The relentless tick of time, measured in the quiet thrum of his own growing awareness, brought Elias to his sixth year. The journey to the northern forests had been a profound success, not just for the logistical data it provided, but for the stark clarity it offered Elias. The Northwood folk, hardy and pragmatic, were living proof that Montala's spiritual tendrils did not reach into every corner of this fractured realm. They lived by the land, by their wits, and by a code of communal self-reliance that resonated deeply with the principles Elias had so painstakingly enshrined in his now-completed Bible.
The manuscript, bound in simple, tanned leather, lay hidden within the false bottom of his chest, a tangible anchor to his truth. Every word, every meticulously drawn letter, represented a defiance against the lies that suffocated this world. Its completion filled him with a quiet, potent satisfaction. It was ready. Now, he needed to find the right ears, the right minds, in whom to plant its seeds.
Lord Valerius, predictably, had resumed his cold, silent scrutiny upon Elias's return. There were no grand pronouncements, no overt accusations, just the unnerving omnipresence, the penetrating gaze that missed nothing and found fault in everything. Elias maintained his facade with chilling precision, a child fascinated by squirrels and curious about forests, utterly oblivious to the subtle economic strangulation Montala was applying to Duke Theron. This constant external pressure only reinforced Elias's internal conviction: the Duke desperately needed alternatives, and Elias intended to provide them, subtly, strategically.
Elias spent countless hours, disguised as childish play, observing the ebb and flow of information within the Keep. He listened to Lord Arlen's increasingly frustrated reports to Duke Theron about dwindling coffers and Montala's escalating demands for tithes, for supplies, for "contributions to the holy war effort." The Church, sensing the Duke's quiet attempts at independence, was tightening its grip, turning the screws of economic dependency. The people of the ducal lands suffered visibly; prices for staples like grain and salt soared, commoners wore threadbare clothes, and whispers of discontent grew louder, no longer confined to the market but audible even within the Keep's less formal corridors.
One afternoon, Elias found Lord Arlen pacing his study, a stack of overdue ledgers scattered across his desk. The Master of Coin looked utterly defeated. "The granaries will be near empty by spring, Elias," Lord Arlen muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Montala has demanded an unprecedented tithe of grain for their 'blessed armies,' leaving our own people with mere scraps."
Elias saw his opening. He moved to the large map on Lord Arlen's wall, a detailed, though outdated, rendering of the Duke's territories. His small finger traced the winding rivers and dense green of the northern forests, the region he had recently visited. "Lord Arlen," Elias piped up, his voice tinged with carefully feigned innocence, "when I was with Brother Tomas, the Northwood folk... they had so much game! And their storage sheds were full of dried berries and nuts. And they kept their own grain, not like us who give it all to Montala." He paused, as if thinking aloud. "If our granaries are empty, why can't the Duke simply ask the Northwood folk for their extra grain? They seem to have enough."
Lord Arlen stopped pacing, his gaze sharpening. "The Northwood Clan is self-sufficient, yes, but their numbers are small. And their lands are difficult to reach. It's not enough to feed the entire ducal population, Elias."
"But it would be some grain, Lord Arlen," Elias insisted, shifting his weight. "And perhaps we could trade for it. We have salt from the mines, don't we? The Northwood folk said they needed salt for curing meats. And we have spare tools the Duke's smiths make. Maybe we could trade tools for their grain, and keep our own people fed, not Montala." He made it sound like a simple, elegant solution, a child's directness cutting through adult complexities.
A spark ignited in Lord Arlen's eyes. Elias had articulated a desperate, but viable, supplement. A trade route independent of Montala, however small, was a crack in the Church's monopoly. "A supplemental trade route," Arlen mused, more to himself than to Elias. "It would be arduous, but... possible. And it would keep more resources within the Duke's coffers, not the Church's."
Over the subsequent weeks, Elias became a silent, omnipresent helper in Lord Arlen's study. He would "organize" stacks of scrolls that coincidentally placed old, forgotten trade manifests from the northern regions at the top. He would "clean" maps, making specific, previously ignored forest trails seem more prominent. He even used subtle aetheric currents to cool the ink in the inkwell on hot days, making Lord Arlen's writing more efficient, a small 'luck' Elias attributed to "blowing on it just right." Each tiny influence was a nudge, subtle yet persistent, pushing the Duke's administration toward greater self-reliance.
Soon, the Duke, at Lord Arlen's urging, dispatched more discreet caravans to the northern territories. These were not just for timber and furs anymore; they now sought out grain, cured meats, and other vital foodstuffs. The expeditions were difficult, fraught with peril from bandits and rough terrain, but they were successful. Each wagon of supplies that bypassed Montala's hungry maw was a small, silent victory.
Elias's strategic mind, however, did not stop at the Northwood Clan. His journey had opened his eyes to the sheer diversity and varying levels of Montala's influence across the ducal lands. He needed to identify other strongholds of independence, potential pillars for his future society. He listened intently to the returning scouts and traders, absorbing every detail of the communities they described.
One particular set of reports kept resurfacing, intriguing Elias immensely. Scouts spoke of a community nestled deep within the verdant, almost untouched valleys beyond the farthest reaches of the Blackwood Forest. They called them the "Weaver Clan." These people, Lord Arlen's reports sometimes noted with a mix of frustration and admiration, were notoriously private. They rarely ventured out, preferring to conduct their limited trade through appointed intermediaries at remote rendezvous points.
What truly captivated Elias's attention was their reputation for self-sufficiency. They cultivated their own unique strains of flax and wool, crafting textiles of extraordinary quality and beauty, famed for their vibrant, natural dyes derived from forest plants. They possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the local flora, using it not only for dyes but for medicine and sustenance. Crucially, the reports indicated a minimal, almost token, adherence to Montala's rituals. Their "faith," if it could be called that, seemed to be rooted in the land itself, in cycles of growth and seasons – a philosophy far more aligned with the Architect's natural laws than Phelena's capricious demands.
"They're a stubborn lot," Lord Arlen once grumbled to Duke Theron, unaware of Elias's keen ears. "They pay their meager tithes without complaint, but they won't attend sermons, won't send their youth to acolytes. They simply... exist, in their own way. They follow their own customs, old ways."
This was invaluable information. A community that not only possessed vital skills (textiles, plant knowledge) but also demonstrated a deep, cultural resistance to Montala's spiritual and social control. They were a living example of self-governance and pragmatic belief, exactly the kind of people Elias would need to form the backbone of a new, enlightened kingdom. He recognized the strength in their quiet, defiant independence.
He mentally filed away every detail about the Weaver Clan: their location, their trade goods, their philosophy of life. He saw them as a logical extension of his northern strategy, a key piece of the puzzle. If the Northwood Clan represented basic resilience, the Weaver Clan seemed to embody a more refined, self-contained autonomy, a society already operating on principles remarkably similar to those within his Bible. They would be a vital ally, a model of the pragmatic, reasoned community he sought to foster.
Valerius, meanwhile, continued his cold war. He dispatched more acolytes to the Duke's larger towns, increasing the frequency of public sermons and demanding more stringent "spiritual purifications" – euphemisms for fear-mongering and heightened tithe collection. He occasionally made veiled threats regarding the Duke's "piety" and the potential for "divine displeasure" if Montala's needs were not met. He even began to scrutinize the Duke's new northern trade with barely concealed contempt, though he lacked the direct authority to forbid it.
Elias observed it all, the escalating conflict, the Duke's growing desperation, Montala's heavy hand. He understood that these pressures, while dangerous, also served to highlight the very tyranny he opposed. Each Montala demand, each new tax, drove more people towards questioning, towards seeking alternatives. His Bible offered those alternatives, a path to peace and prosperity rooted in reason. The Weaver Clan, unknown to them, was becoming a crucial target in his grand design, a strategic outpost of truth in a world drowning in lies. His current tasks—mastering his internal power, guiding his adopted father, and mapping the true heart of this kingdom—were all steps towards that larger, inevitable encounter. The path was long, but Elias, at six, knew exactly where he needed to go.