The next day, a morning fog clung to the rough paths of Lowlands Edge, a heavy mist that seemed like the weary earth itself exhaling. Ethan, the young baron of this forgotten frontier, sat beside the crumbling watchtower on a low rise, gazing down at the town: clustered shacks leaning like tired men, fences reduced to splinters, and mire-stained paths that sank under every footstep.
The name Lowlands Edge felt both fitting and tragic—a settlement of strangers clinging to the edge of the world, scraping by on nothing but hope and stubbornness.
He set his canvas on a flat boulder, weighing it down with stones, charcoal in hand. In his mind's eye the town changed: straight stone-paved roads replaced the muck, a marketplace bustled with trade, workshops stood ready for artisans and farmers. A brook meandered along the southern edge, feeding an irrigation basin to tame the floods. At the heart of it all rose a sturdy town hall—a refuge, a symbol of permanence.
The vision poured from him onto the canvas, each line sharp and relentless, driven by a mind that refused to rest.
The crunch of boots broke his focus. Ethan turned. Master Halward, the brickmaker his steward had praised, approached with two apprentices. Their clothes were caked in clay and dust.
"Milord," Halward rasped, bowing stiffly.
Ethan brushed the charcoal from his hands and rose. "Tell me, Master Halward—do you know how to make cement?"
"Cement?" The brickmaker frowned, confused. His apprentices exchanged glances.
"Something that sets like stone," Ethan said, crouching to sketch a crude rotary kiln in the dust. "Limestone, kilns, steady heat, water control. We'll need lime from the hills, ash from your fires, and plenty of clay from the riverbanks."
Halward's eyes widened, then narrowed in thought. "There's lime in the eastern cliffs, milord. Ash and clay too. But this… cement—how is it made?"
"Burn limestone until it crumbles into quicklime," Ethan explained quickly, his hands moving as if the words themselves needed drawing. "Slake it with water, mix with ash. Volcanic ash would be best, but crushed brick or plant ash might serve. Add sand—you'll have mortar. Hard, weather-resistant. Roads won't drown in the rains, houses won't collapse."
Halward scratched his grizzled chin. "We don't have volcanic ash here."
"Then we'll experiment," Ethan said firmly. "Crushed brick, clay, whatever binds. Begin quarrying limestone today. Build a kiln tomorrow—I'll design the venting myself."
The brickmaker hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding. "We'll try it, milord."
When Halward and his apprentices left, Ethan exhaled. Cement for roads, mortar for houses, canals for the fields, sewers to carry away the waste—without these, Lowlands Edge would always sink into the mire.
---
By afternoon, Ethan and Lina walked the eastern quarter, where the fields lay choked with weeds and stagnant pools. They met farmers and elders, faces as weathered as the land itself.
"Land floods every Rainmoon," an elder named Torren muttered, pointing to sodden ridges. "Seeds rot. Nothing grows but weeds."
Ethan studied the lay of the soil, the natural rises along the edges. "We'll dig canals—deep, lined with gravel and clay. Drain the excess water, and you'll sow crops again."
The farmers traded doubtful looks. One finally asked, "You'd… farm, milord?"
Ethan's lips curved faintly. "No. You will. I'll prepare the land."
Torren's gaze narrowed. "And what will it cost us?"
Ethan's chest tightened. The coffers were nearly empty, the people bartering scraps to survive. Demanding free labor would only sour their trust. He glanced at Lina before answering.
"Work the canals, and you'll eat from the town's stores—grain, soup, whatever we have. When the harvest comes, the first plots will be yours. Build the kilns, and you'll be paid in tools or bricks. This isn't my town—it's ours."
The murmurs that followed were mixed—some hopeful, some wary. Torren folded his arms. "Fair words, milord. Let's see if your canals hold."
---
That evening, Ethan sat in the sagging town hall, its beams groaning overhead. The table before him was cluttered with drawings: foundations for a hall, arches for a bridge, plans for worker barracks. His fingers were smudged with charcoal and dirt, his body weary to the bone.
Lina entered quietly, setting down a steaming bowl of barley soup. Her gaze lingered on the messy sketches.
"Are you really going to help them?" she asked softly.
"Yes," Ethan replied, eyes still fixed on his plans. "My father neglected them. But if I am to rule, I need more than obedience. I need their trust. Without it, how can I ever hope to lead?"
Her brows furrowed. "And what about you? Your body is still weak. Why not let Marn handle it?"
Ethan finally looked up, exhaustion in his eyes but also fire. "Because I want to see what they can do. If they rise to this… then so will I."