The Greyfield lands were small. Too small to ever matter in the politics of the realm.
From the highest ridge overlooking the valley, one could take in the entirety of the barony with a single glance. A scattering of thatched roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, neat rows of tilled fields, and patches of grazing pasture made up most of it. Barely twenty-five families lived under the Greyfield name, their lives bound together by soil, sweat, and the changing of seasons.
At the center stood Greyfield Manor, a modest structure of stone and timber. It was no grand castle, no sprawling keep, but rather a sturdy house built more for shelter than display. Its walls bore cracks from long winters, its roof patched more than once by the hands of loyal villagers. Still, for the people who lived there, it was a symbol, proof that they belonged to something greater than themselves, that they had a lord who claimed responsibility for them, however humble.
Their lord was Baron Alden Greyfield, a man in his late forties whose strength was not measured in armies or coin but in the stubborn endurance of a farmer. His family had once held more land, more respect. Centuries ago, the Greyfield name was elevated to nobility when their ancestor, a mere soldier, had saved the life of a knight commander during a border war. For that service, the family had been granted land and title.
But nobility is fragile when unguarded. Over the generations, the Greyfields had lost much of their estate, piece by piece, bargain by bargain, tax by tax. Today, Alden ruled little more than a single village and its surrounding fields. His wife, Lady Maren, tended to the household herself, her hands calloused despite noble blood. Together, they raised their only son, Rowan Greyfield.
To their people, the Greyfields were not lords who lived in distant castles, untouchable and aloof. They were neighbors, protectors, and sometimes even fellow laborers in the field. Alden walked the streets of the village, nodding to the blacksmith, pausing to ask about a farmer's harvest, lending his horse to a herder in need. He had little wealth to offer, but he had loyalty, and in these lands, that was enough.
Beyond the valley of Greyfield, however, stretched a world vast and layered with power.
This was the Kingdom of Aethyra, a realm ruled by King Reynard IV of House Aurelian. His was a lineage of golden lions, their banner bright against the blue sky, their blood said to carry the favor of the sun god himself. The capital, Aurelia, was a city of marble and spires, far removed from the humble stone of Greyfield Manor.
The structure of nobility in Aethyra was rigid and absolute:
At the top were the Dukes, each ruling vast provinces, their armies large enough to rival nations.
Beneath them, the Counts governed counties, rich in trade and fertile fields.
Viscounts held sway over several baronies, collecting taxes and enforcing the crown's will.
And at the bottom stood the Barons, lords of single villages or towns, often forgotten by the greater powers.
The Greyfields were barons, but not even respected among their rank. They were the bottom of the bottom, their land insignificant, their voice unheard in court.
To the north lay the fertile lands of Count Elhurst, whose wheat fields stretched farther than the Greyfield barony itself.
To the west, the Viscount of Darrenton commanded iron mines in the mountains, his coffers fat with trade.
To the east loomed the border with the kingdom of Valcros, a hostile neighbor with whom Aethyra had long shared uneasy peace.
And to the south stretched the royal demesne, lands controlled directly by King Reynard, where no noble dared meddle.
The Greyfield barony, sitting on the eastern edge, was little more than a dot on the map. Its position spared it from the brunt of war but condemned it to obscurity. Few in Aurelia would recognize the name, and fewer still would care to.
Yet unlike many baronies swallowed beneath the banners of greater lords, Greyfield answered to no viscount or count. By ancient decree, their lands reported directly to the crown, bypassing the feudal chains that bound their peers.
Independence was a fragile gift, one born of history rather than strength, and though it spared them the taxes of a higher lord, it painted a target on their backs. Neighboring barons and even ambitious viscounts eyed Greyfield with envy, whispering how easily its meager lands could be absorbed if the family ever faltered.
Despite their insignificance, the Greyfields held on. For all the grandeur of dukes and counts, for all the glittering halls of the royal court, kingdoms were built on the backs of villages like these. Aethyra's strength was not only in its lords but in its people, in every farmer who tilled the soil, every shepherd who guarded the flock, every craftsman who worked his trade.
In that truth lay the quiet dignity of Greyfield. Forgotten, perhaps. Overlooked, certainly. But still standing.
---
For all their obscurity, the Greyfields were not forgotten entirely. Even the smallest baronies had their place in the kingdom's ancient traditions. One of those traditions was the Awakening Ceremony.
It was said that when the gods first blessed mankind, they left behind vessels through which mortals could awaken the gifts slumbering in their blood, affinities to elements like flame, water, wind, and earth, or talents for healing, combat, or craft. To awaken these gifts was to discover one's purpose, one's strength, and one's worth.
Every child, upon reaching their fifteenth year, was required to undergo the ritual. In great cities, the ceremony was grand, hosted in cathedrals or halls lit with crystal chandeliers. In prosperous counties, nobles conducted the rite yearly, sometimes even twice if the duke so wished. The greater the lord, the more frequent the ceremony, for their lands were full of children and their coffers deep enough to bear the cost.
But in Greyfield, where even a single sheep lost to wolves was felt by all, such luxuries could not be afforded. Here, the Awakening Ceremony came only once every three years, when enough children had come of age to justify the expense.
And today, at long last, was such a day.
Rowan Greyfield, son of Baron Alden, stood in the courtyard of his family's modest manor, watching as preparations unfolded. The morning sun bathed the stone walls in gold, though the cracks and weathering betrayed their age.
Villagers bustled about, stringing up faded banners from one house to another. Farmers who had laid aside their tools scrubbed the square clean.
The blacksmith hammered out last-minute fittings for the wooden dais being erected in the village center.
Even the children too young to participate darted about carrying buckets of water, their laughter blending with the clatter of hammers and the braying of horses.
Rowan's heart thumped against his chest as he watched. His Awakening, his turn to step forward and discover what gifts the gods had left for him, was finally here.
"Excited, are we?"
The voice came from behind. Rowan turned to see his mother, Lady Maren, carrying a basket of linens. Her dark hair was tied back, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, and there was no mistaking the weariness on her face. Yet her eyes softened as she looked at him.
"A little," Rowan admitted, scratching his cheek.
"It feels strange, Mother. As if the whole village is holding its breath."
"And they are," she said gently.
"For them, this is not just about you or the other children. It is about hope. When one of ours awakens a gift, it lifts us all."
Her words weighed on him more heavily than the summer heat.
Rowan glanced again at the villagers, at their hopeful faces, at the way they worked with such care for this day.
He understood.
To the Greyfields, an awakened child was more than just another laborer, it was a chance for strength, for security, perhaps even for recognition beyond these forgotten lands.
By noon, the first of the guests arrived.
Carriages rolled down the dirt road, wheels creaking as banners bearing various crests fluttered in the breeze. Other barons came with their retinues, some riding on horseback, others flaunting what little wealth they could muster. To Rowan's eyes, they looked grand, their coats lined with velvet, their swords polished to a gleam. Yet he caught the way some of them wrinkled their noses at Greyfield's humble village, their lips curling in faint disdain.
From the west came the carriage of Viscount Darrenton, his crest of crossed hammers proudly displayed, his son Luther stepping down with calculated arrogance. From the north arrived an envoy of Count Elhurst, their horses sleek and well-fed, their servants carrying themselves with haughty precision. These higher lords came not out of necessity but out of tradition, and perhaps to gauge just how weak Greyfield truly was.
Rowan stood near the manor steps beside his father, Baron Alden, watching the nobles disembark. He studied their expressions carefully. Some offered polite greetings, veiled in condescension. Others ignored them entirely, their eyes already scanning the crowd as if searching for opportunity.
There was Baron Harwick, sharp-eyed and thin-lipped, who chuckled as he whispered to his aide, "A manor smaller than my stables, and yet they dare host a ceremony."
Not far behind was Baroness Elira Haven, a young noblewoman from a neighboring barony. She greeted Alden warmly, even smiling at Rowan. Her lands were scarcely larger than Greyfield, yet she carried herself with quiet dignity, offering genuine kindness where others brought only mockery.
"Lord Greyfield," she said, bowing her head. "It is an honor to attend. May this day bring blessings to your people."
Alden bowed in return, his weathered features easing into a small smile. "Your presence honors us, Baroness."
Then came Baron Godric Valehart, a burly man with weather-beaten skin, who clasped Alden's arm firmly. "Don't mind the carrion crows circling, old friend," he said gruffly. "Greyfield's heart is worth ten of their gilded halls." Rowan found himself liking the man instantly.
But not all were so cordial. Lady Serina Darrenton, cousin to the viscount, arrived in a gown of deep crimson, her eyes sweeping the village with open disdain. "Three years of waiting for a handful of brats to sip from a cup," she muttered loud enough for all to hear. "What a waste of the crown's time."
Her words earned laughter from her attendants, sharp and cruel, like knives wrapped in silk. Rowan's jaw tightened, his nails biting into his palms, but his father placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
'So this is what it means to be a noble', he thought.
'Even here, in the poorest of corners, power games never end.'
By late afternoon, the last carriage had arrived, and then came the moment all awaited: the royal inspector.
A hush rippled across the square as a lone rider approached, his horse cloaked in royal blue. The man was tall and robed in deep azure, embroidered with silver filigree that shimmered faintly in the light. His staff, crowned with a crystal orb, pulsed with quiet power. His hair was white, not with frailty but with age and discipline, his face calm yet unreadable.
He was Magister Orwin of the Crown's Arcane College, one of many mages sworn to the royal family. The magisters were not just arbiters of rituals, they were keepers of records, historians of bloodlines, and silent watchers of loyalty. Their reports carried weight in the capital, their words often shaping the crown's opinion of lords both great and small.
In grand duchies, the Awakening Ceremony drew whole courts, with dukes, counts, and even members of the royal family presiding. Ballads would be sung, feasts would last for days, and promising children would be courted on the spot by powerful houses.
But here, in Greyfield, there were no dukes, no counts in person, and certainly no princes. Even the viscounts had sent only their heirs, not themselves. For a barony so small, only Orwin's presence carried the weight of the crown. And though his role was impartial, Rowan could feel the way nobles straightened as he passed, each of them keenly aware that his report would reach Aurelia's royal court.
He dismounted slowly, staff tapping against the stones as he stepped toward the dais. His voice carried clear and commanding across the village square.
"I am Magister Orwin, here by decree of His Majesty, King Reynard IV of House Aurelian," he announced, each word measured.
"By the authority of the crown, I oversee this Awakening. Let no hand interfere, let no deceit taint the rite, for the gifts of the gods are sacred."
The air grew still. Even those who mocked Greyfield dared not laugh now.
Rowan's heart beat faster. He had never seen a magus before, only heard of them in stories. And now one stood before him, staff glowing faintly with restrained power, eyes calm yet watchful, like the gods' own judge.
As the sun climbed higher, the preparations neared completion. The dais stood ready in the square, its planks freshly scrubbed, draped with the best cloth the villagers could spare. At its center waited a pedestal, upon which would soon rest the Awakening Goblet, the vessel that would determine their fates.
Rowan's pulse quickened at the sight. For weeks, he had dreamed of this moment. What would the goblet reveal when he drank from it? Fire, like the warriors sung of in tavern tales? Or water, the element of healers and scholars? Perhaps earth, steady and strong, like the farmers who fed them all.
Or… nothing at all.
The thought chilled him, sending a shiver down his spine. Not everyone awakened. Some drank and found no resonance, their lives no different than before. For a baron's son, such failure was unthinkable. It would mean weakness, humiliation, a mark his family could ill afford.
He swallowed hard, clenching his fists as he stared at the empty pedestal.
"Rowan," his father's voice rumbled beside him, steady as bedrock.
"Hold your head high today. Whatever comes, you are my son. That is enough."
Rowan nodded, though his heart still raced. He told himself he believed those words. He told himself that, but deep down, he wanted more. He needed more. For himself. For his family. For Greyfield.
The Awakening Ceremony would decide everything.