Day 52.
The blizzard outside was blinding. The wind screamed against the stone walls of Fort Blackiron, piling snow high against the ramparts.
But inside the "Warm Garden" (the Greenhouse), it was another world.
Rian pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the humid, golden twilight. He stopped, taking a deep breath.
It didn't smell of snow. It smelled of Life.
Before him stood rows upon rows of tall, golden stalks. The Iron-Husk Barley stood waist-high, heavy with grain, swaying gently in the warm air currents rising from the heated floor.
Caelum, the Wood Elf, was walking between the rows, touching the stalks with a proud smile.
"They are ready, My Lord," Caelum said softly. "They have drunk the heat and the magic. They are sleeping now, waiting for the blade."
Rian walked into the field. He plucked a single grain head. It felt heavy and hard, like a bag of gravel.
"Iron-Husk," Rian muttered. "Let's see if you are as tough as they say."
"Sound the bell," Rian ordered Hance. "Today, we harvest."
The Battle of the Barn
An hour later, the entire population was in the greenhouse.
Men, women, and children worked with sickles (which Grom had forged).
Swish. Swish.
The golden stalks fell. Children gathered them into bundles. Women carried them to the threshing floor.
But the joy quickly turned into confusion.
"My Lord!" a serf shouted, holding a wooden flail (a tool to beat grain). "It won't open! I've been beating this bundle for ten minutes. The husk won't crack!"
Rian walked over. He picked up a handful of harvested grain.
The outer shell (husk) was black and incredibly hard. He tried to crush it with his fingernail. It didn't dent. He tried to bite it.
Crack.
He almost chipped a tooth.
"It's like biting a rock," Varg grumbled, spitting out a seed. "How are we supposed to eat this? Boil it for a week?"
Caelum nodded. "That is why the Empire banned it. The energy is locked inside an armor. You need a hammer to eat it."
"A hammer..." Rian's eyes lit up.
He looked towards the wall where the main drive shaft from the Water Wheel passed through.
He didn't need a hammer. He needed Friction.
"Grom!" Rian shouted. "Stop making nails. I need two millstones. Big ones. And carve grooves in them!"
The First Industrial Mill
By afternoon, the forge had been transformed.
Rian had diverted the power from the Trip Hammer to a new machine: The Grist Mill.
Two massive circular stones, carved from local granite, sat one on top of the other. The top stone was connected to the rotating water-wheel shaft via a wooden gear system.
"Pour it!" Rian commanded.
Hance poured a sack of the rock-hard Iron-Husk Barley into the funnel at the top.
Rian pulled the lever.
The gears groaned. The Water Wheel outside fought against the current. The massive top stone began to spin.
Grrr... GRRRRR...
The sound was terrible—like rocks screaming.
The hard barley fell between the heavy stones.
CRUNCH. CRACK. POP.
For a moment, the machine slowed down, struggling against the hardness of the grain. Grom held his breath, fearing the wooden gears would snap.
But the river was stronger. The wheel kept turning. The stones kept grinding.
And then, from the chute at the bottom...
White Dust.
Fine, white flour poured out, leaving the black, shattered husks behind in the sieve.
"Flour!" a woman screamed in delight. "Real flour!"
The crowd cheered. They watched the white powder pile up like snow—but this was the kind of snow that would keep them alive.
The Feast of the First Winter
That evening, the smell of Fort Blackiron changed forever.
It wasn't the smell of fish soup anymore.
It was the sweet, warm, intoxicating smell of Baking Bread.
The cooks had used the flour, mixed it with water and a bit of saved yeast, and baked flatbreads on hot stones.
Rian sat at the head of the long table in the mess hall. 280 people sat with him.
Silence fell as the baskets of bread were brought out.
Rian took the first piece. It was dense, slightly dark, and steaming hot.
He took a bite.
It was nutty, rich, and filling. It tasted of victory.
"Eat," Rian commanded.
The hall erupted. Men stuffed bread into their mouths, weeping. Children licked the crumbs from their fingers.
For the ex-bandits, this was a revelation. They had lived on stolen scraps. Now, they were eating fresh bread grown by their own hands.
Varg stood up, holding his piece of bread like a trophy.
"To the Lord of Iron!" Varg roared.
"To the Lord of Iron!" the crowd thundered back.
[Ding! Morale Update]
Current Morale: 95/100 (Fanatical).
Population Health: Rising.
Hunger: Eliminated.
Rian watched them eat. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Caelum.
"You turned stones into bread," the Elf whispered. "Maybe humans aren't so bad."
Rian smiled, breaking another piece of bread.
"We are full today, Caelum. But tomorrow..."
Rian looked at the black husk pile left over from the milling.
"Tomorrow, we need to find something that bites harder than this grain."
He glanced at his Intel Log.
The Sulfur.
The feast was over. It was time to build the weapon.
End of Chapter 29