Arthur listened in silence as they walked the final stretch toward the house. When they reached the door, he clapped a heavy hand on Jacob's shoulder and guided him into the warmth of the kitchen.
The heat from the hearth was immediate, followed closely by the thick scent of simmering stew. May moved between the table and the stove with practiced ease.
She was humming a quiet melody under her breath, though Jacob could tell by the tilt of her head that she was hanging on every word being spoken.
"Sit down," Arthur said. He nudged Jacob toward the wooden bench nearest the fire. "You look like the wind has been trying to pull the marrow right out of your bones all afternoon."
Jacob sank onto the bench and held his numb hands toward the dancing flames. Arthur did not sit. Instead, he leaned against the heavy oak table, keeping himself within arm's reach of his son.
"You would have a difficult time finding an adventuring party willing to haul a boy into a dungeon gate," Arthur said. "It is not because they think you are useless. It is because those men value their freedom above almost everything else."
Jacob looked up with a small frown. "It is not against the law. During the Trial Year, I'm allowed to choose my own path. That's what everyone in the village has told me since I turned eleven."
"That is technically true," Arthur admitted. "You can go where you please and take whatever risks seem right at the time. During this year, our full authority as parents is set aside by the kingdom. That is the foundation the Trial Year is built on. However, the law still looks poorly on adults who lead children into undue danger. A mercenary who drags you into a gate and loses you to a monster will face consequences that no one enjoys. They risk heavy fines and the permanent loss of their guild licenses. Most of them would rather deal with a forest troll than a magistrate asking questions about their lack of judgment."
He gave Jacob a serious look. "I have no doubt you could walk into an F-ranked dungeon wrapped in enough enchantments to make a veteran soldier jealous. Neither your mother nor I would forbid you from trying. That doesn't change the reality that no stranger wants to be the one holding the rope when something goes horribly wrong."
Jacob stared into the coals for a moment before nodding slowly. He understood the logic, even if it frustrated his plans.
Arthur scratched at his jaw, the sound of his stubble loud in the quiet room. "Now," he said, shifting the topic. "Tell me more about this grass you are looking for. What exactly did you find in that field?"
Jacob took a steady breath, trying to organize the strange data he had gathered.
"I believe the eastern field is salted. It isn't just exhausted or thirsty. When I dug down past the top layer, the soil smelled flat. I decided to taste a pinch of it. It was sharp and bitter on my tongue, lacking any of the loamy flavor that good earth should have."
Arthur's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "You actually ate the dirt."
Jacob shrugged, feeling his cheeks grow warm. "It was just a tiny bit. It was better than some of the things I've been forced to eat at the village festivals. The plants in that plot are acting like they are being poisoned. They have shallow roots and burned tips. They lack any real vitality even when I give them plenty of water."
Arthur turned his gaze toward the fire, the lines around his eyes tightening. "Salts in the deep soil," he whispered. "In all these generations, I do not think anyone ever thought to check for that. We always blamed the lack of rain or the quality of the seed. We assumed the land was simply finished. How would that much salt even get down there?"
Jacob thought about explaining complex concepts like mineral runoff or the long-term effects of certain fertilizers, but he decided against it.
"It's the result of many years and many animals," he said instead. "Bad water used during the worst droughts leaves behind things the plants cannot use. It just adds up over time. The land eventually keeps everything we pour into it."
Arthur grunted. It was a sound that sat somewhere between agreement and growing unease.
"So I went to see Old Thom," Jacob continued. "I asked him if there was a plant that could thrive in bad water and pull the salt out of the earth. He told me such a thing only grows in swamp-type dungeon gates. Then he gave me a look and asked if I knew what kind of F-ranked gate just opened up near the ridge."
Arthur went perfectly still.
The fire popped loudly, throwing a few sparks against the stone hearth. The sound of May's ladles clattering in the kitchen suddenly felt very far away. Arthur continued to stare into the flames, his jaw set firmly. Something troubled was moving behind his eyes.
Jacob watched his father's face and realized that Old Thom's hint had landed with more impact than he had expected.
He knew there was more to the old man than just puzzles and tricks of geometry. If his father looked this shaken over a few sentences, then Thom was probably controlling events that Jacob could not yet see.
Arthur stayed silent for so long that Jacob began to shift uncomfortably on the bench.
"When Old Thom decides to give a hint," Arthur said finally, his voice low. "A wise person stops to listen."
Jacob watched him carefully. "Has he done this before? Has he ever pointed someone toward a dungeon like this?"
Arthur exhaled a long, slow breath through his nose. "Not in my lifetime. Not in my grandfather's time either. The last time the records mention him dropping a hint like that was before my great-grandfather was even born. Your great-great-grandfather was the one who wrote about it."
He glanced toward the small wooden shelf where the family's leather-bound journals were kept.
"Before our line knew how to inscribe with any real skill, we were just scratching at wood and guessing at the results. Then, one year, Old Thom pulled our ancestor aside. He told him to pay attention to specific lines and to practice his marks on scrap wood instead of finished tools. He even told him to find a cave that has since been lost to the maps. A few seasons after that, our family had its first true inscriber. The journals talk about the success, but they never explain how Thom knew those secrets. No one knows where he came from or why he chose to help us."
"Did Thom ever offer an explanation?" Jacob asked.
Arthur shook his head. "Never. He doesn't speak of the past. If anyone tries to press him, he just changes the subject or tells a riddle. All we have are the notes in the family books and the undeniable fact that he was right."
He turned to face Jacob fully, his expression more serious than Jacob had ever seen it.
"If that old man is pointing you toward a dungeon, and if there is a way for you to get inside, then I believe you are meant to go. I do not say that lightly. I have never heard of a child entering a gate, and I'm not sure if the law even allows for it. But when Old Thom points his finger, something of great importance usually sits at the end of that road."
They sat in the flickering firelight for a long moment. The shifting shadows made Arthur's face look like it was carved from the same rugged stone as the hearth.
From the kitchen, May's voice cut through the heavy atmosphere. "Dinner is on the table, you two," she called out. "If you keep brooding in there, the stew is going to think it did something wrong."
Arthur blinked, and then he let out a quiet huff of a laugh that broke the tension. He pushed himself away from the table and clapped Jacob on the back, though his touch was gentler this time.
"You heard your mother," Arthur said. "We will have no doom and gloom at the dinner table. We can leave the talk of dungeons and ancient sorcerers for after we have had some bread."
He helped Jacob up from the bench and steered him toward the kitchen. The table was already set with bowls, and steam curled invitingly from the large ceramic pot in the center.
The seriousness in Arthur's eyes had not completely vanished, but it had been pushed down beneath a layer of fatherly warmth.
"There is still plenty of the Trial Year ahead of you," Arthur said as they walked. "If Old Thom wants you chasing trouble inside a dungeon, I am sure the opportunity will find a way to meet you halfway. For now, you can start by conquering a full bowl of stew and making your mother happy."