Thalen froze, the corners of his mouth twitching as if unsure whether to scowl or smile.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple despite the morning breeze.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, with a forced chuckle, he straightened his coat and tilted his chin slightly.
"I don't answer to small-town messengers," he said with mock calm. "I act under the authority of the Lord Chamberlain himself. I'm... his personal emissary."
Riku blinked, visibly surprised — or at least feigning it perfectly.
"Really now? That's quite the coincidence."
He stepped forward, not with aggression, but with that same unsettling calm.
"I remember reading a judgment authored by the Lord Chamberlain during my scribe years. A noble's son shoved a baker's apprentice in the capital's southern market — just a push, nothing fatal. And yet the Chamberlain had him publicly imprisoned for three days. Do you know why?"
Thalen didn't respond.
Riku continued, his voice quiet but cutting.
"Because no man, no matter how noble, has the right to use power against the common folk for personal gain. That's what he wrote. 'Power is not permission.' Those were his exact words."
Thalen took a small step back.
"And now," Riku said, gesturing to the crates, "you arrive without seal, without signature, with guards instead of papers, demanding tribute under false code. I'm sure the Chamberlain would be pleased to know you invoke his name to commit the very injustice he despises. I wonder what he will do next."
Thalen fell to the ground in terror. Behind him, the silence was suffocating now.
Even the people Thalen brought with him looked unsure.
Finally, Sister Lysaria stepped forward, calm and composed.
"Even if the seal is missing," she said softly, "the heart of this remains. Riku… you have more than enough. Villages in the south haven't seen water in weeks. People are dying. Must your village hoard while others starve?"
Riku didn't raise his voice.
"I have no objection to helping the starving. I believe anyone who is hungry should be fed, anyone in need sheltered. But the food here was grown by these hands—" he gestured to the villagers around them "—under hardship and hope. Not one stalk was provided by the Church or the capital."
He turned slightly.
"So I propose something different."
The villagers leaned in.
"Let any starving soul come to Elowen. Let them walk through our gates and share our table. We will not deny them. But we will not let you take what was grown for the sake of gold or scrolls."
The silence was heavy.
And then, Thalen snapped.
"So that's your game," he hissed. "You plan to turn this backwater into your own kingdom. Playing god with food, hiding behind fake miracles, naming girls divine!"
He turned, pointing a finger at Riku.
"You think this will stand? You've mocked the church, undermined the crown, and declared open rebellion. You'll choke on this peace you cling to."
With a sharp gesture, he stormed back toward his cart.
"Enjoy your fields while they last. Next time, we come with soldiers."
The carts rumbled in the background as Thalen's men began to turn around, but she stood still in the middle of the square, watching Riku.
"You understand," Lysaria said quietly, "that he's not bluffing."
Riku nodded. "I do."
"Then why do this?"
Riku looked at her — not with defiance, but with calm certainty.
"Because you once said this was divine blessing," he replied. "If you truly believe that, then stay. Watch. Eat what we eat. Work with us. And if you still believe we've erred, I'll listen."
Lysaria didn't reply at once.
She looked around — at the villagers, now relaxed but still wary. At the fields that flourished despite the drought. At Lila, who stood by with quiet strength.
"I still think that the divine light was the one who has gifted you with abundance. You should not be greedy and share it for the greater good. But I will take you up on your offer, and stay here for a few days. I want to see for myself the things that you have mentioned."
"Miss Lysaria, you are more than welcome to stay here." Barou said, coming forward. "Only, I fear that this place might be too simple for someone of your status."
"No worries, village chief. Don't burden yourself for me. I only request you that we build a small church of light here, and I am sure that the light of the divine grace will soon shine even more brightly upon this land."
"This..." Barou hesitated, glancing at the other elders. "We've never had a church before."
A few villagers nodded behind him. Some still looked unsure — not of Lysaria herself, but of change.
Riku, as always, broke the silence with a smile.
"If Lady Lysaria wishes to observe, then she should be welcomed. And if she wants to raise a church, I see no reason to object."
Barou looked to him. "Are you sure?"
Riku gave a gentle shrug. "A little more light never hurt anyone."
Barou sighed with quiet relief, then turned to one of the younger boys. "Go on, clean up the spare room at the inn. Make it tidy."
The boy scurried off, and the villagers dispersed, murmuring amongst themselves. Some with curiosity, some with hesitation, but none with defiance.
Later that evening, Lysaria knocked on Riku's door.
He opened it mid-sketch, charcoal smudged on his fingers, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows.
"Come in," he said, gesturing with his head, eyes still flicking between parchment and a floating illusion hovering above his desk.
The room was bathed in soft, white light — not from torches or lanterns, but from a small, gently humming bulb suspended near the ceiling, casting a clean, steady glow that wrapped the room in warmth.
Lysaria stepped inside, and stopped cold.
Her breath caught.
"This... this is…"
Riku looked up, noting her wide eyes.
"Oh, that?" He pointed casually at the bulb. "That's just a basic filament bulb. I've rigged it up to a mana-fed rotary circuit connected to the turbine outside. Purely utilitarian."
Lysaria's voice trembled slightly. "It doesn't flicker. There's no smoke. No flame. And yet—"
She stepped closer, eyes wide with wonder.
"It shines… evenly. Without effort. Like... like the Sun distilled into a tear."
She turned to Riku, hands folded reverently. "These are holy artifacts, aren't they? Relics of the divine?"
Riku chuckled. "Not exactly. Just a few good ideas, stitched together."
She shook her head, almost whispering. "You speak of miracles like a craftsman… but everything here speaks of grace."
Riku paused, then smiled gently.
"If it brings you peace to call it divine, I won't argue. But I can make you one, if you'd like."
Lysaria looked up, startled. "You would give me one of these?"
"Of course," he said simply. "What good is light if you keep it to yourself?"
She stared at him for a long moment — uncertain whether to laugh, bow, or pray.