The line moved like the seasons.

  Sometimes fast, sometimes agonizingly slow, but was more often than not just slow enough to be boring.

  Vrakhu, Corvin, and Corin stood in the familiar triangle formation that mirrored the stones in the field.

  Vrakhu in the north, Corvin to the southeast, and Corin to the southwest.

  Like a flock of migrating birds; the twins reflexively found these positions whenever they followed Vrakhu and rarely deviated from them.

  Corvin happily chatted with the farmer’s wife about the fate of the flour in their cart.

  The wife sat sideways in the wagon to face Corvin, and make conversing easier.

  She didn’t care much for the other two, but she liked the boy enough to keep the conversation going.

  “Most of it has already been purchased by noble families. The rest will be sold to a restaurant we partnered with.” She vaguely waved at the many containers in the back of the wagon.

  “None of it will go to market?” Corvin put his hand on the side of the wagon and peeked over the side. “So… I guess that meal you offered won’t be using any of this.” He looked like a puppy who’d just been kicked.

  The woman felt her heart swell at the expression on his face.

  She reached out and patted his fingers. “Oh, dearie. Don’t you worry. I’ll tell my friend to whip you up something fantastic for helping us.”

  “Really?” His expression brightened — and Corin’s darkened.

  She couldn’t believe how easily this woman wrapped Corvin around her finger.

  She was glad she wasn’t so easily swayed.

  At least one of them needed to keep their mind focused on the task at hand.

  “Hey,” The farmer’s son turned in his seat to speak to her, his book momentarily forgotten on the seat beside him. “Are you really a cultivator?”

  Corin briefly glanced his way, then looked away just as quickly.

  “I wouldn’t call myself that. Not yet. But I am master’s disciple.”

  The boy frowned. “It seems a pretty simple question to me. Either you are or you aren’t. Which is it?”

  The farmer turned in his seat and looked Corin’s way. They probably wouldn’t move for a few minutes, and he was also curious about her answer.

  Had the old man lied to them or was he telling the truth?

  Corin’s stomach flipped with fear. She could see the expectation in their eyes, the barely restrained judgement.

  How should she answer? How could she answer?

  What if they wanted her to prove it?

  She had nothing to show them.

  She couldn’t transform; she couldn’t slice buildings in half with a sword or fly through the sky like a bird.

  She… couldn’t do anything a cultivator should.

  So, really, what could she say?

  Vrakhu took the choice from her.

  He looked the boy in the eye and stared him down. “When you plant grain, do you harvest it the next day?”

  “What?” The boy blinked and pulled back in confusion.

  What was this strange old man saying?

  He thought over the question once more, then shook his head. “No, of course not. It’s still a seed at that point—” He hesitated, then threw a quick glance at his father for confirmation.

  The boy didn’t understand why but looking into the old man’s eyes robbed him of his certainty.

  He wasn’t completely sure he could say his name right now.

  The farmer nodded and half-smiled at his son. “That’s right. Takes about two hundred days for our grain to grow from a seed to its harvestable state.” Then he looked to Vrakhu. “Why?”

  Vrakhu met Corin’s eyes as he spoke; “They are seeds still learning to grow.”

  Her eyes widened, then her eyes dropped to the ground in front of her.

  Her stomach flipped once again, but not from fear.

  She was pleased.

  Vrakhu ignored her musings and his eyes slid to the farmer’s son. “Even as a seed, they are both my disciples. Remember that.”

  The father and the son’s faces turned pale.

  The farmer realized too late that his son’s questions could be considered rude. Whether he’d done it intentionally or not, it didn’t matter.

  Cultivators didn’t like when a mortal questioned them.

  If this turned bad, the whole family could be executed before the guards had a chance to intervene.

  The son liked cultivators.

  No, that word didn’t do his feelings justice.

  He idolized cultivators almost as much as he feared them.

  He’d noticed them long before either of his parents.

  Under the guise of reading his book he’d discreetly peeked at the three strangers.

  It was easy to fake read around his parents; he did it often to get out of chores or greeting their friends.

  He’d read this book from cover to cover nine times so far and knew from experience it would get him an hour or two to himself, which was the only reason he’d brought it.

  But despite his feelings, his experience dealing with cultivators was… lacking.

  His curiosity might’ve just cost him his chance to befriend a real cultivator.

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  They were nothing like those vagabond pretenders who kept harassing them.

  Vrakhu let their thoughts flow over him and discarded almost all of them.

  However, that was the second time Vagabonds were brought up.

  First by the mother and now by the son.

  It was a tale even older than Vrakhu.

  Mortals stealing the title of cultivator and using it for nefarious purposes. Or less likely, actual cultivators who forsake their training and use their power for material gain.

  The first group deserve to be brought to justice and made to pay for their crimes.

  The second group does not even deserve a hole in the ground.

  Cultivators were more than mortal, and they should be held to a higher standard because of it.

  That’s what Vrakhu believed.

  That’s what he’d always believed.

  He didn’t care how many cultivators he antagonized with his way of thinking.

  It didn’t matter how many armies were raised against him —

  Vrakhu blinked.

  He looked at the ground in front of him and forced himself to calm.

  He’d almost slipped back into his old ways, and his core’s whispers were getting louder: the hunger beginning to stir.

  He wished he had a cup of tea.

  “Listen,” The farmer leaned over to get Vrakhu’s attention. “I’m really sorry about my boy. He’s a good kid, honestly. But he spends all his time with his nose in those books…”

  He scratched at his beard and thought over his words. “I just wanted to apologize for the disrespect you’ve been shown. I’ll buy your kids — Sorry, disciples clothes whether you help us or not. So, please don’t hold it against him. He’s just a kid.”

  Vrakhu heard his words, and the fear that caused his inner voice to tremble.

  He met the farmer’s eyes. “It’s the profession of the child to ask questions.”

  Corin’s eyes widened and she quickly looked to Vrakhu.

  She remembered these words; they were the first lesson he’d ever taught her.

  She looked at the ground and allowed her hair to fall over her face.

  She smiled and mouthed the words as Vrakhu spoke to them.

  “Silence and wisdom are for the adults.” They said in unison; one as a declaration, the other a whisper for themselves.

  “He may ask his questions, but if you offend one of my disciples you must apologize yourself.” Vrakhu spoke while meeting the boy’s eyes.

  The son swallowed.

  “Y-Yes, sir.” He looked to Corin and bowed his head. “Sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean anything by it. I-I was just curious.”

  Corin’s head snapped up and their eyes met.

  What was she supposed to do here? What would a cultivator do?

  She didn’t know.

  So she did the only thing she could.

  She turned to him with the question on the tip of her tongue.

  “Whether you accept or not is up to you. I care not which path you take, only that you take one.” Vrakhu spoke without looking at her.

  His words resonated within her right as the line began to move.

  Vrakhu walked slightly ahead of the wagon, the farmer guided his Ox into moving, and Corin looked around for the answer she was supposed to pick.

  Corvin and the farmer’s wife had paused their own conversation around the time Vrakhu asked about grains.

  Corvin didn’t hear what prompted the old man’s response, but he’d known from the look on Corin’s face the boy had said something.

  He’d struggled with the urge to smack the brat for whatever it was he’d said.

  And he still might if Corin didn’t accept his apology.

  He would defer to her judgement… Though his mood was already soured on the family.

  The wife felt like smacking her son herself.

  Part of the land they own came into their hands because someone offended a cultivator and the family paid the price.

  The survivor couldn’t work the land himself anymore, so he’d sold it to them at a bargain and disappeared to parts unknown.

  If the old man had pushed for it, she’d buy half the market if it meant he wouldn’t cripple her son.

  Now his fate was in the hands of the girl, which she greatly preferred.

  She could tell the girl wouldn’t kill or maim him. She didn’t have the eyes of someone capable of that.

  The worst the girl would do was smack him around a bit.

  Corin saw the expectant looks on the faces of her brother, the farmer’s wife, and their son.

  But all she needed was to see the look in Corvin’s eyes to know what to do.

  Her brother was going to have her back either way.

  Corin quickly caught up with the wagon, a small, mischievous smile on her face.

  “I’ll forgive you… If you let me read your book.”

  The son went through many different expressions in a few seconds; surprised, relieved, confused, then happy.

  “I’ll give it to you if you want.” He stood up and leaned over the side of the wagon, his hand held out to her.

  Corin briefly glanced at the hand before taking it. “Just reading it is fine. But I appreciate the offer.”

  The boy smiled like he’d been given a gift he’d longed for.

  His eyes darted to the side, at the empty spot on the bench beside him.

  “Want to join me back here? You could get started on the book?”

  Corin glanced at Vrakhu’s back, then at the sour look on Corvin’s face.

  She grinned. “Can my brother join us?”

  The boy’s expression grew even brighter, and he spun to look at Corvin.

  “I could sit with two cultivators? At the same time!? This is better than my birthday party!”

  Corvin glanced between the boy, his sister, and the farmer’s wife…

  Well, it would make it easier to talk with her about the food they were getting.

  “Sure, why not?” He sighed and headed over.

  Corin couldn’t contain her excitement and leapt over the wall of the wagon in an instant — Completely startling the farmer’s son.

  She landed smoothly in the seat and turned to get the book, only to find him staring at her with wide eyes.

  “What? Is there something on my face?”

  The boy blinked, then quickly shook his head.

  “Nope. Nothing. But you really are a cultivator, huh? I didn’t even see you move!”

  Corin’s face flushed red and she looked down.

  Then Corvin grabbed the side of the wagon and climbed over, intentionally placing himself between them.

  He sat on the bench with his arms crossed, his legs opened to take as much room as possible.

  The farmer’s son didn’t notice.

  He passed the book to Corin, then sat on a small piece of the bench with a pleased look on his face.

  This really was the best day of his life.

  Forty-five minutes after climbing into the wagon, Corin and Corvin noticed another group of people ascending the mountain.

  A group of twenty men and four women slowly climbed the path behind them.

  Four of the men sat in the drivers’ seat of horse drawn carts with a woman at their sides.

  The men wore similar looking tan robes that were neither eye-catching in quality nor particularly old.

  The women were the opposite.

  They wore flashy garments; colorful robes that looked freshly made, elegant hats or shiny hair pins, and Corvin could smell the perfume emanating off them from a hundred feet away.

  The rest of the men donned mostly clean chest plates and helmets and walked in formation around the carts.

  Ten men in metal chest plates and helmets carried spears that were longer than they were tall.

  They walked in two groups of five, with one group leading the carts and the other following closely behind.

  Five men in leather chest plates and helmets wielded curved short bows with quivers full of crude iron arrows.

  They were divided into three groups; two with each group of spearmen, and one riding in the back of the second cart in the convoy.

  The man walking at the head of the convoy had Corin and Corvin’s hearts thudding against their chests.

  He stood a head taller than Vrakhu and wore a flowing blue robe that stood out against his tanned skin.

  His long black hair had been tied into a high tail to keep it out of the way of the silver longsword attached to his belt.

  However, the most striking was his moon-like silver eyes that seemed to be staring straight through them.

  The twins quickly turned their faces away from the man and refused to look back.

  They recognized the lead man and hoped he hadn’t recognized them.

  The man who used to be their uncle.