Location: Branhal – Barley Fields
Time: Days 8–10
Day 8 – Morning: Seeds and Skepticism
The morning was soft and quiet, a pale mist rolling over the ground like a blanket drawn too late. The fields outside Branhal glistened with dew, every brittle barley stalk beaded with droplets, drooping like soldiers after too many campaigns. The air smelled of wet straw and tilled earth, with a whisper of woodsmoke drifting from distant hearths.
Alec stood at the edge of the main field, arms folded. The soil squelched under his boots. He scanned the rows—overplanted, underfed, crowded into gridlines that had no concept of space, light, or renewal. The plants weren't sick. They were starved.
Beside him, Balen the steward clutched his ledger like a shield. His expression was stiff with pride poorly disguised as caution.
Two laborers waited nearby: Marna, a lean, sharp-eyed widow with sun-cracked knuckles and a spine made of quiet will; and Terek, a lanky ox-handler barely out of boyhood, hands shoved deep into his patched tunic.
"These rows are too tight," Alec said, crouching. "Overplanted, undernourished. You've harvested from this soil like a thief, not a partner."
Balen sniffed. "We use dung when we can. It's not like we're neglecting it."
"That's not enough," Alec replied, standing. "You're taking without returning. That's not farming. That's mining."
Balen bristled. "And you suggest?"
Alec turned, pointing to the open field. "Three divisions. Rotate them seasonally—barley in one, clover or legumes in another, and the third left fallow. Rotate next season."
Balen blinked. "You want us to grow weeds and... nothing?"
"Not nothing. Rest. And clover is not a weed. It feeds the soil. The animals eat it. Their waste feeds the ground again. Symbiosis."
Marna tilted her head. "So we don't tear up the land every season?"
"No," Alec said. "You let it breathe. You teach it to heal."
Terek scratched his chin, frowning. "And this works? Where you're from?"
Alec met his gaze. "It works everywhere. Even here. If you give it a chance."
Balen looked unconvinced. "It's not how it's been done."
"Which is why you're starving," Alec said. His tone didn't change, but the words struck like iron.
There was a long silence.
Marna finally nodded. "We'll try it."
Terek glanced at her, then added, "We've tried everything else."
Balen remained stiff, but didn't argue further.
"We'll need tools," Alec said. "Shovels. Buckets. Wood for shaping trenches. And people who are willing to learn."
"And Harwin?" Balen asked, voice clipped.
"Tell him," Alec said, walking away, "that I'm growing his future."
Later That Day – Water and Will
By midday, the fog had burned off, and under a pale blue sky, the fields began to move.
The first trickle was just three—Marna, Terek, and an older boy named Jak—with more arriving as word spread. Alec marked the channels with rope and chalk, driving stakes with a hammer, guiding others where to dig, shape, measure.
The soil was dense and stubborn. Centuries of use had made it hard, bitter, and resistant to anything new. But Alec didn't waver. Where it clumped, he broke it. Where it cracked, he softened it. Where water once ran wild, he began to guide it like a sculptor shaping clay.
A small tributary from the river was diverted with effort. Not blocked—channeled. Water flowed in tight, shallow rivulets between furrows, soaking roots with deliberate precision rather than chaotic flooding.
Terek, red-faced from digging, glanced over. "You act like we're laying siege to the gods."
Alec didn't look up. "We are. The gods of hunger. The gods of loss."
Near the edge, Mira arrived with a waterskin and a skeptical squint. She didn't join the work, but stood watching. She'd seen the plans, heard the theories—but now she saw movement. And that mattered more.
"You're going to break them," she said during a rest.
"I'm showing them how to break limits," Alec said, wiping his face.
She handed him the water. "You don't stop."
"Why would I?"
"Because they're people. Not machines."
He paused. "People are capable of more than they've been taught."
She looked at him, really looked. "You were raised in a place without softness, weren't you?"
"Softness is inefficient," he said automatically.
She nodded. "So is loneliness."
He said nothing. And for once, neither did she.
Evening – Lysa's Proposal
As the sun dipped behind the trees, the workers drifted off in ones and twos, their faces smudged with sweat and dirt—but not weariness. Something had shifted. They moved like people who had done something real.
Alec sat on a log near the edge of the field, sketching trench angles onto a slate tablet. His fingers were stained. His back ached. He didn't care.
"You smell like a mule pit," said a familiar voice behind him.
Lysa stepped out from the shadows, her cloak swept back over one shoulder, hair pinned in a delicate copper spiral. She didn't look tired. She looked hungry.
"For knowledge or for attention?" Alec asked.
"Both," she said, smiling.
She sat beside him uninvited, glancing down at the slate. "You're not just reforming the land. You're reforming the people."
"I'm giving them efficiency," Alec said.
"You're giving them agency. That's more dangerous."
He looked at her.
"You're not just practical, Alec. You're political. Even if you don't mean to be."
"I mean to be effective."
She leaned slightly closer. "You know what Harwin is thinking right now? That the more hands follow you into the field, the fewer will listen when he speaks."
"Then he should speak more usefully."
She laughed, low and musical. "You know what you need? A liaison. Someone who can keep you ahead of the whispers. Someone like me."
"Why you?"
"Because I know how to read people. I know what's said behind doors you can't open. And because I have something no one else in this village has."
"What's that?"
"Ambition," Lysa said. "And the will to outlive this village's smallness."
He studied her for a moment. Her face betrayed nothing but confidence. Beneath it, calculation. She wasn't hiding it. That, at least, he respected.
"I'll give you tasks," he said. "Let's see what you make of them."
She stood, brushing her hands clean.
"Good," she said. "Because I don't intend to be your follower. I intend to be your partner."
Day 10 – The Split Emerges
By the tenth day, Branhal had changed.
The western fields now bore neat, deliberate divisions—furrowed land for barley, patches seeded with clover, and bare soil left resting. Trenches carried water with measured flow. Tools were cleaned. Instructions were followed.
But more than that, the people had begun to talk—differently.
They spoke of growth, not survival.
They planned the next rotation before the current one had even sprouted. They compared trench angles, shadow patterns, moisture readings. They mimicked Alec's habits, then adapted them.
And still, Harwin watched.
He stood one morning on a rise above the field, flanked by Silla and Balen, his arms crossed as a group of youth listened to Alec explain root depth.
"He's changed them," Balen said softly. "They're listening like he's the elder, not you."
Harwin said nothing.
Silla, arms folded, asked, "You want to stop him?"
"No," Harwin said. "Not yet."
"But you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid of him," Harwin said. "I'm afraid of what happens if we let him finish."
Evening – Friction in the Firelight
Mira's hut was dim, the hearth burning low. Alec sat by the wall, shirt removed, his forearms striped with dirt and faint bruises. Mira poured tea in silence.
"You've drawn a line in the village," she said at last.
"I didn't draw it," Alec said. "I just exposed it."
"You know what you're doing. You say you don't care about power, but you're gathering it anyway."
He sipped the tea. "Because power is how change becomes permanent."
"And Lysa?" Mira asked, tone measured.
"She's resourceful."
"She's dangerous."
"So am I."
Mira watched him for a long moment. "You think that makes it okay?"
"I think that makes me prepared."
Silence stretched.
Then Mira said, "You're building something. I don't know if it's a kingdom or a machine. But whatever it is—it's moving fast."
Alec nodded.
"That's the point."