The millwright arrived three days later with an apprentice, two wagons of lumber, and an invoice that made my eye twitch.
"Fifty-three marks," Hans said quietly, standing beside me as we watched the men unload. "The additional three are for 'priority consultation fees.'"
"Of course they are." I rubbed my temples. "Pay it."
"My lord, we could negotiate—"
"Hans. Every day that mill stays broken, the villagers grind grain by hand. That's hours of labor they could spend on their own fields, their own survival. Pay the man."
The steward's expression didn't change, but something in his posture softened. "As you say, my lord."
The millwright—a stout man named Garrett with sawdust perpetually in his beard—walked over. He bowed, perfunctory. "My lord. We'll need four days, maybe five. The wheel axle's cracked clean through, and half the gearing's rusted to hell. Pardon my language."
"How did it get this bad?"
Garrett shrugged. "Deferred maintenance, my lord. Mill should be serviced twice yearly. According to the village elder, it's been... seven years?"
Seven years. Since before my father's death. Since before the Northern Trade Consortium collapsed and the von Klause fortune went with it.
I'd inherited more than debt. I'd inherited neglect.
"Four days," I said. "You need anything, you go through Hans. And Garrett? The villagers are going to want to watch you work, maybe ask questions. Be patient with them."
He blinked, surprised. "You want me to... teach them, my lord?"
"I want them to understand how their mill works. Next time something breaks, maybe they can fix it themselves instead of waiting for a noble to notice."
Garrett looked at Hans, who gave a slight nod of confirmation. The millwright scratched his beard. "Well. That's... different. But aye, my lord. I can do that."
As he walked back to his wagons, Hans said quietly, "Your father would have forbidden villagers from interfering with craftsmen's work."
"My father," I replied, "let the mill break in the first place."
I rode to Marta's cottage every morning for the next week.
It became a routine: wake before dawn, suffer through sword practice with Sir Jarred (who took visible pleasure in my incompetence), bolt down breakfast, ride to Millbrook with a satchel of food for Marta's menagerie.
The animals had learned to expect me. The fox—Marta called her Soot—would trot out to greet me, hoping for dried meat. The ravens, Grip and Munin, cawed greetings from the roof. Even the deer, a young doe named Clover, had stopped fleeing when I approached.
Small victories.
Marta was less welcoming.
"You're late," she said on the fourth morning, not looking up from the herbs she was grinding.
"The sun's barely up."
"Should've been here before it rose. Beasts are most active at dawn and dusk. That's when you should practice." She gestured to the table where Pip's cage sat. "Go on then. Show me what you've learned."
I'd been practicing every spare moment. In my study, in the stables, once even during a meeting with Hans about grain projections. The steward had asked if I was ill. I'd told him I was thinking.
Not entirely a lie.
I sat at the table, opened myself to the skill—that now-familiar unclenching in my chest—and reached out.
Pip's presence bloomed in my awareness like a candle flame. Small, warm, uncomplicated.
hunger warm safe tired want seeds
I held the connection, breathing slowly, letting Pip feel my presence in return. Calm. No threat. Safe.
Twenty seconds.
Thirty.
Forty-five.
The connection wavered. I tried to steady it, but that very effort made it slip. Like trying to hold water in your fists.
It broke at fifty-two seconds.
I opened my eyes. Marta was watching.
"Better," she said. "Still clenching at the end. You feel it start to fade and you panic, try to grab it. That's what breaks it."
"How do I not panic when I feel it slipping?"
"Practice. Trust. Acceptance." She scooped Pip out of his cage, let him run across her palm. "The connection is a living thing, boy. It has rhythms, like breathing. Sometimes it's strong, sometimes it fades. If you clench every time it weakens, you'll strangle it. You have to learn to ride the rhythm."
"That's not very specific."
"Because it's not a formula. It's a relationship." She set Pip on the table. The mouse immediately scurried toward me, whiskers twitching.
I froze.
"He remembers you," Marta said. "Recognizes your presence. That's good. That's the foundation of a bond."
Pip climbed onto my hand. His tiny claws tickled.
Without thinking, I opened to the skill again.
The connection came easier this time. Smoother. And I felt something new—not just Pip's immediate feelings, but a sense of familiarity. Like greeting an acquaintance instead of a stranger.
"Good," Marta murmured. "Now hold it. Don't force. Just... be present."
Sixty seconds.
Seventy.
Eighty-nine.
When it finally faded, it didn't break—it just... drifted away. Like falling asleep.
I looked at Marta.
She was smiling. Actually smiling.
"Well," she said. "You're not completely hopeless."
On the fifth day, Elena came to find me.
I was in the stables, practicing with the bad-tempered mouser that had pissed on my boots three months ago. The cat—no one had bothered to name it—was watching me from a rafter with the disdain only cats can truly master.
"You look ridiculous," my sister said from the doorway.
I didn't turn around. "Elena. Pleasant surprise."
"Is it?" She walked in, picking her way around the hay. "Hans says you've been riding to the village every morning. Visiting the witch."
"Her name is Marta. And yes."
"Why?"
"I'm learning to use my skill."
Elena laughed. It wasn't a kind sound. "Tame? You're wasting time on Tame? Brother, we're drowning in debt and you're playing with mice?"
I finally looked at her.
Elena von Klause was nineteen, blonde where I was dark, beautiful in the way that should have guaranteed her a good marriage. Should have. Before the money ran out and her value as a political asset crashed with the family fortune.
The original Dietrich had barely spoken to her. I'd been trying to do better, but the resentment ran deep.
"I'm not playing," I said quietly. "I'm working."
"Working." She shook her head. "Father always said Tame was a peasant skill. Useless for anything that mattered."
"Father died broke and in debt. Maybe his opinion on what matters isn't worth much."
Her face went white, then red. "How dare you—"
"Elena." I stood, brushing hay from my clothes. "Why are you here?"
She was quiet for a moment, clearly fighting for composure. When she spoke again, her voice was controlled. Cold.
"Lord Rickard vol Brennan has expressed renewed interest in a potential match."
I knew the name. Rickard vol Brennan, second son of a viscount. Decent family, modest holdings. The original Dietrich had considered him beneath Elena's station.
"What kind of interest?"
"Conditional. He wants to see if the von Klause estate stabilizes before committing." She met my eyes. "He's heard rumors. That you're trying something desperate. That you might actually have a plan."
"Where did he hear that?"
"Does it matter? The point is, if you succeed—if you somehow pull us out of this hole—I might still have prospects. But if you fail..." She turned away. "I'll be twenty soon. No dowry, no connections, no value. Do you know what happens to noble daughters with no value?"
I did. This world wasn't kind to unmarried women, especially not ones from fallen houses. At best, she'd end up a companion to some wealthy widow. At worst...
"I'm trying," I said.
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're hiding in the village playing with animals while the estate crumbles."
The cat chose that moment to yowl from the rafters. Elena glared at it.
"That cat," I said, "is going to be the first step in building a intelligence network that could save this estate. The mice I'm 'playing with' are teaching me how to bond with creatures that can hunt, track, and gather information better than any human spy. And the witch I'm visiting is the only person in fifty miles who can teach me how to turn a useless skill into a viable asset."
Elena stared at me. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"That's insane."
"Maybe. But conventional strategies led us here. If conventional wisdom could save us, we'd already be saved." I walked toward her. "I know you're angry. I know you're scared. So am I. But I need time, Elena. A few more weeks. If it doesn't work, I'll... I'll find another way. I'll sell the timber rights to Voss, liquidate everything I can, and make sure you have a dowry. Even if it means I lose everything else."
She looked at me for a long moment. Really looked, like she was seeing me for the first time.
"You've changed," she said quietly. "Ever since Father died. You're... different."
You have no idea, I thought.
Out loud, I said, "Desperation changes people."
"Is that all it is?"
I didn't answer.
Elena turned to leave, then paused. "The mill. Hans says you're having it repaired."
"Yes."
"Father always said it wasn't cost-effective. That the villagers could grind by hand."
"Father was wrong about a lot of things."
She was quiet. Then: "I hope you're right, Dietrich. About the Tame skill, about your plan, about all of it. Because if you're not..." She looked back at me. "We're going to lose everything. And I'll lose more than you will."
She left before I could respond.
The cat yowled again, softer this time.
I reached out with Tame, carefully, gently.
The cat's presence was prickly, defensive, suspicious. But it didn't flee.
Progress.
The mill was finished on the sixth day.
I rode to the village with Hans to see the unveiling. Half of Millbrook had turned out—men, women, children, all gathered in the square. Some looked hopeful. Most just looked tired.
Garrett stood by the mill, wiping his hands on his apron. "All done, my lord. Wheel's turning smooth, gears are greased, and I've shown young Tomlin's son how to do basic maintenance. Should last you another decade if you keep up with it."
I looked at the mill. The wheel turned steadily in the stream, water sheeting off the blades. It was a small thing. A practical thing.
It felt like a victory anyway.
"Thank you, Garrett. Good work."
He bowed and left to pack his wagons.
Tomlin, the village elder, approached. He was maybe sixty, weathered by decades of hard labor. He bowed stiffly.
"My lord. The village... we're grateful."
"It's a mill, Tomlin. It should have been fixed months ago."
"All the same. It wasn't. And now it is." He hesitated. "If I may speak plainly, my lord?"
"Please."
"We weren't sure about you. After Lord Gregor passed—begging your pardon—there was talk that maybe the estate would be sold, that we'd get a new lord. Or that you'd be like your father. Good man, Lord Gregor, but... distant. Didn't always see what needed seeing."
"And now?"
"Now we're watching. Seeing what kind of lord you'll be." He glanced at the mill. "This is a good start."
It was the most words I'd heard Tomlin speak. I nodded. "I'm trying to do better."
"That's all anyone can ask, my lord."
As Hans and I rode back, the steward said, "The villagers will talk, you know. Word will spread that the young lord fixed the mill, that he's not like his father."
"Is that bad?"
"That depends on what you do next. You've set an expectation. They'll expect more now."
"Good," I said. "They should expect more. They should expect their lord to actually give a damn whether they live or die."
Hans was quiet for a moment. Then: "You really have changed, my lord."
"Is that a problem?"
"No, my lord. Just... an observation."
That night, I was woken by howling.
I stumbled to the window, still half-asleep.
Three wolves stood at the edge of the manor grounds, just beyond the torchlight. Even at this distance, I recognized the alpha—larger than the others, scarred muzzle, eyes that caught the light.
It was watching the manor.
Watching me.
I reached out with Tame, more reflex than thought.
The connection didn't form—too far, too wild, too strong—but for a moment, I felt something. A vast, alien presence. Curious. Assessing.
You're still learning, it seemed to say. So am I.
Then the wolves turned and vanished into the darkness.
I stood at the window for a long time after, thinking.
Marta had said the beasts choose you as much as you choose them. The alpha was circling, testing, learning. Waiting to see what I would become.
Would I be worthy of its attention?
More importantly: would I survive long enough to find out?
The next morning, Marta had a new challenge waiting.
"You've mastered Pip," she said, gesturing to the cage. The mouse was sleeping, curled in a nest of shredded paper. "Now we move to something harder."
She opened the door.
A chicken strutted in.
"This is Beatrice," Marta said. "She's mean, stupid, and completely indifferent to human suffering. If you can bond with her, you can bond with anything."
The chicken looked at me with one beady eye and made a noise that sounded like a threat.
"You're joking," I said.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
She did not.
"Chickens are harder than mice because they're prey animals and aggressive. Their minds are chaotic. They panic easily. And Beatrice in particular is a malicious little beast." Marta smiled. "Perfect training."
Beatrice pecked at my boot.
I sighed and opened myself to Tame.
This was going to be a long day.
Three hours later:
Beatrice had pecked me six times, shit on my coat, and successfully resisted every single attempt at connection.
"Stop trying to force it!" Marta snapped. "You're approaching her like she's Pip. She's not. Pip is calm, half-blind, friendly. Beatrice is chaos. You need to match her energy, not fight it."
"Match chaos?" I rubbed a fresh peck wound on my hand. "How?"
"By being present without trying to control. Let her be what she is. Just... exist alongside it."
I tried again.
Reached out.
Beatrice's mind was exactly as advertised—a whirling storm of food? threat? food! bright thing! peck! food?
Instead of trying to calm it, I just... sat with it. Let the chaos wash over me without fighting.
For five seconds, the connection held.
Then Beatrice pecked me again and it broke.
But.
Five seconds.
With a chicken.
Marta nodded. "Better. That's enough for today. Come back tomorrow."
As I left, covered in pecks and chicken shit, I passed the mill. The wheel was still turning.
Small victories.
I'd take them.