The sorrow only made him work harder. If he couldn't have his own blood yet, he would adopt the world.
His wealth was expanding rapidly. Thirty workers were no longer enough. He expanded the "Green Tunic" clan. He hired seventy men and seventy women, paying them a revolutionary monthly wage. He built them warm, stone-floored houses.
But his true legacy arrived in wagons. From the starving villages across the fjords, he purchased and rescued one hundred orphans. He remembered Runa, freezing in the mud, and he refused to let another child die that way.
He built a massive, warm longhall for them. He stood before the hundred skinny, terrified children, alongside Runa, who was now a confident twelve-year-old.
"This is not a farm," Bilal told them, pacing before the fire. "This is a school."
He taught them Arabic numerals. He taught them geometry. He taught them to boil their water and wash their hands.
His bond with Runa in these years was beautiful and pure. She was his shadow. She sat on his shoulders while he drafted blueprints. When he was exhausted, rubbing his temples at the accounting desk, Runa would quietly bring him a cup of hot water and honey, placing her small hand on his massive arm. She was his anchor to humanity.
To the outside world, Bilal was a terrifying warlord who hoarded gold and controlled the food. The neighboring Jarls seethed with a toxic, burning jealousy. Their own thralls were whispering about the "Giant's Utopia," where servants ate beef and slept in warm beds.
The Jarls knew that if the Giant's philosophy spread, their feudal power would collapse. The whispering turned to plotting.