Ethan stood inside the new Town Hall, a building that no longer resembled the ruin it once was. Only weeks ago, its roof had sagged, its walls were covered in mold, and the floors had been so warped they were almost unsafe to cross. Now the hall was sturdy and clean. White plaster brightened the walls, fresh timber supported the roof, and neat maps of Greyrest hung in order where rot had once spread.
But Ethan's mind was not on the beauty of the hall. His attention fixed on the great map pinned to the far wall. Today, his concern was water.
Greyrest had always depended on the eastern spring. For years, villagers had carried muddy buckets from it, often mixing their supply with waste along the way. It had been the cause of countless sicknesses. Recently, Ethan had set up filtration beds at the spring, simple layers of gravel, sand, and cloth. For the first time in memory, the villagers drank water that was clean. Children no longer coughed after drinking. Mothers no longer whispered their fears about fever spreading from the wells.
Still, this was only the beginning.
Ethan tapped the map with a stick of charcoal.
"Access is still limited. Two public water points for the whole town. Four neighborhoods competing for them. That won't hold."
Lina, standing at his side as always, leaned closer to study the marks on the parchment. Her eyes moved across the symbols: the lower fields, the market square, the tannery district. She frowned.
"Even with the filters working, we can't stretch pipes everywhere. Not yet. The cost would break us."
"We don't need to run them everywhere," Ethan replied. He circled three faded marks on the map. "There used to be water towers here, here, and here. They're ruins now. If we restore even one, we can double what we're getting from the spring."
Lina raised a brow. "The villagers don't have that kind of skill."
"They don't need to," Ethan said with a small smile. "I'll direct. They'll build. Most of it is just stone, clay, and patience."
The next morning, Ethan called the apprentices to the hall, a group of restless teenagers who had finished with wall repairs weeks ago. They were eager for something new. Ethan set clay piping on the table and showed them how to cut sections, fit them together, and seal the joints with resin and hemp. For longer runs, he explained how trenches had to be dug with a slight slope so gravity carried the flow.
The boys laughed when their first attempts sent water spilling sideways, but Ethan made them try again until the channels ran smooth.
"No shortcuts," he warned. "A bad trench doesn't just waste water. It leaks, floods, and poisons the ground."
The villagers joined in. Old pipes scavenged from abandoned estates were hauled out, cleaned, and reused. Broken tiles became filler. Clay jars and stones were repurposed as plugs and joints. For the first time, ruin itself became a resource.
The work spread across Greyrest. Men hauled stone, women packed clay, children carried water to cool the workers. What began as Ethan's plan slowly turned into the town's shared effort. People weren't just fixing something for him. They were building something that belonged to them all.
By the end of the week, the first distribution trench stretched from the eastern spring to the lower fields. Water ran into a carved trough, clear and steady. Villagers crowded to see it. Mothers filled jars, farmers washed vegetables, and children splashed their hands in the flow. Laughter filled the air louder than the trickle of water itself.
But Ethan wasn't done.
At the next gathering in the hall, Ethan stood before the crowd. His voice was firm.
"Water without sanitation is useless. If we drink clean but live in filth, sickness will still spread."
Murmurs rippled across the benches.
So Ethan set new orders. Apprentices were taught to dig composting latrines near the neighborhoods, each sealed with lids and lined with ash. Wash areas were built away from drinking basins. Families attended simple workshops on hygiene, washing before meals, keeping waste separate from food, boiling when uncertain.
The market was next. Vendors were told to store water in sealed clay jars. A shallow drainage slope was dug into the square so puddles wouldn't collect. Chickens and pigs were banned from roaming between the stalls.
"This is nonsense," a butcher muttered, wiping his bloody hands on an apron. "Water is water."
Ethan didn't shout. He simply pointed to the man's hands.
"The cleaner we stay, the less time we spend sick. Do you want your children coughing in bed or helping in the fields?" His gaze swept the crowd. "This is not for my comfort. It's survival."
Few argued after that.
Signs were carved in plain letters and placed across Greyrest: CLEAN HANDS. CLEAN WATER. CLEAN TOWN.
It was simple, and everyone could read it. Slowly, the grumbling faded.
Three weeks into the work, Greyrest gained its first symbol of progress. At the meeting point of three trenches in the lower fields, villagers worked together to raise a small fountain. Hayward, the mason, shaped stone into a simple basin, sealed with clay, and polished until it held water tight.
When the first trickle spilled over the lip, cheers erupted. Women bent to fill jars. Children crowded close to splash in the steady flow. For the first time, water had come to them instead of the other way around.
That evening, Ethan walked the fields at sunset. The last buckets were lifted from the new fountain, and families carried their jars home. The ridges beyond Greyrest glowed faintly in the fading light. Children ran between the rows with wet hair and broad smiles.
Lina walked beside him, quiet as always. She glanced at him before speaking softly.
"They're starting to believe."
Ethan gave a short nod, eyes still on the fountain.
"Belief is good," he said. "But systems last longer than belief. We'll need both."
The sound of water carried in the air, steady and constant.