Location: Branhal
Time: Evening – Day 2
The village bell tolled once at dusk, its sound low and deliberate—neither a warning nor a call, just a ritual note that said: Day is done.
Alec stood at the threshold of Mira's hut, the lantern in his hand casting a pool of flickering gold around his feet. Across the square, shadows stretched like fingers from the bases of homes, drawing long and jagged across the packed earth. Chimneys let out final breaths of smoke before night's breath snuffed them. Doors thudded shut. Laughter became murmurs. The world folded inward.
But one building still pulsed with light.
The old council hall, if it could be called that, sat like a memory wrapped in stone. Its dark timber frame leaned slightly, ivy clawing along the roofline, moss hugging the base. The slate roof dipped in the center like a tired back. Time had not been kind—but it had not broken it.
Mira stood beside him, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.
"You don't have to go in," she said, voice low. "This isn't a trial. Not officially."
"He sent for me," Alec replied, eyes fixed ahead.
"He didn't send. Jorren passed word through his son, and his son isn't the most reliable mouthpiece."
"That makes it worse," Alec said. "If it's informal, then it's a test disguised as a gesture."
Mira hesitated, then handed him the lantern. Her fingers brushed his. "Don't provoke him. Harwin doesn't bluff, and he doesn't bend. If he thinks you're dangerous—"
"I am dangerous," Alec said quietly. "But not to him."
She raised an eyebrow.
He gave her a faint smile. "Unless he gives me a reason."
Inside the Longhouse
The interior was dim, lit by torches whose flames hissed and swayed in bronze sconces. The warmth was real, but faint—like the building itself only pretended to be alive. It smelled of wax, old parchment, dry leather, and the must of closed spaces too rarely scrubbed.
A long table stretched the length of the room, cluttered with candle stubs, half-rolled scrolls, a chipped map of Edenia, and mugs that hadn't been washed in weeks. Mismatched chairs stood like sentries on either side.
At the far end sat a man.
Headman Harwin. Broad-shouldered, white-haired, face weathered like old bark. His fingers curled over the arms of a dark oak chair whose back was taller than he was. Two others flanked him—Merrit, thin and hunched, with ink-stained sleeves and a nervous tongue, and Silla, broad and scarred, her boiled leather jerkin creaking as she shifted beside the fire.
The headman's voice cut the quiet.
"Close the door."
Alec obeyed. No hesitation.
The latch clicked shut. Alec scanned the room without moving his head. Torches low. One window, shuttered. No exits but the one behind him. Silla stood to intercept if needed. Merrit was irrelevant unless he poisoned the cider. Harwin's posture: tired, but calculated.
"Step forward," Harwin said.
Alec moved to the center of the room. He felt Silla's eyes track every inch. Her hand hovered near the hilt of a blade too clean for peace.
Harwin watched him the way wolves watched fire.
"You're taller than they said," the headman noted.
"And you're older than I expected for a man still pulling puppet strings," Alec said.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Then Harwin laughed. Just once. Not joy—just recognition.
"You're not another beggar in strange clothes. Good."
"I didn't come to beg," Alec said. "And I'm not here by choice."
Harwin gestured to a chair.
"Sit."
Alec sat. Not slouched. Not stiff. Controlled.
Harwin poured two wooden cups of cider. The gesture was deliberate—equal parts hospitality and test.
"Your hands don't callous like a smith's," the headman said, passing the drink. "Your speech doesn't stumble like a foreigner's. You fix broken things that haven't worked in years, and you teach our healer tricks she's never seen."
"I believe in being useful."
"Useful men are often dangerous," Harwin said.
Merrit coughed. "You speak our tongue too cleanly. Your words are... old-fashioned. Scripted. Not learned."
"I listen fast," Alec said. "And I forget nothing."
Silla leaned forward, folding thick arms across the table. "That makes you either a liar, or something worse."
Alec met her eyes. "You're not wrong."
She stiffened. "You admit it?"
"I admit I'm not from here. And yes—I'm dangerous. Not to your people. But to the systems that chain them."
"Big words for a man with no army," Silla snapped.
"I don't need an army," Alec said. "Not yet."
Harwin watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. "What do you want?"
Alec sipped the cider. Harsh. Fermented in wood. The tang of apple and metal. "Trust."
Harwin didn't smile. "The one thing no smart man gives lightly."
"I don't ask for it freely," Alec said. "I intend to earn it."
"How?"
"By changing Branhal."
The fire crackled. Silla made a low, disbelieving sound.
"Change it into what?" Harwin asked.
"Into the first piece of something bigger. Stronger. Smarter. A place that doesn't break when storms come. A place that builds instead of buries."
Harwin sat back. "You speak of futures like a priest speaks of salvation."
"I've seen the future," Alec said. "I've walked in it. And now I'm standing in its ghost."
Silla stood sharply, chair scraping. "Enough riddles."
Harwin raised a hand. She stopped, but her jaw clenched.
"There's a watermill," the headman said. "North of here. Flood warped the wheel five years back. No one's fixed it. If you want trust, you'll prove you can do more than fix carts and vents."
Alec nodded. "I'll need wood. Rope. Tools. And access."
"You'll get two watchers," Harwin said. "Not helpers. Observers. You earn their word before mine."
"One week?" Alec asked.
Harwin nodded once.
"If the wheel turns," Alec said, "I'll show you more than water."
Outside the Longhouse
The night was silver and cold. The moon hung like a blade above the trees. Mira waited near the square, her arms crossed against the breeze. When Alec stepped into the light, she straightened.
"Well?"
"I have seven days to resurrect a watermill and prove I'm not a lunatic."
"Harwin said that?"
"He said it without saying it."
They walked together under the shadow of the buildings. Chickens clucked once from a coop. Smoke curled from Mira's chimney like a last breath.
"Can you do it?" she asked.
Alec tilted his head. "Fix the mill? I could redesign it blindfolded. They built it with guesswork and gravity. I'll rebuild it with force distribution and rotary balance."
"That's a 'yes,' then."
He gave her a sideways glance. "You're unusually calm."
"I've stopped expecting normal."
They walked a bit farther. Then Mira asked softly, "What do you really want, Alec?"
He looked up. The stars here were wrong. Unmapped. Unfamiliar. Like the world itself was holding its breath.
"I want to give this world what it doesn't know it's missing."
"Progress?"
"No," he said. "Potential."
She stopped walking, turned to face him. Her voice was quiet but firm.
"Are you a conqueror, Alec?"
He shook his head. "I'm a builder. But if I'm pushed hard enough... I'll conquer."
Mira didn't smile. But she didn't step back, either.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"What did you expect?"
"A madman with delusions. Or a god with a curse."
"And now?"
"Now I think you're just a man who refuses to let the world stay small."
He looked at her, lantern light flickering in his eyes.
"That's exactly what I am."