Location: Branhal
Time: Late Afternoon – Day 2
The sun hung low in the western sky, painting the village in warm gold. Chickens pecked along dusty paths. The scent of split pine, turned soil, and drying herbs drifted lazily on the breeze.
Branhal moved like a song it had sung a thousand times. Cyclical. Safe. Predictable.
Then there was him.
Alec walked at Mira's side, shoulders squared with quiet confidence, wrapped in a borrowed tunic and rough leather sandals. His feet made no sound. His gaze, when it moved, didn't linger—but nothing escaped it.
People watched him from doorways. From shutters. From behind half-drawn curtains. No words passed his way. Only glances and whispers, heavy with uncertainty.
Mira pointed to the central square. "Stalls go up there every eighth-day. Bread, cheese, cloth—nothing fancy. Jorren's forge is just past that shed. That's where you'll find the iron you asked for."
Alec nodded, eyes scanning every angle. Materials. Language tone. Social posture. Tool quality. He absorbed it all, like a machine built for cultural analysis.
The people weren't fools.
Just fenced in by fear, tradition, and the narrow lane of their world.
They passed a cluster of children near the well. A small boy stared, eyes wide.
"That's the man from the sky," he whispered.
"Don't stare!" hissed his sister, yanking him behind her skirt.
The Forge
The hammer rang before they reached it—iron striking iron in a steady rhythm. Heat shimmered from the stone shack. Coal smoke curled above.
Jorren stood bare-chested by the anvil, sweat dripping down corded arms as he pounded a horseshoe into shape. He paused when Alec and Mira approached.
"You're not bleeding anymore," the blacksmith grunted.
"Would that make me easier to understand?" Alec asked.
"Would make you familiar."
Alec's gaze drifted across the workspace. "Do you have a swage block?"
The hammer stilled mid-air. Jorren frowned. "What would you know about tools like that?"
"He wants to see what you've got," Mira said quickly. "He won't touch anything."
Jorren set the hammer down hard. "You talk like a noble. But you don't carry yourself like one."
"I'm not a noble," Alec replied. "But I'll need iron. Clay. Wood. I'm not building a weapon. Not yet."
Jorren let out a sharp laugh. "You say not yet like you already know it's coming."
"I know people," Alec said. "And I know what fear does when it simmers too long."
The blacksmith crossed his arms, frowning. "This village doesn't want war."
"It won't matter," Alec said softly. "War doesn't wait for permission. It arrives when no one's looking."
Jorren studied him for a long beat. "You talk like a man who's seen too many futures."
Alec met his gaze. "One future was enough."
Jorren said nothing more. He turned back to his forge.
Later – Gathering Wood
They walked the edge of the village now—Mira with her herb basket, Alec carrying a bundle of hand-cut sticks on one shoulder. Dal and Fenn trailed behind them, whispering like boys who had seen a dragon up close and didn't know if it would eat them or grant a wish.
"I heard he killed two men with a look," Dal whispered.
"Don't be daft," Fenn said. "He ain't magic. Just… strange. That's worse."
"I can hear you," Mira called, not turning.
Dal blushed and rushed ahead, looking at Alec. "You don't talk like anyone here."
"I'm not like anyone here."
"Where you from, then?"
Alec paused. "A place where fire drives machines. Where carts move without beasts. Where men speak across oceans without sound."
The boys stared. Mira glanced over at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Sounds like a bard's tale," Fenn said.
Alec stopped. He set the wood down and crouched. He picked up a stick, snapped it in two, then placed two stones beside it.
He reached for Mira's flint. One strike. Two. Sparks bloomed.
"Now imagine," Alec said, holding the smoldering tip, "this fire—contained in a metal chamber, shaped and directed. Instead of warming hands, it pushes. Drives. Builds force. That's how a cart can move without a horse."
Silence.
Dal's mouth opened. Fenn blinked.
Mira studied him.
"You're not mad. And you're not a bard. So what are you?"
Alec stood. The fire on the stick burned low in his hand before he dropped it.
"I'm a man who remembers the world as it could be. And I've landed in the world as it was."
Evening – The Fire
By sundown, Alec had fixed a broken axle, adjusted a smoke vent, and optimized the airflow in Jorren's bellows. Not because he offered. Not for credit. He simply saw inefficiency—and corrected it.
By nightfall, the fear had shifted.
Now the whispers were laced with curiosity.
He sat by the central firepit beside Mira, sipping watered ale. Garric stood watching from the edge of the firelight, and Jorren cleaned tools a few feet away.
"They're watching you," Mira said.
"They should."
"You fixed more in one afternoon than some of our men manage in a season. That rattles people."
"I didn't come here to rattle."
"No," she said quietly. "You came here to change them."
He looked at her. That caught him off guard.
"You want to reshape this world," she added. "Why?"
Alec turned his eyes to the fire.
"Because I can't go back. And I refuse to rot in a world that doesn't know what it can become."
The flames crackled between them. The village murmured beyond.
Mira leaned forward. "Are you dangerous, Alec?"
He looked at her. His face unreadable. Calm.
"Only to those who try to stop me."