Location: North of Branhal
Time: Morning to Evening — Day 4
Morning – The Road to Potential
The road north was soft from last night's rain, the mud clutching at their boots like a hungry thing. It smelled of wet pine, moss, and the faint iron tang of storm-soaked earth. The air was cool, but not crisp—a weight clung to it, a heaviness that Alec noted with every measured step.
He carried a satchel over one shoulder, its contents rattling faintly with each shift. The tools inside were borrowed, improvised, or barely adequate. But they would work. They had to.
Behind him trudged his assigned shadows: Braen, a heavyset man with a face as dull as a worn coin, and Tomas, wiry and sharp, with a sneer that seemed permanently etched into his features. Both wore boiled leather and carried rusted swords more for display than use.
Trailing behind them on a stocky mare rode Silla, her reins loose in one hand, the other resting lightly on her dagger's pommel. Her eyes stayed fixed on Alec like a wolf circling an unfamiliar fire.
"Nice day for superstition," Tomas muttered.
"'Cept we're following the cause of it," Braen replied, his tone more amused than alarmed.
"I can hear you," Alec said without turning.
"Good," Tomas shot back. "Wasn't whispering."
Silla said nothing, her face unreadable.
Midday – The Ruin
By the time they reached the rise above the river, the sun had burned off most of the mist. The forest fell away, revealing a broad bend in the water. And there, nestled against the current, was the mill.
Or what was left of it.
The broken wheel jutted from the stream like a snapped bone, its paddles shattered, the axle bent and listing. The stone walls, once sturdy, sagged inward where time and flood had taken their toll. Moss covered the stones like a slow-growing bruise. A tree had collapsed through the east side of the roof, its rotted trunk still wedged in place.
Braen scratched his beard. "Well, there it is."
Tomas whistled low. "You gonna say a few words, stranger? Or just wave your hands and make it work?"
"I don't fix things by will," Alec said, descending the slope. "I fix them by understanding."
Up close, the damage was worse.
The foundation had sunk unevenly where water had softened the earth. The river, no longer channeled properly, had carved a new path around the mill, bleeding off its force. Inside, the grinding stones were coated in moss and rust, and the gears were little more than corroded iron teeth holding on by habit.
Alec crouched by the foundation, running his fingers along the stone. He tapped it lightly, listening to the hollow echoes beneath the mortar.
"You've got life in you yet," he murmured under his breath.
"Talking to ghosts now?" Tomas called from the slope.
"Talking to rocks," Braen said with a chuckle. "Makes more sense."
Alec emerged from the mill, wiping moss from his hands. "We'll start with the west support and the feeder chute. Braen, dig a brace trench to stabilize the base. Tomas, strip those branches off the collapsed tree—we'll need them for scaffolding. Silla, make sure they don't wander off."
Braen frowned. "You giving orders now?"
"I'm giving instructions," Alec said flatly. "Follow them, or the wheel won't turn."
Afternoon – Building from Ruin
The work was slow, filthy, and raw.
Alec cleared the feeder chute first, hauling tangled weeds, stones, and broken branches by hand. The sun climbed higher, its heat pressing down, but he didn't stop. When the chute was clear, he lashed together makeshift scaffolding from the stripped branches, anchoring it with rope and improvised wedges.
Tomas muttered complaints under his breath, though his hands didn't stop carving replacement paddles from split pine. Braen, sweating heavily, dug the trench Alec had marked with sticks and chalk. Silla watched everything, her gaze sharp as the blade she occasionally toyed with.
At one point, Tomas leaned against a stone, wiping sweat from his brow. "Where'd you learn this? All this… whatever you're doing?"
Alec didn't look up from where he was adjusting the wheel's shaft angle with an improvised level—a reed balanced across a bowl of water. "Everywhere."
"That's not an answer."
"It is," Alec said, "but you're not ready to understand it."
Braen let out a wheezing laugh. "You hear that? He's too clever for us, Tomas."
"Or too full of it," Tomas muttered, though he returned to carving.
Alec ignored them. The work wasn't about their approval—it was about the mill.
Evening – Turning the Wheel
The sun was low when the final paddle was set in place. Alec wiped sweat from his brow, glancing over his makeshift repairs. The structure groaned with the weight of its own decay, but the critical elements—wheel, axle, channel—were as stable as they were going to get.
Braen stood at the chute's edge, holding the rope that kept the water at bay. Tomas leaned against a rock, his expression unreadable. Silla was silent, her arms crossed as she watched Alec with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
"Cut the twine," Alec said.
Braen hesitated. "You sure?"
"Do it."
With a quick slice of his knife, the rope gave way. Water surged through the chute, spilling into the wheel. The first splash sent the structure shuddering, the paddles dipping hesitantly into the current.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the wheel creaked. Groaned. And, with a deep grinding growl, it lurched into motion. Slowly at first—uneven, laborious—but then it found its rhythm, turning in a full, steady rotation.
Tomas gaped. "You actually—"
"It's not finished," Alec interrupted. "The gears need replacing, and the feed mechanism isn't optimal. But the principle stands."
Braen let out a cheer, slapping the stone foundation with his hand. "I'll be damned—it works!"
Silla's gaze didn't waver. "For now."
"It'll hold," Alec said calmly. "Long enough to remind this village what it means to build."
Night – Firelight Conversations
They camped near the mill rather than risk the forest at night. A fire crackled between them, sending sparks up toward the canopy. Tomas nursed a flask of something strong and bitter. Braen snored lightly near the embers. Silla sat across from Alec, her knee drawn up, her arms wrapped loosely around it.
Alec worked quietly, sharpening a bit of iron he planned to use for a replacement gear.
"You've earned respect," Silla said finally.
Alec didn't look up. "And?"
"And it's the kind of respect that makes people nervous."
He glanced at her. "Fear is a powerful motivator."
"It's also dangerous. You don't seem to care."
"I care," Alec said, setting the iron aside. "But not enough to stop."
Silla studied him for a long moment. The firelight danced in her eyes, softening the hard lines of her face.
"That wheel turned," she said. "With a pile of scrap and ideas no one here's ever seen. That scares me."
"It should."
"What happens when it's not a wheel? What happens when it's something bigger?"
Alec met her gaze. "Then the world changes."
"And if the world doesn't want to change?"
He leaned back, his expression calm. "The world doesn't get a vote."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"I'll be watching you, Alec," Silla said finally.
"I know."
Return to Branhal
They returned to the village before noon the next day, dust-covered and sunburned but alive with purpose. Word of the mill spread before they even reached the square. By sunset, a dozen villagers had walked north just to see it for themselves.
The council was set to meet in two days.
Alec stood in Mira's doorway that evening, arms crossed as he watched the village settle into its usual rhythm. For the first time since his arrival, he felt something shift—not in the world, but in himself.
It wasn't satisfaction.
It was certainty.