The Farming Emperor: I'll Raise My Empire from Fields

Chapter 12: The Offer Wrapped in Gold

The rooster had barely crowed twice when the dust-laden trail leading to the Hargrove family homestead stirred under the thundering hooves of a black gelding. Lord Eddric Ravelin, first heir to the Duchy of Farsend, dismounted with practiced ease, his riding coat still bearing the faint crest of the Duke's house—three flame-feathers over a coiled serpent.

Children playing in the goat pen froze mid-laughter.

The youngest daughter, Mira, barely five, clutched her ragdoll tighter and whispered, "Who's that man, Rynn?"

"Trouble," muttered Rynn, her elder sister by three years, standing tall with a stubborn chin and a clump of goat hair stuck in her braid.

Eddric walked to the worn wooden fence and removed his gloves with a sigh. "Is your father home?"

Rynn tilted her head. "Depends. Are you a tax man or a marriage suitor?"

The nobleman blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he chuckled. "Neither. Just a messenger. I'd like to speak with him. It's… important."

From the porch, Sylas, barely one year old, watched with a stillness that didn't suit his age. His gold-green eyes locked onto Eddric's with unnerving awareness, as if he already knew what the man would say.

Inside the home, Kaelen, the eldest son, opened the door. His shoulders were broad, his expression wary.

"State your purpose," Kaelen said, his hand still gripping the doorknob tightly. "We don't buy from riders."

Eddric nodded, measured. "I bring an offer. Not from the Crown. From my house. Your produce—your fruit—has done something that none of our healers could."

Kaelen narrowed his eyes, but slowly stepped aside. "Come in. But speak softly. The baby's sleeping."

The inside of the home was modest, but full of soul. Dried herbs hung from the rafters. A kettle simmered on the hearth. The sweet smell of cinnamon bread wafted from the oven, and faint laughter from Mira and Nima tinkled like wind chimes in the adjacent room. Little Mira was brushing the feathers of their rooster with a twig broom while softly humming a lullaby only the beastkin animals seemed to understand.

At the kitchen table sat Alric Hargrove, a sun-worn man with powerful arms and dust-stained boots. He looked up from sharpening a hoe.

"Name's Alric," he said without looking up. "You?"

"Lord Eddric Ravelin. Son of Duke Halveth."

That earned a raised brow. "A Duke's son in my home? Either I'm dreaming or the Empire's flipped upside down."

Eddric chuckled quietly. "Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've seen this week."

He reached into his satchel and pulled free a small velvet pouch. He loosened the drawstring and let its contents spill onto the table—a cascade of polished gold coins, thick and glinting under the lantern light.

"This is an offer," he said plainly. "Ten years' worth of wealth. Enough to buy better land in the low valleys. Better irrigation. Tools. A house thrice this size. It's yours… if you sell me this farm."

The room fell silent.

Even the kettle seemed to stop bubbling.

From the side room, Mira peeked out from behind the curtain, clutching a small clay chicken painted in childish colors.

Alric rose, slowly. "Sell… my land?"

"Yes," Eddric said carefully. "My father is dying. Wasting from within. No tonics worked. No priest's prayers helped. But one of your fruits—sent unknowingly by your daughter to the festival—healed him. Completely. My mother believes it's the soil. The land itself. She wants to secure it before the court catches wind. Before merchants descend. I came to you first… to speak peace. Not threats."

Alric turned to the window, gazing out over their fields.

The sun rolled golden over rows of cabbages, carrots, sweetroot, and grain. Each shimmered with life, as though kissed by something deeper than sunlight. The wind stirred the leaves, but it also carried a hum—faint, musical, like the land itself was breathing in harmony with them.

He pressed his hand to the window frame, and his voice came quiet, brittle.

"This land isn't for sale. It's my wife's laughter under the apricot tree. Kaelen's first steps by the stone well. Mira's songs among the hens. It's where Sylas was born during a rain so soft the fields sang. You could offer me the Imperial Treasury, and I'd still tell you this: No."

Eddric's jaw tightened. "Then understand what comes next. If you refuse—others won't come with a pouch of gold. They'll come with quills. Or soldiers. They'll buy your neighbors. Cut your roads. Strangle your sales. And once they find out what's hidden in your soil…"

He didn't need to finish the sentence.

Kaelen stepped beside his father, arms folded. "Then let them come. We'll outgrow them."

Alric's eyes never left the window. "If the gods gave us this gift, they'll help us keep it."

Eddric exhaled deeply, regret flickering behind his sharp eyes. "Then I've done what I could. I'll return with my report. But next time—my mother may send someone less inclined toward diplomacy."

He turned to leave. Mira tugged at her doll's dress as he passed, but said nothing.

Then, Sylas appeared in the doorway, arms outstretched for balance. In his tiny hand, he held a sprouted seed—a seed that glowed faintly, pulsing with golden-green light.

Eddric knelt, just for a moment, and met the boy's gaze.

"I hope this land protects you, little one," he whispered. "Because soon… the Empire will come knocking."

He left, mounting his gelding in silence. Behind him, the wind stirred again—carrying with it the scent of spring, the hush of old roots, and the gaze of something ancient watching through Sylas's eyes.

The Hargrove children returned to their chores.

Only Sylas stared after the disappearing rider, fist still curled around that glowing seed.

End of Chapter 12