Rem woke before sunrise.
He lay in the dark for a few minutes, listening to Aldric and Elara's slow breathing in the next room, the distant song of a bird whose name he still didn't know, and the vast silence that existed only in places without machines. Then he got up, put on the worn leather shoes Elara had repaired twice, and slipped out through the back door without making a sound.
The garden was quiet. The tomato plants rose from the darkness like little sentinels, heavy with fruit that gleamed beneath the faint starlight. Rem crouched among them and thought.
The problem wasn't the power. The problem was the packaging.
In his past life, Roberto had learned something from the jobs he'd held: it didn't matter what you knew how to do—it mattered how you presented it. A good résumé wasn't the one with the most content; it was the one that told the right story. A good interview wasn't the most honest one; it was the most convincing.
He needed a convincing story.
If he said he had the power to create things out of thin air, it would be over. They'd want to study him, use him, or worse. But if he claimed to have a minor ability—something useful but not extraordinary—he could hide the rest behind it.
He thought for a long time. The sky slowly brightened, changing from black to dark blue and then to that shade of gray that came before gold.
And then he had an idea.
Seeds. His official ability would be creating seeds.
Not just any seeds—quality seeds. Seeds that germinated faster, produced larger fruit, and adapted to the soil. An ability rare enough to be valuable, but common enough not to frighten anyone. In this world, where everyone had a power, someone who created good seeds was useful. He wasn't a threat.
And behind that mask, he could keep creating whatever he needed. Tools, materials, medicine—it could all be explained away in other ways. Bought from a traveler. Found in a ruin. Traded with someone. The seed mask would cover everything else.
Rem smiled in the darkness. It was Roberto's smile—calculated, satisfied, the smile of someone who had found the missing piece.
Now he needed someone to believe first.
That morning, Rem picked the best tomatoes from the garden—four of them, large and red as fists—and placed them in a wicker basket Elara used to carry laundry. Then he waited on the doorstep until Aldric left for work.
"Father."
Aldric stopped. He looked at his son, then at the basket, then back at his son.
"What's this?"
"Tomatoes. I want to take them to the Count."
The silence that followed had weight to it. Aldric looked at Rem with that expression that had been appearing more and more often lately—the expression of someone trying to fit the son he knew together with the son standing in front of him.
"Why?"
Rem had rehearsed this. "Because the tomatoes are good. And if the Count likes them, maybe he'll let us use more land to grow them. We could sell the surplus at the village market."
Aldric didn't answer right away. He stood there as the morning light drew long shadows across the packed-earth floor, and Rem saw the exact moment his father understood what he was proposing. This wasn't a child wanting to show off his tomatoes. It was a plan.
"Rem." Aldric's voice was careful. "You're eight years old."
"And the tomatoes are good."
"It's not about the tomatoes."
"It's always about the tomatoes, Father. When you don't have much, what little you do have needs to work for you."
Aldric remained silent for what seemed too long. Rem felt his heart beat faster—not from fear, but from the uncertainty of someone who knew he'd said more than an eight-year-old should.
But Aldric didn't ask where that line had come from. Instead, he took the basket from Rem's hand, looked at the tomatoes, and said:
"Come with me."
The walk to the Aldren Estate took twenty minutes along the dirt road. Rem had never been there—he'd been too weak during his first few days, and afterward he'd been too busy with the garden. Now, walking beside Aldric beneath the morning sun, he watched the territory spread out before him like a map.
The Aldren fields weren't large. Compared with what Rem imagined the territories of viscounts and dukes were like, they were modest—green pastures divided by wooden fences, a few grain fields, and a small orchard on the eastern side. But they were well maintained. The fences were straight, the paths clean, and the workers who passed Aldric greeted him with nods that seemed genuine rather than obligatory.
The main house stood atop the hill—up close, it was less imposing than it had looked from Rem's bedroom window. The towers were low and practical, the walls had more moss than stone in places, and the front door stood open, with a woman sweeping the entrance as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Aldric stopped in front of a side door and knocked three times.
A man opened it. He was older than Aldric, with graying hair and a leather apron that smelled of freshly cut wood. He looked at Aldric, then at Rem, then at the basket.
"The Count is in his office," he said, stepping aside.
The inside of the house was simple for a noble residence. Stone walls hung with faded tapestries, dark wooden furniture built more for function than beauty, and the constant smell of wax and fireplace smoke. Rem took in every detail as he followed Aldric down a narrow hallway to a half-open door.
Aldric knocked. A voice answered from inside—calm, with the kind of authority that didn't need to be loud.
"Come in."
Count Aldren's office was a small room with a large desk, shelves crammed with papers and books, and a window overlooking the fields. Behind the desk, seated in a chair that had seen better days, was a man of about forty. He had the same dark-brown hair as Edgar and the same broad shoulders, but lines of fatigue around his eyes spoke of sleepless nights and difficult decisions.
"Aldric." The Count looked at Rem curiously. "And is this your boy? The one who had the fever?"
"Yes, sir. Rem."
"I heard it was serious. I'm glad you've recovered." The Count looked at the basket. "And what do we have here?"
Aldric placed the basket on the desk. The Count picked up a tomato and examined it—turning it in his hand, giving it a light squeeze, and smelling it.
"Did this come from your land, Aldric?"
"From behind my house, sir. Rem planted them."
The Count looked at Rem. Not with the calculating gaze of the Viscount's employee—with something closer to genuine interest.
"You planted these, boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long did it take?"
Rem took a deep breath. This was it. The first time he'd wear the mask.
"About three weeks, sir. I think I have a knack for it." He paused, as if embarrassed. "I think it might be my ability. Making good seeds."
The Count raised his eyebrows. He looked at the tomato in his hand, then at Rem, then at Aldric.
"Seeds," he repeated.
"Yes, sir. I... can sense what they'll need to be. When I hold soil, I know what kind of seed would grow best there." Rem lowered his eyes, playing the part of a shy child who didn't know how to explain his own power properly. "I don't know how to explain it well."
The Count was silent for a moment. Then he carefully placed the tomato back in the basket and leaned back in his chair.
"Aldric, your son may have just solved half my problems."
Aldric blinked. "Sir?"
"Last month's drought destroyed a third of the grain harvest. Viscount Harlen wants the taxes on time, and I have no way to deliver what didn't grow." The Count looked at Rem with a respect not usually given to eight-year-olds. "If this boy can make seeds that grow like this, I want him working the Aldren land. Under supervision, of course. But I want him to."
Rem kept his face neutral, but inside, Roberto was smiling.
The first piece was in place.
"I can try, sir," Rem said, in the small, careful voice of someone who didn't want to promise too much.
The Count nodded. "Start tomorrow. Aldric, find a plot of land behind the eastern orchard. Nothing large—we'll see what the boy can do first."
Aldric looked at his son. Rem looked at his father. And in that look passed something that needed no words—a silent understanding between two people who knew something had changed, even if neither of them knew exactly what.
On the way out, as they walked down the hill with the empty basket, Aldric said nothing for a long time. Then, without looking at Rem, he said:
"You knew he was going to say that."
It wasn't a question.
Rem looked at the dirt road, the fields, and the wide sky of the world that was now his.
"I hoped," he replied.
Aldric made a low sound—something between a sigh and a laugh—and kept walking. But his hand found Rem's shoulder and stayed there, heavy and warm, for the rest of the walk home.