weeks?”

  “Yes.” Wilmoris confirmed.

  “How…?” I said flatly.

  If my education as a nobleman is not lacking; the average person in a city makes anywhere around 10,000 to 15,000 penmarks, and the average person in a village makes anywhere around 6,000 to 8,000 penmarks excluding equipment and farming costs.

  Wilmoris nodded.

  “This started a few years ago,” he said. “Said the routes became more dangerous. More costly.”

  “Did the danger actually increase?” I asked.

  He hesitated again.

  “No,” he admitted. “Not until recently. The northern Watch kept things stable.”

  I leaned back.

  A delay. A gap. A mismatch between cause and effect.

  Middlemen raised prices years ago. Actual danger rose only recently.

  Which meant…

  “They’re lying.” I said.

  “Possibly,” Wilmoris said quietly.

  I looked at him.

  He looked just as tired as I felt.

  “Have you questioned them?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “They are not villagers. They come and go. We have no authority over them.”

  I tapped the table once.

  “My surname does,” I said.

  He looked up sharply.

  “Are there any that live here?” I asked.

  “There are some that are temporarily living here in our inns.” Wilmoris said.

  I stood up fast.

  “Send word to the village guards,” I said. “Round up every middleman currently in Foklunn. Do not harm them. Just bring them in.”

  “For questioning?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “And start an investigation into their routes. Their contracts. Their contacts.”

  He nodded, relief and fear mixing in his eyes.

  “At once, young master.”

  As he hurried off, I exhaled slowly.

  I had not planned to start like this.

  I wanted maps. I wanted quiet observation. I wanted time.

  Instead, I had stumbled into a knot that had been tightening for years.

  Fine, I thought. I can work with that.

  I looked out the window toward the fields.

  Farmers moved like ants, steady and relentless.

  They deserved better.

  And whoever was squeezing this village would soon learn something important.

  I might be illegitimate.

  I might be exiled.

  But I was still someone with a conscience.

  And I do not like it when people steal from what I consider mine.