Outside the warehouses of the Wheatwave Fief, workers called out as they carried sacks of grain through the doors.
Footsteps, the hiss of ropes, and the dull thud of sacks against wooden racks echoed through the valley, mingling with laughter and shouts.
On the drying grounds before the warehouses, golden heaps of wheat stood like small hills, gleaming warmly in the sunlight.
Gold washed over the entire valley. Its floor resembled a giant bowl slowly being filled, and the autumn wind swept through it, stirring waves of wheat fragrance.
Louis stood at the top of the slope, watching with narrowed eyes, his delight impossible to conceal. Then he said to Green beside him, "Green, gather all the representatives. We'll hold our autumn harvest review right here."
Before long, Mick, Green, and representatives from the village communities, workshops, and mounted patrols arrived one after another, forming their customary semicircle.
A canvas sheet was spread before the wheat stacks, with wooden stakes driven into the ground and stone slabs weighing down its corners, serving as a makeshift meeting table.
Green stood at the front. Sweat still clung to his face, but he straightened his clothes and stood tall.
He looked at the wave-like mountains of grain, drew a deep breath, and raised his voice. "My lord, representatives, as of today, the Wheatwave Fief's autumn harvest is eighty percent complete. I will now report our preliminary figures."
Then he opened the parchment ledger in his hands, unmistakable pride in his voice. "Our total grain harvest stands at one hundred and fifteen thousand tonnes."
He pointed down the entries one by one. "Fifty-one thousand tonnes of Green Wheat, our staple crop and the largest share of the harvest. Most came from the level fields on the southern slope and the fields outside the greenhouses.