The porch floorboards creaked under the scuff of frayed hemp slippers.
Kaelen stepped out of the wooden cottage, clutching a chipped ceramic teacup in his left hand and a crooked wooden hoe in his right. He was wearing an oversized gray bathrobe that had seen better days, and his black silk blindfold was tilted slightly askew.
He leaned against the peeled cedar post, took a slow sip of hot mint water, and let out a long, luxurious yawn.
The morning air smelled of wet pine bark and thawed earth.
Then, his ears caught the faint rustle of stiff wool.
At the edge of the turnip patch, three figures stood in the pale morning light. The central traveler wore an ash-gray traveling cloak that swept down to the wet gravel. Behind her loomed two broad-shouldered bodyguards in scarred leather armor, their heavy hands resting on the pommels of iron broadswords.
Every time I try to inspect a single turnip, strangers appear in my garden, Kaelen thought, blowing gently across the surface of his tea. People in this duchy have no respect for agricultural solitude.
The two guards tensed immediately.
