The wooden cart creaked and groaned with each bump in the road, making it impossible for Kain Asheld to get comfortable at all while sitting on top of the piles of grain sacks.

His own weathered pack, one that contained everything he owned in the world, served as a makeshift cushion in the meantime. Though not much of one. Each time the wooden cart bumps something, Kain's ribs would set off short bursts of pain.

Mark's flask needed a refill once he found the proper whiskey, and if not, he'd have to find somewhere safe to keep it once he reached the farm.

"Won't be much longer now," called the merchant driving the cart, a ruddy-faced man named Tomas who'd offered Kain a ride when he'd found him walking the trade road.

The merchant had been kind enough not to comment on Kain's reddened eyes or the silver company pin on his collar. "Tillwind's just over the next rise. You'll see the granary first, allest building we got."

Kain merely grunted in response, his eyes fixed on the horizon. After three weeks of travel from the memorial stone, he was nearly there. Nearly to his new home, though the word felt strange even in thinking it.

New home.

Fifteen years of mercenary work hadn't left much room for concepts like 'home.' The Silver Hands had been home enough, but now...

The cart hit another bump, and Kain suppressed a wince. The healer had done what she could for his ribs, but some wounds took time. Time he now had in abundance, whether he wanted it or not.

"There she is!" Tomas called out, pointing with his whip toward a stone tower rising above the trees. "That's our granary. Built it thirty years back, when my father was guild master. Best grain storage this side of the river, if you ask me."

Kain leaned forward, taking in his first real view of Tillwind since that brief stop with his company so many months ago. The village wasn't large, but it looked like the people were getting on well enough.

Besides the granary, he could make out the smoke from several chimneys, the peak of what might be a temple roof, and clusters of buildings that suggested they had a proper market. Fields stretched out in all directions, some already showy leafy greens from early spring planting.

Sarah would have liked the wild areas beyond the fields, he thought. Good hunting there, from the look of it. And Mark... well, Mark would have been have already arrived a weeks ago if he'd been in my shoes.

"Your farm's out past the mill," Tomas continued, apparently unbothered by Kain's silence. "Bit overgrown now, but good land. Old Madder knew what he was doing when he first cleared it. Shame about his sons, both took off for the city as soon as they were old enough. Land's been sitting empty near three seasons now."

The cart rounded a bend in the road, and Kain caught his first glimpse of the mill and its turning water wheel. A few workers were unloading sacks of grain from another cart, while children played nearby in the stream that powered the wheel. The scene was so peaceful it almost hurt to look at.

"Got the deed right here," Kain said, patting the oilskin packet tucked into his jacket. It had cost him nearly everything, but the land was his. Ten acres of possibility—or folly, depending on how things worked out.

I can almost hear Darien laughing at the idea of me trying to grow anything more complicated than trail rations, he thought wryly.

Tomas nodded approvingly. "Good man. Guild'll want to see that, get you registered proper-like. Might not look it, but we run things orderly here in Tillwind. Everyone does their part, everything works smooth."

The cart rolled into the village proper now, passing neat houses with small kitchen gardens. A few people looked up from their work to wave at Tomas, their curious gazes lingering on Kain.

He knew what they saw, a stranger, weather-worn and hard-used, with a mercenary's scars and a soldier's posture. He'd have to work on that if he wanted to fit in here.

"That there's the The Copper Kettle," Tomas said, pointing to a two-story building with a painted sign that showed an overflowing stein embossed on an open door. "Best ale in three provinces, if you believe Sorrel. She owns it, runs it too. Might want to stop in, get to know folks."

Kain didn't say much, but he had to admit the thought of a proper drink held some appeal after weeks on the road.

The cart turned onto a smaller track, leaving the village behind. The ruts were deeper here, the way less maintained.

They passed several well-tended farms before Tomas pulled his horses to a stop where two weathered posts marked what had once been a gate.

Kain was thankful for the ride, he wasn't sure he'd have ever spotted the gate through the overgrowth.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"This'd be you then," the merchant said. "Seneca Farm, though folks round here still call it Madder's Place. Might want to see about fixing that gate first thing."

Kain climbed down from the cart, slinging his pack over his shoulder. The movement sent fresh pain through his ribs, but he ignored it. Pain was an old companion by now.

"What do I owe you for the ride?" he asked, reaching for his coin.

Tomas waved him off. "Keep your coin. It's the neighborly thing to do, and you'll be buying my grain soon enough, least I can do is give you a lift. Especially when I was heading the same way. Place can get too set in its ways sometimes, if you take my meaning."

"Thank you," Kain said, meaning it. "For the ride and the talk."

"Welcome to Tillwind," Tomas replied with a grin. "Oh, and word of advice? That box there by the gate posts, that's for your produce. Guild sends someone round every morning to collect. Pays fair prices too, though you can always try your luck at market if you prefer."

Kain looked where the merchant pointed. Half-hidden in the tall grass was a large box with a hinged lid, sturdy-looking despite its age.

A metal plate on the front displayed a series of numbers and markings he didn't yet understand.

"How does it work?" he asked.

"Simple enough. Put your goods in before sunset, close the lid. Come morning, produce is gone, payment's left in the payment box there below. Quality matters though, guild's got standards. You'll learn them quick enough."

"They just... leave the money?" Kain asked, mercenary instincts kicking.

It seemed... wrong.

Tomas laughed, a deep belly laugh. "You really must be from one of those cities. Trust system is all. Been working that way longer than I've been alive."

He clicked his tongue at his horses. "Best of luck to you, Kain Asheld. Hope you find what you're looking for here."

The cart rolled away, leaving Kain alone with his new property. He stood for a moment, taking it all in, still trying to wrap his head around the idea of coin being left in unlocked boxes. Fifteen years of mercenary work had taught him that anything not guarded was already stolen.

"That'll take some getting used to," He muttered as he started down the road.

The road led to what had once been a proper farmhouse, though the roof would need work. A barn stood off to one side, its door hanging crooked on its hinges. Fields stretched out beyond, overgrown but not beyond saving.

Ten acres. His now, for better or worse.

With a grunt, he shouldered his pack and started up the overgrown road. The grass was tall enough in places to come up to his hips and beyond and he could see signs of rabbits, something to deal with once he had crops in the ground.

There was a rustle and movement of gears, Kain turned around and saw somebody standing by the guard drop box.

A boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, with a cart of his own. Their eyes met, and the boy raised a hand in greeting.

"You must be the new owner," the boy called out. "I'm Oren. I do collections for the guild."

Kain changed course, heading toward the box instead of the house. Might as well start making connections now. "Kain Asheld," he replied. "Though I won't have anything for collection for a while yet."

Oren grinned. "That's what they all say. But you'd be surprised how quick things can grow with the right care. Soil's good here, old Madder knew his business, whatever else you might hear about him."

The boy was thin but sturdy with callused hands that one could only get from doing real work and his cart was well-maintained, its wheels recently greased.

"Any advice for someone just starting out?" Kain asked.

"Guild hall's got seeds if you need them. Good ones too, not the cheap stuff from traveling merchants. And Sorrel at the Copper Kettle always needs vegetables for her kitchen, she pays extra if the quality is good and their fresh."

Oren looked him up and down. "You done any farming before?"

"No," Kain admitted. "But I'm willing to learn."

"Well, that's something at least. Still probably gonna have a hard time of things. Most folks who try starting give up by harvest, when the reality that its hard work sets in. But you don't look like most folks." The boy's eyes lingered on the sword hilt visible over Kain's shoulder. "Soldier?"

"Mercenary," Kain said shortly. "Silver Hands Company."

The words still were hard to say, but they were getting easier to say. Maybe someday they'd just be words again, not wounds.

Oren whistled. "Heard of them. Heard they were real dependable, why'd you want to quit."

"It was time to move on," Kain said. The boy seemed to take the hint.

"Fair enough. Well, I make rounds every morning, sunrise to about mid-morning depending on how much there is to collect. Payment's based on quality, one to five stars. You'll get the hang of it."

He pointed to the metal plate Kain had noticed earlier. "That there shows your farm's registration number, current quality rating, empty now of course, and any special orders outstanding."

Kain stepped closer to examine the plate. Now that he looked properly, he could see that parts of it seemed designed to change or rotate, displaying different information.

Mark would have loved figuring out how it worked.

"Special orders?" Kain followed up.

"Sometimes folks need specific things, baker needs pumpkins for festival pies, tavern needs extra tomatoes for soup, that sort of thing. Pay's better for those, but they're usually time-sensitive. Miss the deadline, you miss the bonus."

Oren climbed back onto his cart. "Better get on with my rounds. Welcome to town Newcomer. I hope the land's good to you." ."

Kain watched the boy drive off, in the cart. When he was gone, Kain walked over to the drop box to check it out.

It was solid work, with good weatherproofing and clever drainage to keep get relatively dry and cool. Someone had put real thought into these.

Finally, he started towards the farmhouse. To to see what he'd bought with his silver and blood and time.

The porch creaked ominously as he tested each step. Two were completely rotted through, and another splintered under his boot. The wooden railings had long warped and weren't able to support anything and one hung awkwardly like it was broken.

Kain tried to smile.

The basic structure looked sound enough, nothing a few boards and effort couldn't handle.

"Home sweet home," he muttered, reaching for the door. It protested with a screech and opened up into a room where dust floated freely.

The main room was large enough, with a stone fireplace that looked sound, a small mercy.

A kitchen space occupied one corner, its pump handle green with corrosion and sporting what looked suspiciously like bird droppings. Stairs led up to what he assumed was a sleeping loft, though he'd check the stability before trusting them with his weight.

The last thing he needed was to break his neck before he even got started.

It would need work. A lot of work.

Kain set his pack down and took a deep breath, ignoring the musty smell, feeling the flask in his pocket.

Some people chose where to retire. Some had it chosen for them. He wasn't sure which category he fell into anymore.