Location: Grendale, Midgard's Southern CoastTime: Day After Arrival – Days 2 to 7 of Reconstruction
Taming the Pulse
The sea still tried to take Grendale.
But Alec no longer saw it as an enemy.
It was a constant. An equation written in pressure and motion. Most men feared its crashing force and retreating violence. Alec saw potential—repeatable patterns, kinetic hunger, untapped energy. The sea didn't hate. It moved. And that meant it could be shaped.
He stood atop the broken cliff road where the old seawall had once stretched. All that remained now were timber skeletons, blackened and twisted—ribs from a long-dead beast half-swallowed by the surf.
Behind him, workers waited. Nine in total, plus three locals. Masons, millwrights, and skeptics. They carried rope, timber, quarried stone—tools of labor, not belief. But they were here.
That was enough.
"For the foundation," Alec said, pointing to the etched chalk symbol on the dark basalt, "lower anchors go here. Drive the iron into the bluff. Layer quarried stone outward. No flat stack—this isn't a wall. It's a catching curve."
The old millwright, dark-bearded and broader than most oxen, squinted. "And when the tide comes hungry?"
"We don't stop the tide." Alec turned toward the sea. "We train it."
The roofwright, the only woman on the team, snorted and spat off the edge. "Stone won't hold. Not unless you key it right."
"It will," Alec said. He handed her a thick hide schematic, hand-etched in waterproof ink. "Each block locks to four. Wedge load here, here, and at the base joint. See the cut?"
She scanned the pattern, eyes narrowing.
"This is... clever," she said. "Not fancy. But clever."
"It's not a miracle," Alec said. "It's structure."
The masons grunted. Which was agreement in their language.
That was all he needed.
By midmorning, the first stones were laid.
Not dramatic. Not beautiful. Just a layered crescent locked against the sea's throat like a jaw catching a punch. It clicked into place with a satisfying thunk, wedged by gravel and lime, cradled in anchored rods. The second came easier. The third even more so.
By noon, the fourth layer curved outward like a shoulder bracing for impact. At low tide, the waves licked against it, searching for weakness.
They found none.
Not yet.
By evening, the first test sluice dropped into place. It was simple—two pivot posts, a notched plank, and interlocking edges. Crude, but functional.
The sea rose.
The tide surged.
And the sluice bent the flow—not blocked it, but shaped it. Water hissed along the new curve, diverted into the trench Alec had sketched and carved the day prior.
The impact had not been defeated.
But it had been bled.
The workers stood beside him, still in their boots, shirts soaked in salt spray.
"Not bad," the millwright muttered.
"It's one tooth," Alec said. "We're building the gear."
The roofwright grinned. "Gods help the sea, then."
They nodded.
Not in loyalty.
In possibility.
A shift had begun.
Turning Soil
The next morning, Alec walked inland, where the ruined marshland met what was once usable farmland. He stepped carefully, boots squelching into sour mud. Every third step sank deeper than the last. The smell of rot and brine clung to the reeds.
Corden, the village reeve, waited near a splintered fence post, arms folded, flanked by three laborers who looked less like farmers and more like men trying not to drown in land.
"You think you can plant food in this?" Corden asked.
"No," Alec replied. "Not yet."
He knelt, unwrapped a bundle from his satchel, and poured a handful of ash-colored dust into the dirt.
"What's that?" Corden squinted.
"Pulverized limestone. Burned husk ash. Powdered clay."
"Witchcraft?"
"Drainage amendment," Alec said, rising. "It balances soil acidity. Seals the bottom layer. Helps roots cling. We'll seed reedgrass next—salt-resistant, fast-growing. Cut it, mulch it. Do it again. Four times minimum."
"And if it fails?"
"It still chokes less than what you've got now."
Corden didn't answer.
But the workers behind him started copying Alec's steps.
By midday, trenches were dug—a triple-ring design. The outer channel drained excess water. The middle stored it. The innermost trench would, in time, become the new rootline.
The villagers worked slowly.
But they didn't stop.
That night, someone knocked on Alec's temporary bunkhouse door.
A boy.
He didn't speak. Just held up a handful of chalk.
Alec gave him more.
The First Proof
On the fourth day, the sea hit harder than before.
The wind howled. The tide surged. The partially complete sluice basin screamed beneath the weight of waves that crashed like thrown stones.
But the flow held.
It bent.
It bled off into the trench.
When morning came, the road was slick but unbroken.
The wharf was still shattered.
The town still ugly.
But it had not drowned.
And that changed everything.
Alec stood at the trench mouth, arms crossed. A boy walked along the compacted sand, dragging a stick.
He didn't fall in.
The masons were already at work. No prompting. The roofwright was muttering about anchoring thresholds. The millwright cursed at a lazy apprentice.
Work moved. Without his hand.
Progress had begun to breathe.
Messages and Meaning
That afternoon, as Alec chalked the slope angles for the secondary trench, Teren—the quiet courier—approached.
"Message," Teren said.
Alec didn't look up. "From Armathane?"
"Indirect." Teren paused. "The duchess hasn't spoken. But others are listening."
"Let them."
"She'll want numbers soon. Plans. Proof."
"She'll get results," Alec said, standing.
Teren didn't move. "She doesn't want progress, Alec. She wants certainty."
Alec stared toward the estuary, where foam swirled like breath through stone teeth. His chalk scratched across slate as he drew a clean arc.
"Then I'll give her the future."
Teren said nothing more.
A Wall Against the Sea
By the fifth night, half the seawall stood firm. Two of the three marsh-ring trenches were complete. The first reedgrass plot had broken through—tiny shoots, green and defiant.
It wasn't beauty.
But it was hope.
Alec walked the seawall just before sundown, counting bolts. Checking alignment. He paused near an unfinished arch where two younger builders rested.
One looked up.
"Why do you care?" the boy asked.
Alec blinked. "About what?"
"Fixing this."
Alec stared at the sea.
"Because it's broken."
The boy hesitated. "So's the world."
Alec nodded.
"Then I'll fix that too."
The boys exchanged a glance. Neither laughed.
They went back to work.
Ledger Entry – Day Seven
Alec wrote by lantern light, ink thin but steady.
Grendale no longer drowns. The villagers no longer scoff. The sea still threatens, but we shape its fists into ropes and channels. The soil has not yielded, but it breathes. One more ring, and we begin planting.
They do not trust me yet.
But they follow.
Grendale has begun to breathe.
He signed the entry with a single letter:
A.
Then he extinguished the flame.
And listened to the sea, now quieter than before.