The sun sank slowly over Lowlands Edge, its final light stretching into long shadows that bled across the uneven thatched roofs and crooked beams. The settlement seemed caught between decay and survival, as though it clung to existence by sheer stubbornness.
Ethan stood at the edge of what had once been a granary. At least, that was what the locals claimed. To him, it looked like nothing more than a ruin. The walls were patched with uneven layers of mud, mottled like diseased skin. Stones at the base had long since eroded away, leaving the structure leaning precariously, as if one strong wind might send it tumbling like a drunkard too weary to find his way home.
He crouched down, resting his hand on one of the warped timbers. It gave an uneasy creak beneath his touch, reminding him how fragile everything here truly was.
Beside him, Steward Marn rubbed his palms together against the creeping chill of dusk. The old man's voice carried both weariness and memory.
"This used to be the masons' guild, milord. When I was a boy, they built arches and stone hearths fit for nobles. Now?" His lips twisted into a bitter line. "Just rats and echoes."
Ethan's gaze lingered on the collapsed walls and the stagnant pools that had gathered at the foundation. Every corner of the structure told a story of neglect. No grading for water runoff. No proper drainage. No consistency in method. The houses in this village weren't built, they were prayed into existence, held together more by desperation than by design.
He straightened slowly. "Did you get what I asked for?"
"Yes," Marn said, pulling a rolled parchment from his satchel. "But the map only covers Ironwood Province and what lies within it. Beyond that…" He shook his head.
"And the books?"
"I managed to find a few. Not much, old handbooks, mostly but it's something."
"That's enough." Ethan gave a short nod. "I'll study them later."
He dropped to one knee, scooping a fistful of clay-rich soil into his palm. The earth crumbled between his fingers, leaving streaks of brown across his skin. He watched it fall, and in that moment his decision solidified.
"We're not fixing this," he said firmly. "We're starting over from scratch."
Marn blinked. "From scratch? With what? We've neither the men nor the coin to rebuild an entire quarter of the village."
"This," Ethan replied, holding up the clump of soil. "Mud, straw, wood. Whatever we have at hand. We'll move one step at a time."
The steward frowned, clearly unconvinced. But Ethan had already turned toward the cluster of laborers waiting nearby. Farmers, hunters, a handful of old craftsmen, men and women who had been pressed into work simply because they had no better choice. Their eyes reflected only caution and doubt.
Ethan raised his voice so all could hear.
"We start with mud bricks. Mold them by hand or with wooden frames, then dry them under the sun. The Egyptians built like this for centuries, and their walls stood the test of time. We'll reinforce with straw for strength."
His words were met with blank stares. Some of the workers exchanged glances, others scratched their heads. To them, his instructions sounded like riddles.
Ethan exhaled softly. He had expected as much. He turned and beckoned forward to the young woman standing near the front, Lina, but sharp-eyed and quick to learn. In the past weeks, she had proven to be the clearest voice among them, someone the villagers actually listened to.
"Lina," Ethan said. "Tell them: chop straw into short lengths, bring water from the well, and dig clay-rich soil from the bend in the river. We'll mix it together and press it into wooden frames. By tomorrow, we'll have a test batch ready to dry."
She nodded without hesitation and spun toward the crowd. Her voice, though not loud, carried with surprising authority. "You heard the lord! Chop the straw fine, don't bring me long stalks. The rest of you, fetch water and dig earth from the bend, not the fields!"
Her tone brooked no argument. Villagers scattered quickly, moving more at her insistence than at Ethan's earlier explanation.
Marn crossed his arms. "And what about roofs, milord?"
"Wooden rafters where we can, packed clay or thatch for insulation, and wattle-and-daub walls," Ethan replied without pause. "Later, when we have kilns, we'll improve on it. But for now, it's enough to keep out the wind and rain."
Marn hesitated, his brows furrowed. The young lord's sudden decisiveness unsettled him more than the plan itself. "Milord… your body is still weak. These inspections, these plans, you should leave the burden to me. Rest while you can. The people will follow my word."
Ethan's expression hardened. He turned, fixing the steward with a steady gaze. "Marn. I lived powerless once because someone else shielded me. But I cannot stay powerless in the face of this ruin." His voice lowered, carrying a quiet intensity. "The people need knowledge, order, and a plan. If I want their respect, I can't remain the child you've always guarded."
For a moment, Marn simply stared. The boy he had once known seemed to have vanished, replaced by someone with eyes far older than his years. His heart wavered. For a fleeting second, he wondered if Ethan had been possessed by some wandering spirit. But no, the conviction in his gaze was unmistakably human.
By evening, the first crude molds had been pressed into shape. Men pounded clay with wooden paddles, their backs slick with sweat. Children ran to and fro with bundles of straw strapped to their shoulders. Even the elders, usually bent over their own small tasks, carried jars of water from the well.
The village square, usually sluggish with apathy, buzzed with motion. For the first time in years, the people moved with purpose.
Ethan stood at the center of the muddy square, his boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. Before him lay a row of rough, sun-darkened bricks, misshapen, uneven, but solid. They weren't grand, nor heroic. Just bricks. Yet each brick was a seed of change. Bricks made walls. Walls made homes. And homes… homes gave birth to hope.
The thought tightened something in his chest. He narrowed his eyes at the horizon, where the last rays of sunlight bled crimson across the sky.
He whispered to himself, words carried away by the evening wind:
"This is where the foundation begins."