Chapter 4: The Weaver of Petals
322 A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, Middle Kingdom
That night, the moon—Armaril—shone with a dual nature, casting a light that was at once an affectionate caress and a merciless glare upon the billions below. Its glow touched the high-walled citadels of kings and the flea-ridden blankets of road-weary travelers. It reached into the volcanoes where fire-dwellers danced, the deep trenches of the sea, and the delicate, swaying buds of the northern meadows.
But for Ash, the light was simply the signal of a new day in the Middle Kingdom.
Under the wise, vast rule of King Garangan and Queen Alessia, the land stretched from the shimmering Rose Sea to the ancient, whispering Forests of Armund. Yet here, at the jagged roots of the Mazurman Mountains, the world belonged to the flowers. Hills of roses rolled into rivers of tulips, a colorful ocean so vibrant that passing birds often faltered in flight, dazed by the sheer intoxication of the scent.
In the heart of this floral sea sat a structure that struggled to be called a house. It was a cabin of convenience, small and unassuming. Inside, Ash—now twenty-three, with a face softened by youth but a frame hardened by labor—sat up and reached for a small box on his bedside table.
Inside the box lay a pair of colored lenses. He looked at the brown—the color of rich earth and fertilizer—and then at the blue.
"Azure today," he murmured, sliding the blue lenses into place. He preferred to view the world through the color of a summer sea.
He dressed in the uniform of a wanderer: patched trousers, a canvas shirt tied with ribbons, and sandals woven from hemp. Finally, he grasped the wooden staff leaning against the wall. To a passing eye, it was mundane wood; to the air of the room, it was a conductor's baton.
"Breakfast," Ash yawned, thumping the staff against the floorboards.
The cabin erupted into a symphony of domestic magic. The air rippled, and the logs in the stove roared to life without a match. Drawers slid open like eager tongues; a knife leaped onto a chopping block and began a rhythmic dance through a head of lettuce. Water hissed in a kettle fashioned from an old soldier's helmet, and tea leaves took flight, diving into a waiting mug. Golden butter spread itself across fragrant bread as if moved by an invisible hand.
Ash sat on a stool that scurried across the floor to meet him. As he ate, a black scarf—a relic of a different life—flew from a drawer and wound itself around his ashen hair. He spent the meal wagging a finger at a confused frying pan that had once again overcooked his eggs.
He needed coin. Roots and berries were the diet of a hermit, not a man who enjoyed the occasional luxury of a village market.
With a second strike of his staff, the dishes leaped into a water barrel, scrubbed themselves dry, and tucked themselves away. As he stepped out, the door creaked a polite "Good day," and behind him, the cabin wavered like a heat mirage before vanishing entirely. The illusion wasn't perfect, but in this remote valley, the only neighbors were dwarves too busy with ore to notice, or the occasional dark-skinned drow.
"Ash!" a tiny, needle-sharp voice squeaked near his heel.
Ash looked down. Maverie, a flower princess no larger than a teaspoon, stood atop a buttercup. She was dressed in petals so fine they were worth a kingdom's ransom to an alchemist, though to Ash, she was simply a persistent friend.
"Did I wake you?" Ash squatted, extending a finger.
"You wake everyone with that stomping!" she huffed, fluttering up to perch on his knuckle.
"My apologies. I forget you fairies sleep until the sun hits high noon."
"Where are you going? Take me!"
Ash smiled, a practiced routine. "To the village. And no. You'd get lost in my satchel, and then some prince would see you, fall in love, and try to turn you human. Your mother, the Queen, would be so offended she'd turn me into a sheep and feed me to the wolves."
Maverie pouted, kicking a tulip bud in frustration. The flower snapped open, revealing a shimmering fabric bag. "Fine! But Oberon said to give you this. Just in case."
She vanished into the petals before he could thank her. Ash opened the bag and whistled. Seven grains of fairy pollen. It wasn't just dust; it was the purest catalyst for a meditative trance, capable of restoring a master wizard's strength in an instant.
He tucked the treasure into a small, nondescript satchel at his belt—a bag that half the world's thieves would trade their souls to glimpse inside. With a whispered Word, he made his heavy basket of herbs as light as a handful of down and threw a gray, patched cloak over his shoulders.
"Almost forgot you... again," he muttered to the cloak.
He set off toward the distant road. It would be a five-day trek through the wilderness before he even reached the main thoroughfare. He lived in the middle of nowhere to protect the flowers, and the fairies who tended them, from the heavy boots of the world.
Ash expected a quiet trip to a quiet village. He did not know that across the horizon, a door was swinging open at a mysterious tavern named D.H.
He would not be returning to his field of flowers for a very, very long time.