I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 55: The Orchard

The next morning dawned clear and bright. A perfect day for a war.

Abel was in a cheerful, if slightly confused, mood. Millie had found him after breakfast, tugging on his sleeve with urgent importance.

”Brother Abel! Special game day! At the orchard! With your soldier friends *and* us! At noon! You have to come!”

Abel had blinked down at her. ”All my friends? Together?”

”Yes! It’s a... a friendship festival!” Millie declared, having just invented the term.

Abel’s face had lit up. ”I like that. I’ll bring cookies.”

”No!” Millie said, then softened her tone. ”I mean... the soldiers are bringing cookies. As a surprise. So you don’t need to.”

”Oh.” Abel considered this. ”Can I bring my horse? The wooden one?”

”Absolutely,” Millie said gravely. ”A general should always have his steed.”

So now, as the sun climbed toward its zenith, Abel walked toward the south wall orchard, his favorite chipped-ear wooden horse tucked in the crook of his arm. He wore the comfortable clothes Orion had laid out for him. He felt a happy buzz of anticipation. All his friends, together. It sounded wonderful.

Orion walked beside him, having been filled in on the ”festival” by a breathless Toben earlier. He knew about the war declaration, of course—the entire manor seemed to know, whispers following the children and the unusually polished guards with equal amusement. He’d agreed to come as a neutral observer, though his allegiance was firmly, privately, with the children.

”You’re sure they said a festival?” Orion asked, hiding a smile.

”Mm-hm,” Abel nodded. ”Millie said. A friendship festival. With games and cookies. No growling allowed.”

”Sounds like an excellent rule.”

They passed through the broken part of the stone wall into the old orchard. The trees were gnarled and ancient, heavy with small, hard green apples. Dappled sunlight speckled the long grass.

And there, the two armies were already assembled.

On the left, under the largest apple tree, stood the South Courtyard Council. They had clearly been preparing. A length of low, crumbling stone wall had been swept clean of leaves. Three distinct spots were marked on a fallen log with chalk. A small basket sat covered with a cloth.

The children stood in a line, trying to look solemn. Millie had a fresh blue ribbon in her braids. Willem clutched his notebook. Toben kept shifting his weight. Lissy held Lady Rag’s paw over her own heart, as if pledging allegiance.

On the right, in the open sunny patch, was the Ironwood Guard.

Orion stopped walking, his breath catching.

They were in full dress uniform. Not parade-ground perfect, but impressive. Clean, dark green tunics bearing the Valerian hawk. Polished leather belts and boots. They stood at ease, but in a tight, respectful formation, two lines deep. The sun gleamed off buckles. They looked less like men about to engage in children’s games and more like an honor guard awaiting a royal inspection.

In front of them stood Aster. He too was cleaned and polished, his posture straight, his face calm. He saw Abel and gave a single, slow nod.

Abel stared. His steps slowed. The happy buzz faded, replaced by a flicker of something else—recognition, maybe, or a deep, old echo of belonging. He looked at the lines of men, their familiar faces now framed by formality. He looked down at his own simple shirt and trousers, at the toy in his hand.

He looked lost for a moment.

Then Loren, from the back row, broke formation with a grin. He jogged forward a few steps. ”Hey, Captain! You ready for the festival?”

The word ’festival’ in Loren’s mouth, while he stood there looking like a storybook soldier, was so absurd it broke the spell. Abel’s confusion cleared. He smiled, a little shyly. ”I brought my horse.”

”Excellent,” Aster said, stepping forward. His voice was warm, not commanding. ”He’ll make a fine witness.”

Millie marched forward from her side, meeting them in the middle of the grassy clearing. She looked tiny between the two tall men. She ignored Aster completely and looked up at Abel.

”Brother Abel. Welcome. For the Friendship Festival, we need a champion. Someone to play the games for each side. We chose you for our champion.” She pointed to herself and her council.

Abel’s eyes went wide. ”Me?”

”And we,” Aster said, with equal formality, ”the Ironwood Guard, also choose you as our champion.”

Abel looked from Millie to Aster, his brow furrowed. ”But... I can’t be on both sides. That’s not how teams work.”

”It’s a special rule,” Willem called out from behind Millie, consulting his book. ”A dual-championship clause. It’s very advanced.”

”You play for everyone,” Millie simplified. ”You just have to do your best. And have fun. The rules are simple.”

Abel considered this. He looked at Orion, seeking guidance.

Orion gave him an encouraging nod. ”It sounds like a great honor, Abel. To be chosen by all your friends.”

That decided it. Abel straightened his shoulders, a spark of determination in his eyes. He held his wooden horse a little tighter. ”Okay. I’ll be the champion.”

”Then let the... festival... begin,” Aster announced, his mouth twitching.

Millie turned and gestured grandly to the low stone wall. ”First challenge! The Great Apple Balance!” She produced two small, hard green apples from her pocket. ”The champion must walk the length of the wall without dropping the apple. One attempt for each side. The side whose attempt goes the farthest wins.”

She handed one apple to Abel. ”This is for the Council.”

Abel took the apple. He looked at the wall. It was about a foot wide and twenty feet long, mossy and uneven in places. He put his wooden horse carefully on the ground at the start. He placed the apple on top of his head.

A collective, soft ”ohhh” came from the soldiers. They watched, utterly captivated.

Abel didn’t hesitate. He stepped up onto the wall as easily as stepping onto a stair. He held his arms out slightly for balance. Then he began to walk. His steps were steady, sure, his gaze fixed on a point in the distance. The apple didn’t wobble. He navigated a missing bit of mortar, a protruding stone. He walked the entire length of the wall, hopped down at the end, and caught the apple as it fell from his head.

He turned and held it up. ”Did I do it?”

The children erupted in cheers. ”Council scores a full wall!” Willem announced, making a note.

The soldiers applauded, genuine admiration on their faces.

”Now,” Millie said, handing him the second apple. ”For the Guard.”

Abel walked back, took the apple, and placed it on his head again. He stepped onto the wall.

This time, as he reached the tricky middle section, Loren called out, ”Steady now, Captain! Think of it like the ridge path above the Silverrun!”

Abel paused for a second. A vague, cloudy memory might have stirred—a narrow path, a steep drop, trusting his footing. He nodded, almost to himself, and continued. His step, if anything, became more confident. He finished the wall just as perfectly.

He held up the second apple. The soldiers cheered louder than the children had.

”A tie!” Millie declared, though she looked secretly pleased. ”Both sides get a point.”

”Second challenge!” Toben yelled, unable to contain himself. ”The Whisper Chain!”

The children lined up: Millie, then Willem, then Toben, then Lissy. The soldiers, after a quick, hissed debate, formed their own line: Aster, then Loren, then Jax, then Corin.

Millie beckoned Abel over. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered into his ear, her small hands cupped around her mouth. Abel listened intently, his head tilted.

He then turned to Aster, leaned in, and whispered the same phrase.

The message traveled down the children’s line in hushed, serious whispers. It traveled down the soldiers’ line in deeper, more theatrical murmurs.

Lissy, at the end of the children’s line, turned and announced clearly, ”The fluffy rabbit eats purple flowers by the moonlight.”

Corin, at the end of the soldiers’ line, scrunched his face in concentration, then bellowed, ”The stuffy dragon beats scary brooms in the moonlight!”

The children burst into giggles. The soldiers groaned, laughing at themselves.

”The Council’s message was correct!” Willem proclaimed. ”Point to the Council!”

Aster sighed, rubbing his forehead. ”We were doomed the moment it went past Jax. He hears what he wants to hear.”

Jax looked offended. ”I heard ’dragon’! That’s important!”

”Two to one, Council leads!” Millie said, trying to sound fierce but unable to hide her triumphant grin. ”Final challenge! The Cookie Guess!”

She led Abel to the fallen log with the three chalk circles. She made him sit down and produced a clean strip of cloth. ”We have to blindfold you. So it’s fair.”

Abel submitted easily, letting her tie the cloth over his eyes. The world went dark.

From the covered basket, Millie took three different cookies, placing one on each chalk circle. Ginger. Honey. Oat.

”Okay,” she said, her voice close to his ear. ”Taste the first one. Tell us what it is.”

She guided his hand to the first cookie. Abel picked it up, took a small bite, chewed thoughtfully.

”Ginger,” he said immediately, without a hint of doubt.

A soft cheer from the children.

Second cookie. He sniffed it first, then took a bite. ”Honey.”

Third cookie. He crunched it. ”Oat.”

He was right. All three.

”Now,” Millie said, her voice taking on a sly edge. She switched the positions of the cookies while he was still blindfolded. ”Again. But faster.”

She guided his hand again. First cookie. A tiny nibble. ”Oat.”

Second. A sniff. ”Ginger.”

Third. A crunch. ”Honey.”

Perfect again.

The clearing was silent, impressed.

”For the Guard’s turn,” Millie said, ”we need a soldier volunteer to be blindfolded.”

Every soldier suddenly found the sky or their boots incredibly interesting. All except one.

Kaelen sighed, a long-suffering sound. He stepped out of formation. ”I’ll do it.”

He sat on the log beside Abel. Millie blindfolded him with the same cloth. The cookies were swapped around again.

Kaelen tasted the first. He chewed slowly. ”...Hardtack?”

Loren snorted, quickly turning it into a cough.

”It’s ginger, you idiot,” Millie whispered, though not unkindly.

Second cookie. Kaelen frowned. ”This is also... vaguely sweet. Possibly honey?”

He was guessing.

Third cookie. He gave up. ”Grain-based.”

When the blindfold came off, he had scored one out of three—a lucky guess on the honey.

Millie stood before Abel and untied his blindfold. He blinked in the sunlight, smiling at her.

”The final score,” Willem announced, consulting his notes. ”Council: three points. Guard: one point. The victors of the Friendship Festival... are the South Courtyard Council!”

The four children jumped up and down, hugging each other. Their victory dance was a chaotic, joyful thing.

The soldiers, defeated, broke formation. But they weren’t upset. They were smiling, clapping. Aster walked over to Millie and offered his hand again.

”A well-fought campaign, General,” he said, his voice rich with respect. ”Your strategies were impeccable. Your champion was unbeatable. The Ironwood Guard concedes defeat.”

Millie shook his hand, her small face glowing with pride. ”The treaty terms stand? Tuesdays and Thursdays for you. Mondays and Wednesdays for us. Fridays we share. And...” she added, almost shyly, ”you can keep some of your biscuits. As a gesture of goodwill.”

Aster bowed his head. ”Generous terms. We accept.”

Jax finally brought forward the large basket he’d been guarding. It was full of cookies, but also small meat pies and sweet buns. ”Festival feast!” he announced.

The war was over. The feast began. Soldiers and children sat together in the grass, sharing food. Abel sat in the middle, beaming, accepting a ginger biscuit from Lissy and a meat pie from Corin simultaneously, the happiest and most sought-after prize in the orchard.

Orion watched from the shade of an apple tree, his heart full. He saw Abel laugh at something Loren said, then carefully show Toben how to balance an apple on his head. He saw Aster listening gravely to Willem explaining his notes. He saw Kaelen, a rare soft expression on his face, handing Lady Rag back to Lissy after she’d dropped her.

It wasn’t a treaty about scheduling or biscuits. It was a treaty of belonging. Abel, their lost captain, their gentle giant brother, was surrounded. He was claimed, not by one side, but by all of them. He was woven into the fabric of their lives, a thread that connected the playful world of the courtyard to the loyal world of the guard.

And for the first time since coming to Valerian Manor, Orion thought that perhaps, in this strange, broken place, they had both finally found something that felt like home.