Life at the Castle

By the time the demand for one (1) cow reached Sir Hobb’s run-down manor, it had passed through five increasingly angry nobles and had become as serious as a royal command—omething usually reserved for matters involving at least three beheadings or a disputed mill.

The whole mess started when the duke somehow “accidentally” labeled several warehouses of expensive goods from the Far East as livestock to avoid taxes. Being an important man, he couldn’t be bothered with such a small matter as providing one cow to fix his mistake. After all, that was beneath him.

The marquess felt the same way when the request was passed to him.

So did the earl, the viscount...and finally the baron.

But Sir Hobb had nobody else to push his problems onto. His workers weren’t very sympathetic either. They’d nod along to his complaints with blank expressions—the kind of face people make when they’ve learned not to share their real thoughts, but still somehow suggest that Sir Hobb might want to find someone who actually cares.

Sir Hobb read the official letter twice, snorted once, and muttered something too rude to repeat about “royal cow accounting” before reaching for his watery ale and favorite quill with its slightly broken tip.

The ale was terrible. As usual. He hadn’t had good ale since that night at the Baron’s party when he’d been given this small estate that he still hadn’t fixed up properly.

Sir Hobb used to be an impressive man, but had softened with age and too much food into something like a grumpy pear. His mustache—which he carefully waxed each morning despite letting everything else fall apart—was his pride and joy. Two perfect (now graying) curls that looked like they belonged on a much more dignified person. Everything about him showed how desperately he clung to his former glory: his frayed but once-fancy clothes straining across his belly, the tarnished ring he polished obsessively, and the way he sat as though always expecting someone to bring him something better.

The workers secretly called him “Sir Beetroot” because of how his face turned bright red whenever the smallest thing went wrong. No one dared say this to his face, of course—his temper was genuinely scary, even if it only lasted about ten minutes before he got too tired to stay angry.

Strangely, the only creatures that ever saw his gentle side were the estate’s animals. For someone so stingy with money, Sir Hobb spent a surprising amount on special food for pigs he never ate, treats for chickens whose eggs he rarely collected, and expensive medicines for old horses that couldn’t work anymore. The manager once suggested selling an elderly mare, only to find himself cleaning stables for a month while Sir Hobb personally made sure the horse got custom-made shoes.

“One beast of appropriate quality,” he read aloud, tracing the fancy handwriting with his finger. The words were underlined twice, and a note had been added in different handwriting: “Note: Previous specimen (B17) deemed unsuitable. Do not send again.”

From the corner of the room came the sound of a quill scratching quickly on paper.

“Would you say, Sir Hobb, that the Baron’s rejection of your prize cow felt... personal to you?”

Sir Hobb glared at the thin man perched on a wobbly stool in the corner. The Archivist—who had simply introduced himself as such when he arrived three months ago with papers from the Baron’s court—was mysteriously covered from head to toe. His high-collared gray robes showed almost nothing of the man inside, except for occasional glimpses of very thin, pale hands that moved with perfect precision. The little that could be seen of his face under his hood suggested he was quite old—papery skin with deep wrinkles around eyes that shone like polished stones and revealed nothing of his thoughts.

The quill he wrote with seemed like an extension of those spider-like fingers, always moving, always recording. When he spoke, he did so carefully, as if he’d learned that asking questions gets more information than making statements. The silver pin at his collar—showing a quill crossed with a key—was his only decoration, marking his official position and perhaps the only proof he wasn’t just a ghost from the castle’s paperwork nightmares.

“What it feels like,” Sir Hobb growled, “is an insult. Beatrice was my second-best cow! Prize-winning family line. Seventeen years of loyal service. And they sent her back like—like some ordinary goat!”

Sir Hobb slammed his drink down. “This is crazy! I’ve already sent them my two best cows. First Mathilda—who gave the sweetest milk you’ve ever tasted—and they claimed she was ‘not strong enough for royal purposes.’ Then Beatrice, who’s a bit odd, I admit, but comes from an ancient bloodline!”

He walked to the window, pointing at his small herd of animals. Twelve cows grazed in the patchy field—well, eleven grazed while Beatrice stood eerily still, staring at nothing. Even from a distance, she clearly wasn’t like the others.

“And now they’ve returned Beatrice with some nonsense about her being ‘unsuitable’ and labeled her ‘B17’ like she’s some warehouse item!” Sir Hobb’s voice got higher and more panicky. “What exactly makes a cow ‘appropriate’ to these people? Do they expect it to bow? Write poetry? What cow qualities could they possibly want that mine don’t have?”

The Archivist’s quill moved quickly. “Perhaps you could tell me the specific... problems mentioned in the rejection letter?”

“According to the royal inspector,” Sir Hobb sputtered, pulling at his thinning hair, “Beatrice ‘behaved improperly for a cow.’ Apparently, she refused to eat the royal hay, stared at the King’s Horse Master until he dropped his ceremonial whip, and made noises that—and I quote—‘disturbed the court astrologer during an important star reading.’” He shook his head. “As if cows need good manners!”

The Archivist’s quill paused mid-stroke. “Have you considered that maybe the problem isn’t with the cow itself, but with how palace people who’ve never done farm work judge what makes a good cow?”

Sir Hobb slumped back in his chair. “Eleven milk cows, all too old. It’s the best I’ve got. None would pass whatever made-up test they’ve created.” His hands fell limply to his sides. “Lord Grimsby couldn’t deliver some simple tapestries the Baron wanted.” He tugged nervously at his collar, lowering his voice. “The Baron invited him to explain why. Three days later, they found his ring in a fish’s belly.” Sir Hobb’s face turned pale as candle wax. “The official records say he ‘retired.’”

The Archivist made a non-committal sound and continued writing. “Very unfortunate. And yet, I notice your estate has other valuable assets that, while not exactly cows, might interest people looking for... value.”

Sir Hobb’s gaze drifted across the yard where a young man was carefully mixing something in a wooden bowl. Tall and strong-shouldered with dirt under his fingernails and clear, thoughtful eyes that never looked down submissively as a worker should, Bram hummed as he worked—an annoying habit that showed he didn’t worry much.

“That boy,” Sir Hobb muttered, mostly to himself. “Always happy. Always fixing things. Always making the other workers look bad.”

“Indeed?” the Archivist replied, sounding politely interested though clearly he knew more than he let on. His quill moved faster. “How... industrious.”

“Too industrious,” Sir Hobb said, narrowing his eyes. “Do you know what the stable worker told me? Since that boy started helping with the animals, we get 14% more milk, the sheep’s wool is better quality, and the chickens—the chickens!—form a perfect line when he enters their pen. A line! Chickens!”

“Most unusual,” the Archivist agreed, his tone suggesting Sir Hobb might want to consider whether having a well-run farm was really in his best interest. “One might wonder if such results are... normal.”

They watched as Bram approached Beatrice with his mixture. The ancient cow, normally unfriendly with everyone, actually moved forward to meet him. Bram whispered something in her ear, and the cow made a sound that seemed almost... happy.

Unlike the other workers who moved with the tired shuffle of exhausted people, Bram stood out without trying. Tall and strong at seventeen, he moved with the quiet confidence of someone who understood how things worked. His face showed both youth and experience—clear gray eyes that noticed everything, a strong jawline, and copper hair that often escaped its leather tie to fall across his forehead. Those watchful eyes were his most striking feature—always measuring, calculating, seeing solutions to problems with unusual clarity.

His hands, though rough from years of work, moved with surprising grace whether calming Beatrice or fixing the constantly broken mill wheel. When focused on a task, he seemed to forget the barriers between himself and the world—there was only Bram and the problem, working together in perfect focus.

The other workers found him odd but dependable, bringing him their broken tools and listening when he suggested better ways to do their endless tasks. In a world where most people kept quiet, Bram’s quiet skill had earned him a special place—not quite fitting in, yet somehow necessary, like a mismatched stone that still holds the arch together.

In the village, people told stories about how Bram once taught a flock of chickens enough English to scratch letters in the dirt. The tale grew with each retelling, until some claimed the chickens had scratched warnings about coming storms or the best days to plant crops, all under Bram’s calm direction. The village priest never said whether this was witchcraft or just impressive chicken training.

“Amazing,” Sir Hobb murmured, more to himself than to the Archivist. “That boy convinced me to let Beatrice back in the barn after I’d kicked her out for not giving milk for three seasons. Said she’d ‘help the other cows’ even if she produced nothing herself. I thought it was nonsense until every cow started giving milk so sweet it tasted like honey. I called it witchcraft until I saw the profits. Haven’t seen quality like that since before the Great Sickness.”

“How... financially beneficial for you,” the Archivist remarked, suggesting Sir Hobb was missing something obvious. “One wonders why someone so valuable is still doing basic farm work.”

Sir Hobb’s eyes narrowed as he studied Bram. The boy was getting too clever. Always building things. Always fixing things that weren’t broken. Always with those strange drawings of staircases and drainage systems.

The Archivist watched Sir Hobb with the patient expression of someone watching a particularly slow child trying to solve a simple puzzle. His quill made the smallest note in his book.

Suddenly, Sir Hobb straightened up, a slow smile spreading across his face. “One beast of appropriate quality, they say?” He turned to face the Archivist, looking triumphant. “What if I sent them Beatrice again—but with the boy as her keeper?”

The Archivist’s expression stayed neutral, though one eyebrow rose slightly. “The order specifically asks for a cow.”

“Yes, yes,” Sir Hobb waved impatiently. “But they didn’t forbid sending her with... extras. They just want value. I’ll send Beatrice WITH the boy as a package! Think about it: alone, she’s just a skinny old cow that sometimes says ‘doom.’ With him, she organizes the entire herd—gets the stubborn ones giving milk, calms the nervous ones during storms. She’s like a cow supervisor! She’s practically valuable!”

“A very... creative interpretation of the requirements,” the Archivist said, his tone suggesting he found Sir Hobb’s reasoning about as solid as fog. “I’m sure the royal officials, with all their book learning and complete lack of practical experience, will immediately see how clever your solution is.”

Sir Hobb either missed or ignored the sarcasm. “The boy’s a cow-whisperer! He’s worth more than any single cow.” He reached for a fresh piece of paper, suddenly energized. “I’ll write it as a generous gift. ‘To help with the crown’s urgent need, I sacrifice not just a prize cow but include my most valuable worker as her essential caretaker...’”

“One can only admire your generosity,” the Archivist remarked, closing his book with a snap. “Well, I believe my review of this matter is finished for now. Most... educational.”

Sir Hobb looked up. “You’re leaving? I thought you had more... record-keeping or whatever it is you do.”

“Indeed, new matters need my attention,” the Archivist said, gathering his things. “In fact, I’ll be traveling to the capital myself. Official business, quite boring really. Something about reorganizing files at the royal castle.”

“What a coincidence,” Sir Hobb said without much interest, already focusing on his letter.

“Isn’t it?” The Archivist smiled faintly. His gaze drifted toward the window where you could almost imagine seeing the capital on the distant horizon—a sprawling, contradictory monument to power and incompetence where the King’s ancestral home had gradually been buried under generations of poorly planned additions. A place where nothing worked properly, and yet somehow everything limped along through sheer bureaucratic momentum. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

Sir Hobb just grunted, not bothering to look up as the Archivist slipped silently from the room.

In the royal castle, King Erebus VI paced frantically across his private room, where dozens of candles flickered despite it being daytime. His crown sat crooked on his messy hair, and his royal robes had stains like someone who often forgot to eat properly. At forty-two, he looked sixty—his face a web of worried lines, his fingers constantly twisting his royal ring as if making sure it was still there.

“They’re whispering again,” he muttered, pressing his ear against the wall. “Always whispering.”

The Royal Diviner cleared his throat from the doorway. He was a tall, thin man wearing more jewelry than seemed physically possible, each piece making little clinking sounds whenever he moved. His fancy silk robes were decorated with star and moon symbols that somehow changed position each day—a detail that cost the royal treasury a small fortune.

“Your Majesty requested my immediate presence?” The Diviner bowed with a flourish that sent several of his necklaces swinging.

“Yes, yes!” The King pulled him inside, looking suspiciously down the hallway before slamming the door. “The dreams have returned. Three nights in a row. Always the same—a shadowy figure approaches my throne, and everyone bows to them instead of me.”

The Diviner’s face remained calm, though his eyes calculated quickly. “Most disturbing, Your Majesty. Perhaps a prophecy would—one just came to me this morning... clarify matters?”

“This morning? Today? Share it with me!” The King’s voice cracked with desperation.

The Diviner hesitated, stroking his oiled beard. “Well, the cosmic forces cannot be rushed. And such important divination would require... special materials.”

“Name it and it’s yours,” the King said quickly.

“The incense of Samarkand,” the Diviner said, as if the words pained him. “Rare and... unfortunately expensive.”

“How expensive?” The King’s eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps a mere... fifteen percent increase to my department’s budget?” The Diviner suggested carefully. “A small adjustment, considering the cosmic forces at stake.”

The King waved impatiently. “Fine, fine. Add it to the accounts. Now, can you do it?”

“I shall attempt to pierce the veil,” the Diviner said gravely, then paused, tilting his head as if listening to invisible voices. “But... I sense the stars are especially active today. Perhaps we might succeed even without the special incense... though the clarity may suffer.”

With practiced efficiency, the Diviner produced a small brass bowl from his robes, setting it on the table. Various pouches emerged next—colored powders, dried herbs, small bones of unidentifiable origin. He arranged everything with dramatic flair, occasionally gasping as if seeing important signs.

“The stars are in rare position,” he intoned, dropping a pinch of powder that flared bright green. “The veil between worlds grows thin.”

The King watched, fascinated, as the Diviner closed his eyes and began to sway, rattling a string of bells with one hand while the other made elaborate patterns in the smoke rising from the bowl.

“I see... I see...” The Diviner’s voice deepened unnaturally. “A foreign flower transported to native soil... yes... the blossom from eastern realms brings hidden strength to crumbling foundations!”

More powder, more smoke, more swaying.

“When distant star meets western wall, ancient blood shall find its proper place. The dormant seed awakens only when watered by distant springs! The royal line shall be... completed.”

The Diviner collapsed into a chair, breathing heavily as if the prophecy had physically exhausted him. The King rushed to his side, offering wine.

“What does it mean?” the King asked eagerly after the Diviner had recovered enough to speak.

The Diviner adopted a thoughtful expression. “Well, Your Majesty, prophecies are quite complex...”

“But you can interpret it?” The King’s eyes were wide, desperate.

“I believe...” The Diviner paused dramatically. “Yes, I believe it speaks of a royal connection. ‘Eastern star’ clearly refers to eastern royalty. Perhaps from Persia? And ‘ancient blood’ suggests noble lineage.”

The King leaned forward, gripping the arm of his throne. “Are you saying I should arrange a marriage with Persian royalty?”

“Not necessarily marriage, Your Majesty,” the Diviner corrected smoothly. “The prophecy speaks of ‘a flower transported’—a visitor, a guest perhaps. Someone whose presence alone will strengthen your reign.”

“A royal visitor from the East,” the King mused, getting excited. “Yes! We shall invite Persian royalty to be our honored guests! Their very presence will legitimize... I mean, enhance the prestige of our court!”

“A most wise interpretation, Your Majesty,” the Diviner nodded solemnly. “Though perhaps not the highest levels of Persian nobility? The prophecy suggests ‘dormant seed’—perhaps a noble house that has fallen from prominence but retains its ancient bloodline.”

“Perfect!” The King clapped his hands together. “Less intimidating, more grateful for the invitation. Send word immediately—we require a Persian princess as our honored guest! Make it sound important, mysterious even. Offer generous terms!”

“If I may, Your Majesty,” the Diviner interjected smoothly, “it might be best if I personally write the invitation. The cosmic forces are... particular about wording in such matters.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you think best,” the King said, already distracted by visions of exotic nobility gracing his court. “How long will it take for them to arrive? Months, I suppose?”

The Diviner’s lips curved in a thin smile. “You might be surprised, Your Majesty. When the stars align, events can unfold with remarkable... speed.”

What the King couldn’t know was that Princess Zahra of the once-mighty House Naqavi—now reduced to maintaining a threadbare nobility in a provincial Persian town—was already three weeks into her journey. The Diviner’s “invitation” had been sent months ago, cleverly worded to suggest a potential royal marriage while technically promising nothing of the sort. The Princess’s family, desperate to restore their fading prestige, had eagerly accepted.

And if all went according to the Diviner’s actual plan, the Princess would never meet the King in any formal capacity. After all, a man of the Diviner’s cosmic insight and position certainly deserved a wife of royal blood—particularly one whose exotic beauty had reached his ears through his network of informants. The prophecy business was merely a convenient way to get her to the castle without arousing suspicion.

“Oh, and find out what’s happening with that cow business,” the King called over his shoulder. “I can’t have minor administrative matters distracting me from matters of prophecy!”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the Diviner bowed deeply, his many jewels tinkling softly. “I’ll see that all the proper... alignments are maintained.”

As he backed out of the royal chambers, the Diviner’s face revealed none of his thoughts: that soon both a cow-whispering serf and a Persian princess would arrive at the castle, unwittingly setting in motion events that even he, with all his manufactured prophecies, could not have truly foreseen.

Bram’s small hut sat at the edge of Sir Hobb’s property—as far from the main house as possible while still technically being on the estate. Unlike the other workers’ dwellings, this one had a small garden, a properly thatched roof, and what appeared to be handmade gutters directing rainwater into collection barrels.

Inside, Bram sat cross-legged on his bed, leather journal open on his lap. By the flickering light of a candle, he was adding details to a drawing. The page showed a grand hall with incredibly high ceilings, but also oddly leaking corners. In the margins, he had written: “Drainage system needed—redirect water through hollow columns?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Another one,” he muttered. “Same castle, same problems. Why can’t I dream about nice things? Meadows. Festivals. Anything other than a poorly-built castle with leaky roofs and ridiculous staircases.”

He flipped through earlier pages. Each contained detailed sketches of various castle sections—kitchens filled with smoke, corridors that flooded, towers that lost heat, and a throne room with terrible acoustics. Beside each problem, Bram had sketched solutions—ventilation systems, drainage channels, insulation methods, and sound-dampening tapestry arrangements.

“Ridiculous,” he said, but there was fondness in his voice. “Solving problems in places that don’t exist.”

A sharp knock at his door frame made him jump, hastily closing the journal. The steward stood there, his always-sour expression somehow looking even more pinched than usual.

“Sir Hobb has decided to honor you with a special assignment,” the steward announced without any greeting.

Bram stood quickly. “Sir? Is it about the north field irrigation system I mentioned? Because I’ve been thinking—”

“You’re being sent to the royal castle,” the steward cut in, clearly reciting a rehearsed speech. “Along with Beatrice. Sir Hobb, in his great generosity, has selected you for this prestigious position. You will leave tomorrow at first light.” He turned to leave, then added almost as an afterthought, “Congratulations.”

Bram stood frozen, journal clutched to his chest. “The castle?” he whispered after the steward had gone. “The actual royal castle?”

He sank back onto his bed, mind racing with possibilities. The royal castle—the seat of power, wisdom, and ancient knowledge. Surely there, unlike Sir Hobb’s crumbling estate, things would work properly. There would be master builders, royal engineers, architects with actual training. People who understood how buildings should function, who wouldn’t tolerate leaking roofs or poorly ventilated kitchens.

For the first time in years, Bram felt a flutter of hope. Perhaps at the castle, he could finally stop worrying about problems that nobody else seemed to notice. Perhaps there, someone else would be responsible for fixing things, and he could simply... rest.

“Maybe my nightmares will even stop,” he murmured, glancing at his journal. The strange dreams of architectural disasters had plagued him for as long as he could remember—visions of a grand but fundamentally broken place where nothing quite worked as it should. They were just dreams, of course. No real castle could possibly be so dysfunctional. No king would tolerate it.

He began packing his few possessions, carefully wrapping his journal in his spare shirt. He hesitated, wondering if he should bring it at all, then tucked it away regardless. Even if he no longer needed his sketches and solutions, they might amuse the royal engineers—proof of a simple worker’s imaginings about castle life.

“Tomorrow,” he told himself firmly, “everything changes.”

As Bram packed his few belongings, Beatrice watched from outside his small hut, occasionally shifting her weight from one hoof to another. She was, by any normal standard, the most unimpressive cow in three counties—ancient, bony, with a coat that hung on her angular frame like washing on a line, patchy in some places and overgrown in others. Yet there was something strangely captivating about her. Her eyes, larger and more aware than any cow should have, followed movement with unsettling intelligence. The other animals gave her a wide berth, as if recognizing something not quite natural in their midst. When she moved, it was with deliberate grace that didn’t match her skeletal appearance, each step placed as if she were following invisible instructions. The only time she appeared truly cow-like was when she chewed—a constant, meditative grinding that somehow suggested she was thinking about matters far beyond mere cud.

“I know, I know,” Bram said as if she’d spoken. “I’m nervous too. But it’s the royal castle, Bea! Maybe they’ll have actual architects and engineers there. People who understand how buildings work.”

Beatrice made a sound halfway between a snort and a moo.

“Ruuuusse,” it seemed to say.

“Don’t be so negative,” Bram replied, carefully wrapping his journal in his spare shirt. “Sir Hobb wouldn’t send us if it wasn’t important.”

Beatrice’s tail swished once, definitively.

“I know you don’t like him, but he is our lord,” Bram sighed. “Besides, anything’s better than cleaning stables for the rest of our lives, right?”

Beatrice turned her head slowly to stare at him, then made a different sound—longer, almost musical.

“Moooovinng.”

Bram paused, then laughed. “Was that... did you just make a pun? ‘Moving’? You’re getting better at this.”

Beatrice blinked calmly, chewing on nothing.

“You know, people think I’m strange for talking to you like you understand,” Bram said, resuming his packing. “But I swear sometimes you’re the only one around here who makes any sense.”

Outside, unseen by either of them, the Archivist stood in the shadows, observing. His quill moved rapidly across the page of his ledger:

“Subject shows classic signs of Pattern Recognition Syndrome—unaware of connection to Royal Architectural Problems. Believes self to be solving imaginary problems. Cow appears to be supporting this belief while somehow communicating through cow-like sounds. Most fascinating.

Addition: Subject packed journal reluctantly—believes royal experts will make his solutions unnecessary. Tragically optimistic. Considering the current Royal Master Builder thinks support walls are just a theory, subject may experience severe shock upon arrival.

Second Addition: Cow appears to be watching me write these notes. Unsettling. Will request additional forms B-17 through C-28 for possible first recorded case of Cow Clairvoyance.”

Dawn had barely broken when Bram stood at the edge of Sir Hobb’s property, a small pack containing his possessions slung over his shoulder. Beatrice stood beside him, chewing methodically on nothing, her ancient eyes fixed on the road ahead.

The Archivist appeared, seemingly from nowhere, adjusting his glasses as he approached.

“Ah, young Bram,” he said pleasantly. “Setting off for the castle, I see.”

Bram nodded, surprised. “Yes, sir. Sir Hobb is sending me with Beatrice.”

“What a fortunate coincidence. I myself am journeying to the royal archives today. Perhaps we might travel together for safety. The roads can be dangerous for a lone traveler.”

Bram broke into a relieved smile. “That would be wonderful, sir! I’ve never been farther than the village market.”

As they set off, the Archivist glanced sidelong at the journal visible in Bram’s pack. “I couldn’t help but notice your book. You enjoy documenting things as well?”

Bram’s hand moved protectively toward his pack. “Just... ideas, sir. Nothing important.”

“And what sort of ideas would a worker need to document so carefully?” the Archivist inquired, his voice neutral.

Bram hesitated. “I have these dreams. About a castle.”

“Dreams of castles? How curious. And what happens in these dreams?”

“Nothing happens, exactly. It’s more like... I see problems. Structural problems, design flaws. Things that don’t work properly.”

“And why would such dreams trouble a worker from Sir Hobb’s estate? What connection could you possibly have to castle architecture?”

“None!” Bram said quickly. “That’s why it’s so strange. I’ve never even seen a real castle before.”

“Hmm,” the Archivist made a note. “And these dreams—do they frighten you?”

Bram considered this. “Not exactly. They’re frustrating more than frightening. Like seeing something broken that could be fixed, if only someone would listen.”

“Interesting,” the Archivist murmured. “Most interesting indeed.”

They walked in silence for a while, Beatrice plodding steadily behind them.

“You know,” the Archivist said eventually, “dreams can sometimes be more than just the mind’s wanderings. They can be messages, warnings... even visions of things that exist in places we’ve never been.”

Bram glanced at him uneasily. “That sounds like magic. And magic is for kings and wizards, not for ordinary people like me.”

“Is it?” The Archivist smiled faintly. “Or perhaps magic simply finds those who are open to it, regardless of their station.”

Bram had no answer for that, and they continued their journey in thoughtful silence.

Three days later, as they reached the top of the final hill, the royal castle came into view. Spread across the valley below, it was both magnificent and chaotic—a sprawling complex of towers, walls, and courtyards that seemed to have been built by different architects who had never spoken to each other. Some sections gleamed with fresh stone and bright banners, while others sagged with obvious neglect. Even from this distance, Bram could see the northwest tower leaning slightly to one side.

He stopped dead in his tracks, a strange sense of familiarity washing over him.

“Is this your first time seeing the royal residence?” the Archivist inquired. “What are your impressions?”

“It’s... not what I expected,” Bram admitted, studying the haphazard collection of structures. Something about the castle nagged at him, like a half-remembered dream, but he pushed the feeling aside. “I thought it would be more...”

“Logical?” the Archivist suggested. “Structurally sound? Not actively defying several principles of basic engineering?”

“Impressive,” Bram finished lamely, though the Archivist’s assessment wasn’t wrong. “It’s just... different from what I imagined.”

Before the Archivist could respond, activity in the valley below caught their attention. From the castle gates, a procession of guards in formal attire was emerging, carrying banners and ceremonial weapons. They formed two lines, creating a path from the gates toward the main road.

At the same time, from the opposite direction, a magnificent entourage approached the castle—an ornate carriage flanked by mounted guards in exotic armor, followed by wagons laden with trunks and mysterious covered objects. The banners that fluttered above them featured unfamiliar designs in deep blues and golds, shimmering in the morning sun.

“What’s happening?” Bram asked, momentarily distracted from his architectural observations.

“If I were to guess,” the Archivist replied, adjusting his spectacles, “I would say we are witnessing the arrival of an honored guest. Someone from very far away.” His tone suggested this was precisely the event he had expected to find.

“Royalty?” Bram asked, watching the elaborate procession with wide eyes.

“Perhaps,” the Archivist murmured. “How extraordinarily convenient that we should arrive at the same time as such an... anticipated visitor.”

Beatrice, who had been quietly plodding behind them, suddenly raised her head. She fixed her gaze on the distant procession and let out a sound unlike any Bram had heard before—low and resonant, almost musical in its clarity.

“Bloooom,” said Beatrice.

The Archivist’s quill froze mid-stroke. His eyes darted between the cow and the distant procession, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his usually composed features.

“Most interesting,” he murmured. “It seems your cow recognizes something about our new arrival. Or perhaps... someone.”

“We should probably go around,” Bram suggested, eyeing the pageantry below. “We’d only be in the way of something so important.”

“Nonsense,” the Archivist countered. “This is precisely the right moment to arrive. In fact, I insist we proceed directly down this path, which will intersect with both processions at exactly the most dramatic possible moment.”

“But—” Bram began, but the Archivist was already striding downhill with surprising speed for a man of his apparent age.

Bram hurried after him, Beatrice following at her own deliberate pace. As they descended, the castle loomed larger, and that strange sense of familiarity grew stronger. There was something about the northwest tower with its crooked weathervane, the oddly positioned windows on the eastern wall, the inexplicable second gatehouse that connected to nothing...

By the time they reached the valley floor, the royal welcoming party and the foreign entourage were converging just ahead. Guards in castle livery looked confused as the Archivist approached, seemingly intent on inserting himself directly into the proceedings. Bram tried to hang back, but found himself inexorably drawn forward by a combination of the Archivist’s insistence and Beatrice’s surprising determination to keep moving.

The foreign carriage stopped, and the door opened to reveal a young woman dressed in elaborate silks that shimmered like captured starlight. Her face was partially veiled, but her dark eyes were visible—intelligent, cautious, and currently widening in surprise as she registered the strange trio approaching: a skeletal old man in official robes, a disheveled worker, and the most decrepit cow in the kingdom.

The castle guards moved to intercept them, but the Archivist produced a small silver token from his robes that caused them to hesitate. In that moment of confusion, Beatrice suddenly lurched forward, breaking away from Bram and moving with startling purpose directly toward the foreign princess.

“Beatrice, no!” Bram lunged after her, but it was too late.

The ancient cow stopped directly in front of the princess’s carriage, fixed her with those unnervingly intelligent eyes, and let out a sound that seemed to echo across the valley.

“Dooooom,” said Beatrice, with perfect clarity.

The princess’s guards reached for their weapons. The castle guards looked to each other in confusion. The Archivist’s quill scratched furiously across his ledger. And the princess herself... laughed.

It was a sound like silver bells, unexpected and genuine. She stepped forward, ignoring her guards’ protests, and reached out a gloved hand toward Beatrice.

“What an unusual welcome,” she said in lightly accented tones. “I am Princess Zahra of House Naqavi. And who might you be?” Her gaze encompassed all three of them, but lingered curiously on Bram.

“Your servant, Your Highness,” Bram said quickly, dropping his gaze and bowing deeply. “Bram of Sir Hobb’s estate, sent to tend the cow by my lord’s command.”

“A humble cowherd with a journal of architectural solutions,” the Archivist added helpfully. “And possibly the most politically opinionated bovine in the kingdom.”

The Diviner’s face darkened. “A cow? Here? Interrupting a sacred diplomatic moment?” He looked genuinely offended, as if the very concept of livestock existing in his vicinity was a personal affront. “Remove this... creature immediately.”

“The animal is part of Sir Hobb’s tribute to the crown,” the Archivist interjected smoothly. “A matter of administrative record, I assure you. The boy is its keeper.”

A new commotion erupted at the castle gates. A harried messenger was racing toward them, scroll in hand.

“Your Excellency!” he called to the Diviner. “Urgent news from the King!”

The messenger skidded to a halt, taking in the scene before him with wide eyes. “Oh! The eastern flower has already bloomed! That was... unexpected.”

“Indeed,” the Diviner said stiffly. “What does His Majesty require?”

The messenger hesitated, glancing at the assembled crowd. “He says the preparations for the ceremony of celestial alignment must begin immediately. The eastern star has arrived ahead of schedule, and he fears the astrological window may close if we delay.” The messenger lowered his voice. “He’s also quite agitated about some ducal livestock matter but says it can wait since the prophecy takes precedence.”

The Diviner closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience. “Tell His Majesty that cosmic alignments are progressing as foretold, and that I shall attend him shortly.”

While they argued, Princess Zahra stepped closer to Beatrice, who allowed her approach. The princess studied the ancient cow with genuine curiosity, not the fake interest of nobility observing commoners’ concerns. There was something respectful in her assessment.

“They don’t understand what they’re looking at, do they?” she murmured, ostensibly to Bram but her eyes remained on Beatrice.

Beatrice’s ears twitched, and she made a soft sound deep in her throat.

“Bliiiiind,” she seemed to say.

The princess’s eyes widened slightly, but she showed no other reaction. Instead, she reached out with a gloved hand, hovering it near Beatrice’s flank without quite touching.

“Your cow has traveled far,” she said to Bram, her voice carrying a hint of something beyond the obvious meaning.

“Not as far as you, Your Highness,” Bram replied, then immediately flushed at his boldness.

But rather than taking offense, Princess Zahra’s eyes crinkled with what appeared to be genuine amusement. “Distance is relative,” she said. “Sometimes the journey from expectation to reality is the longest of all.”

Beatrice shifted, angling her body so that she stood slightly between the princess and the Diviner, who was still arguing with the Archivist. The movement seemed casual, almost accidental, but created a small private space for the three of them amid the chaos.

“She does that,” Bram explained softly. “Creates... sanctuaries, I suppose you’d call them.”

“A valuable skill,” the princess replied, her tone suggesting she understood far more than his simple explanation. She studied him with unexpected intensity. “And what do you create, Bram of Sir Hobb’s estate?”

The question caught him off-guard. No one had ever asked him that before. “I... fix things,” he said finally. “Or try to.”

“Ah,” the princess nodded, as if he’d confirmed something important. “So do I.”

Their eyes met briefly, and Bram felt a strange jolt of recognition, though he was certain he’d never seen her before. There was something in her gaze—a particular kind of awareness, a way of seeing that matched his own.

Beatrice made another sound, softer this time.

“Soooooon,” she seemed to say.

And with that single word, the air between the three of them shifted, charged with possibility and something that felt strangely like relief—as if pieces long separated had finally moved into proximity.

The Diviner’s voice cut through their moment of connection. “Your Highness, we must proceed to the castle immediately. The King awaits, and these... administrative matters can be dealt with later.”

Princess Zahra straightened, her manner shifting subtly from the curious woman of moments ago to something more formal, more guarded. “Of course,” she said, though her eyes flicked once more to Bram. “Though I would request that this young man and his remarkable cow be given suitable accommodations. They have provided me with the most honest welcome I’ve received since crossing your borders.”

The Diviner looked as if he might object, but the Archivist stepped forward. “I shall personally see to their processing, Your Excellency. The administrative protocols must be observed, naturally.”

“Fine,” the Diviner snapped. “Just keep that beast away from the royal quarters.” He turned to the princess with a practiced smile. “Your Highness, if you’ll follow me?”

As the princess moved to join the formal procession, she paused beside Bram one last time. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again,” she said quietly. “Perhaps when fewer people are watching.”

Then she was gone, swept up in the ceremony of her arrival, leaving Bram, Beatrice, and the Archivist standing in the churned mud of the castle approach.

“Well,” the Archivist said, his quill finally still. “That was most illuminating.”

“What just happened?” Bram asked, still staring after the princess.

“I believe,” the Archivist replied, his tone suggesting he was choosing his words with unusual care, “that we have just witnessed the beginning of something rather... significant.”

Beatrice made a soft sound of agreement.

“Come,” the Archivist continued, gesturing toward a side entrance to the castle. “Let me introduce you to your new home. I think you’ll find it both exactly and nothing like what you expected.”

As they approached the castle walls, Bram couldn’t shake the feeling that the massive structure was somehow watching him—recognizing him—just as he had recognized it. And for the first time in his life, he wondered if his dreams might not be dreams at all, but memories of a place he’d never been.

Or perhaps, warnings of what was yet to come.