Location: Branhal, the Longhouse
Time: Evening – Day 7
Evening in Branhal
The sun had dipped low, and Branhal glowed with the copper hush of evening. The last warmth of the day clung to the thatched roofs, while chimney smoke rose in slow ribbons, curling toward a violet sky. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, casting pools of gold on packed earth.
The longhouse stood at the heart of it all, ancient timbers braced like a ribcage around a fire-lit core. Inside, voices hummed—low, purposeful, overlapping like the rustle of a forest in wind. The council had convened early, before the light had vanished fully, and now their words spilled faintly through the heavy doors into the chill.
Alec stood outside, satchel over his shoulder, his stance still but alert.
To his right, Jorren leaned against the wall, chewing a strip of dried meat like it owed him money. The blacksmith's face was unreadable, but his eyes flicked to Alec, measuring.
"You've stirred up more talk in four days than the last four years," Jorren muttered finally.
"I'm not here for talk," Alec replied, eyes on the door. "I'm here for results."
Jorren gave a humorless chuckle. "Trouble always starts with results."
"And ends with complacency," Alec said. "That's what I'm here to end."
The blacksmith studied him for another moment, then jerked his chin toward the door as it creaked open. Merrit, the scribe, emerged with ink-stained fingers and a frown etched deep by years of squinting at bad handwriting.
"The council will see you now," Merrit said.
Alec nodded once and stepped inside.
Inside the Longhouse
The air was thick with the scent of smoke, oiled leather, and cider gone slightly sour. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the worn stone floor. A long table, rough-hewn and dark with years of polish and spilled drink, stretched down the middle of the hall.
At the head sat Harwin, hands folded, his gaze steady and expression impassive. The firelight made the old man look half-carved from bark and ash. Beside him, Silla sat in freshly scrubbed armor, every strap tightened, her face unreadable beneath a mask of discipline.
To Harwin's left were two unfamiliar faces. Balen, the steward, thin as a fence post with a face like sour parchment, tapped a stylus against a board in fidgety rhythm. And Lysa, golden-haired and pale-eyed, watched Alec with calm interest that felt just a hair too intent.
The other council seats were empty. But Alec could feel them—those who had chosen not to be present. That absence was a message too.
Harwin gestured to the seat at the far end of the table.
"Sit."
Alec did.
Harwin leaned forward, resting elbows on the table. "You've made yourself impossible to ignore."
Alec set his satchel gently at his feet. "That was always the first step."
"The mill turns again," Harwin said. "For the first time in a decade. Half the town's been up to see it. Some came back saying you're a gift. Others call you a spark waiting to catch fire."
"And you?"
Harwin gave a faint smile. "I think you're both. The question is what direction that fire spreads."
Testing Intentions
Silla's voice was low and firm. "You speak in strategies and systems. You look at people like parts of a machine. You keep saying you're not a threat, but everything about you says otherwise."
"Change is a threat," Alec said. "That doesn't make it wrong."
"And you think you're the one to lead that change?" she asked.
Alec met her stare. "Yes."
Silence followed, not shocked, but wary.
Harwin raised a hand before Silla could continue. "You've got ideas, Alec. Big ones. But this is a village that doesn't take kindly to revolutions. You've stirred dust that hadn't moved in years."
"I didn't come to incite rebellion," Alec said. "But I am here to disrupt stagnation."
Harwin's gaze was hard to read—somewhere between curiosity and calculation. "Fixing a wheel is one thing. That's repair. What I want to know is: can you build?"
Alec leaned forward. "From nothing, if I have to."
Harwin nodded toward Balen.
"The barley fields are failing," Balen said, voice papery and precise. "Each year the yields drop. The soil's tired, and we haven't the tools to reclaim new ground. We've tried resting plots, but the cycle's too short."
Alec's thoughts fired like lightning: shallow plowing, monoculture exhaustion, water mismanagement. No rotation. No nitrogen-fixers. No proper tilling strategies.
"I can help," Alec said. "But it won't be simple. I'll need time. Workers. Materials."
Harwin's brow lifted. "You'll need trust."
"I'll earn it. Like I earned the mill."
Harwin gave no visible reaction. "If your methods feed people, you'll get more than trust. You'll get momentum."
"And if I fail?"
"Then you'll remind this village why it's safer to trust old ways."
Alec held Harwin's gaze. "The old ways won't save you from what's coming."
Harwin didn't flinch. "Then show us something better. With food. Not fire."
After the Meeting – A Quiet Warning
The other council members drifted out slowly, leaving only Silla near the door. She stayed where she was as Alec shouldered his satchel.
"You talk like a man with a plan," she said.
"I have several," Alec replied. "Depending on how many people get in the way."
She gave a dry laugh. "You're bold. That'll keep you alive—right up until it kills you."
"Should I be worried?"
"You should always be worried," Silla said. "Harwin sees value in you. That doesn't mean he won't burn you the moment you become too dangerous."
"And you?"
She stepped closer, voice low. "I don't trust brilliance that moves faster than its consequences. You're changing things without asking permission."
"History doesn't care about permission."
"Maybe not. But I do."
Alec nodded slowly. "Then you'll have to decide whether to keep watching or start helping."
Silla's eyes narrowed. "I'm not your soldier."
"No," Alec said. "But you might be your village's."
She didn't reply. She just stepped back into the darkness and disappeared down the longhouse corridor.
A New Ally
Outside, the air had cooled, the night quiet but not still. The wind carried the scent of soil and smoke, and lantern light wavered in soft pulses across the ground.
Alec turned toward the path—only to find someone already waiting for him.
Lysa.
She stood with her arms folded lightly, not blocking the way, just occupying it. Her cloak was pinned at one shoulder with a silver clasp, a small, deliberate glint in the dim.
"You're not what I expected," she said.
"I get that a lot."
"I expected a prophet," she continued. "Or a lunatic."
"And now?"
"Now I see something far more dangerous."
He raised an eyebrow.
"You bend things," she said. "Tools. People. Words. It's not loud—but it's happening. And you haven't even built anything yet."
"Not true," Alec said. "I've already built a reaction."
Her smile was slight. "And I want to be part of what comes next."
Alec tilted his head, watching her closely. "Why?"
"Because Branhal is small. And I won't stay small with it. You're a knife in stagnant water. If you cut deep enough, I want to be on the side holding the handle."
"And what exactly do you offer?"
"Perception. Discretion. Access." She paused. "You're going to need someone who knows which walls to knock down—and which doors to open instead."
Alec nodded. "Let's see what you open first."
She stepped aside. "Fair warning: I'm not a follower."
"I don't want followers," Alec said. "I want catalysts."
Back at the Healer's Hut
It was late when he returned. The fire was low but not out. Mira sat cross-legged near the hearth, grinding herbs with steady, practiced movements. The room smelled of mint, earth, and the faint warmth of cooked grain.
"You look like someone who just made enemies," she said without looking up.
"I did."
"And friends?"
"Possibly."
"Temporary ones, then."
Alec removed his satchel and sat across from her. The silence between them was comfortable, but not idle.
"What's the next step?" she asked.
"Barley. Soil. Irrigation. Organization."
"You think the council will support you?"
"No," Alec said simply. "But they'll step aside when they see others do."
Mira gave a soft laugh. "You really don't believe in failure, do you?"
"I believe in pressure. Applied well, it moves mountains."
She studied him, mortar forgotten in her lap. "You're going to change this place."
"I already have."
"Will it survive that?"
Alec looked at the fire, then back at her.
"I'm not sure it's supposed to."