The ascent was slow, the horses picking their way through the loose shale and gorse that choked the lower slopes. The count rode at the front, his silk cloak flapping in the rising wind, while his men-at-arms followed behind with a clatter of iron and leather. Thomas stayed at the count's stirrup, his gaze fixed forward. He could feel the device against his palm, the screen showing a thermal map of the hillside. He was tracking the heat signatures of the party and the rising thermal plumes from the valley floor.
The sun had dipped below the western ridge, leaving the sky a bruised purple that bled into a deep, hollow black. A thin, grey mist began to curl around the horses' hooves—the natural breath of the cooling earth—but Thomas knew it was not enough. He needed the air to grow heavy. He needed the light to play tricks on the eyes of a man desperate for a sign of divine favor.
"It is a desolate place, Thomas," the count said, his voice echoing in the gathering gloom. "If a holy messenger chose this hill to manifest, it has a strange taste in scenery. My surveyors told me this land was fit for nothing but goats and stones."
"The things of the spirit do not care for the quality of the grass, my lord," Thomas replied, keeping his tone humble and hushed. "They go where the earth is thin. Can you not feel the change in the air?"
Beside them, Victoria rode in silence, her face a pale oval in the darkness. She was watching the treeline at the base of the hill, her posture tense. She knew exactly where Wat was hidden with the first of the smoke pots.
Thomas checked the timer on his palm. Three minutes.
The party reached a small plateau near the crest, where the grey stones stood like jagged teeth against the sky. The sulfurous scent of the bitter water was stronger here, rising from the stagnant pools caught in the hollows of the granite. The horses tossed their heads, sensing the unfamiliar chemicals in the air.
"We wait here," Thomas said, raising a hand.
The count pulled his horse to a halt, his narrow eyes scanning the ridge. The silence was absolute, broken only by the whistling of the wind through the gorse. Thomas watched the thermal map. A pale blue bloom began to appear at the northern edge of the plateau—the first of the pots had been lit.
The smoke did not rise like a common fire. The mixture Thomas had designed was heavy and clinging, laced with minerals that caught the fading ultraviolet light of the evening. It began to roll across the ground in thick, undulating waves, white and luminous. It looked less like smoke and more like a solid wall of cloud rising from the very heart of the hill.
"What is that?" one of the men-at-arms whispered, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
"Steady," the count commanded, though his own voice wavered.
The smoke began to fill the hollows between the stones, creating a shifting, translucent landscape. Thomas moved his hand slightly, checking the wind. The breeze was catching the fumes exactly as he had calculated, swirling them into a vortex at the edge of the ridge.
He saw the moment the count's eyes widened.
In the swirling white mist, the light from the rising moon caught the hanging particles of mineral dust. For a fleeting second, the chaos of the smoke coalesced into a shape. It was a trick of the mind—a phenomenon Thomas knew as pareidolia—but to a man primed by days of talk about a white hart, it was unmistakable. A tall, antlered shadow moved through the fog, its form glowing with an ethereal, milky light.
"There," Victoria whispered, her voice filled with a convincing, breathless awe. "My lord, look. By the standing stone."
The count gasped, leaning forward in his saddle. The shape shifted as the wind gusted, the antlers appearing to toss as the "hart" leaped over a bank of smoke and vanished into the darkness of the crags. It had lasted no more than five seconds, but in the silence that followed, the count was trembling.
"Did you see it?" the count breathed, his face drained of color. "A beast of pure light. It looked... it looked directly at me."
Thomas lowered his head. "It is as I told you, my lord. The hill is a threshold. It is a place where the world we see and the world of the divine touch."
The count turned his horse around, his movements frantic. He was no longer looking at the rocks with disgust. He was looking at the ground as if it were made of gold. "I must have this place. I must dedicate a chapel here. A sign such as this... it will silence my enemies in the court. They will know that the heavens favor my line."
Victoria moved her horse closer to the count's. "But my lord, you were speaking of selling this land to pay the crown's levies. If you build a chapel here, it will be a great expense. Perhaps it is better to leave the spirits to their solitude."
"Nonsense," the count snapped, his greed and vanity now fully alight. "I will not sell it to the crown. But I cannot manage such a remote site from my estate. Thomas, you have seen the vision. You have a connection to this ground that I do not. If I grant you the title to this hill and the surrounding woods, will you swear to oversee the construction of a shrine? Will you guard this place in my name?"
Thomas felt the trap snap shut, just as they had planned. "It would be a heavy burden, my lord. The land is poor, and the work would be great."
"I will give you the land for a nominal sum," the count said, waving a hand dismissively. "A token to make the deed legal. In exchange, you will pay a small yearly tithe to my treasury to maintain the chapel's light. It is a fair trade for a man who wishes to serve the divine."
Victoria looked at Thomas, her eyes gleaming in the dark. The hill, and the silver vein beneath it, was now theirs.
"I accept your charge, my lord," Thomas said, bowing from his saddle. "I will ensure that the name of your house is forever linked to the miracle of this hill."
The party began the descent, the count talking excitedly about the architects he would send and the glory he would reclaim. Thomas stayed at the back of the line, his hand sliding into the pocket where the invisible device lay. He turned the screen off, the thermal map disappearing into the blackness.
He had won the land, but the victory felt cold. He looked at the mist still clinging to the slopes. He had used the count's faith as a weapon, turning a geological anomaly into a religious omen. He was no longer just a traveler trying to survive; he was a man who had started to rewrite the reality of this world to suit his needs.
As they reached the manor gates, Victoria slowed her horse until she was riding alongside him. The count was already in the courtyard, shouting for wine to celebrate his vision.
"You did it," she whispered. "The smoke... it was more than I expected. He is convinced he is a saint in the making."
"He saw what he wanted to see," Thomas said, his voice flat. "But now the real work begins, Victoria. We have the land, but we have to build the mine in the shadow of a chapel. We have to hide the silver from the very man who just gave us the ground."
Victoria reached out, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his sleeve. "We will hide it. And we will use his own chapel to do it. Who would suspect a den of thieves in a house of God?"
Thomas looked at her, seeing the ruthlessness that made her such an effective partner. She was already thinking three steps ahead, turning their lie into a shield.
"I need to talk to Wat," Thomas said. "We need to start on the pump. If we don't get the water out of the lower shaft, the silver will stay buried no matter who owns the hill."
"Go," Victoria said. "I will keep the count occupied with plans for his shrine. I will make sure he leaves by dawn, convinced that he has made the bargain of a lifetime."
Thomas watched her walk toward the hall, her head held high. He turned and headed toward the forge, the heat of the furnace still glowing in the distance. He had the knowledge of a thousand years in his hand, and for the first time, he felt like he had the power to actually use it.
But as he walked through the dark courtyard, he couldn't help but wonder: if he kept building his new world on a foundation of lies, what would happen when the truth finally caught up to him?