After meeting with his mother, he explored the manor
The manor stood tall over the valley, its thick walls gazing down on the town like a watchful guardian.From Jackson's window, he could just make out the distant rooftops and the faint glint of the river threading through the fields beyond.
It wasn't enough.He needed to see it up close.
After the midday meal, Jackson found his mother — Lady Elaina Rockfield — seated in the solar, busy with embroidery.She looked up, her face softening when she saw him.
"Feeling restless, are we?" she said with a small smile.
Jackson hesitated, then bowed slightly, the movement still unfamiliar in his small body.
"I would like to visit the chapel in town, Mother," he said carefully."I thought... after my illness, it would be proper to offer thanks to the Twin Gods."
Lady Elara paused, the needle stilled in her hands.Her warm brown eyes studied him thoughtfully.
"A good thought," she said at last, voice quiet."But you're still recovering. You won't walk all that way."
She turned to a nearby maid — a young woman with neatly braided hair and a calm demeanor.
"Greta," Lady Elara said, "prepare the small carriage. You will escort young master Jackson to the chapel. See that he is well wrapped. The autumn air bites harder these days."
"Yes, my Lady," Greta curtsied and hurried off.
Lady Elara laid her hand briefly on Jackson's head, brushing aside a stray lock of hair.
"Be respectful," she murmured. "And observe carefully. This land... it will be yours to love one day."
Her words weighed more heavily than her touch.
Minutes later, Jackson was led down to the courtyard where a wheeled carriage waited, pulled by a stocky brown mare.A thick woolen cloak was draped over the seat for him.
He climbed aboard carefully, but the moment the wheels creaked into motion, he understood why Lady Elara had warned him.
The road was rough — more packed earth than true paving — and every bump sent a jolt up his spine.The carriage rattled, the old wood groaning beneath him.
Jackson clenched the side of the seat, trying not to scowl.
Greta sat quietly beside him, hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes watching the road ahead.
As they left the manor grounds and descended toward the town, the landscape began to change.
Fields gave way to clustered cottages.Smoke rose from chimneys.Children chased dogs through the muddy streets.Men hammered at forges or loaded carts with bundles of hay.
Life bustled here, chaotic and full.
Jackson watched with hungry eyes.
He saw merchants barking out prices at the market square.He saw ragged figures — refugees, perhaps — huddled near an old well, their faces gaunt with weariness.He saw the heavy burden on the people's shoulders, the quiet endurance woven into every step, every word.
This wasn't the clean, orderly nobility he was used to seeing from the manor.
This was the beating heart of Rockfield Valley.
The carriage wound through the narrow streets, past a crumbling stone fountain and rows of timbered houses leaning slightly against one another.
At last, they came to a small rise where the chapel stood, its simple stone frame catching the late afternoon sun.
Greta pulled the reins, bringing the mare to a halt.
"We've arrived, young master," she said softly.
Jackson climbed down, wrapping the cloak tighter around himself against the cool breeze.
The chapel doors loomed ahead, carved with the familiar symbol of the Twin Gods.