Four weeks.
It had been exactly four weeks since Lord Viktor Redwood arrived in Millbrook.
And the transformation was nothing short of miraculous.
Main Street—if you could even call it that anymore—stretched through the heart of the village like a merchant's dream come to life. Wooden stalls lined both sides of the dirt road, some freshly painted, others still smelling of sawdust and pine. Banners fluttered in the evening breeze, displaying crude but enthusiastic symbols: a loaf of bread for the baker, a hammer for the smith, herbs tied in bundles for the apothecary.
The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. But there was another light—one that dominated the horizon with impossible presence.
The Tower.
It stood in the distance, easily visible from every corner of Millbrook. Purple and pink light pulsed from its surface in rhythmic waves, like a heartbeat made visible. The structure pierced the clouds, defying every law of architecture and physics.
