Ethan stood atop the parapet of the half-collapsed watchtower, gazing down at the sprawl of Greyrest. Morning mist clung stubbornly to the ground, casting the town in a ghostly shroud. Yet even through the haze, its flaws stood starkly revealed.
Crooked shacks leaned against each other like drunks clinging for balance. Narrow alleys reeked of stagnant water. Ditches overflowed with refuse. The timber roads sagged where rot had eaten through them. And the wall, little more than a palisade barely taller than a man's shoulders, would not stop a determined child, much less a raiding band or a beast tide.
Beside him, Lina folded her arms against the morning chill. Her voice carried a trace of reverence.
"This is where your father used to stand," she said. "He told me from up here, you could see the soul of the town."
Ethan's gaze swept the ruins below. If this is the soul of Greyrest, then it is sick. And if it stays sick, it will die.
"I'll start with water first," he murmured.
His thoughts rearranged themselves into measurements and diagrams: gradients, load paths, line weights. He could almost feel the familiar heft of a pencil in his grip. Instead, he crouched, dragging a stick across the dirt.
"Lina," he asked without lifting his eyes, "how far is the river?"
"Eleven minutes east, if you walk quickly."
"Is it clean?"
Her hesitation was answer enough. "…Not anymore. Too much waste flows downstream."
"Take me there," Ethan said.
She nodded and turned. He followed.
The path to the river wound past fields left fallow and clusters of withered trees. When they reached the bank, Ethan stopped and stared.
The river should have been life. Instead, it stank faintly of decay. Patches of green algae clung to the water's edge, fed by years of careless dumping. Sluggish eddies swirled with debris: broken reeds, fragments of pottery, a half-rotten pelt from some butchered animal. Downstream, children filled buckets without hesitation, their thin frames proof of the sickness that plagued the town.
Ethan crouched, dipping his fingers into the flow. The water was murky, too warm, carrying a bitter aftertaste of silt and waste. He wiped his hand clean against his trousers.
"Unfit," he muttered. "At least here." He turned upstream, eyes narrowing. "But higher, before the filth… it might still be pure."
He knelt in the dirt, sketching again. Firm strokes cut into the soil.
"Then we'll build aqueducts. Gravity-fed. We'll tap the river upstream before the waste reaches it. Reservoir here. Filter beds here…"
His lines connected into a crude plan. To Lina, it was nothing but scrawl. To Ethan, it was survival given shape.
When he finally rose, brushing dirt from his hands, his tone was steady. "Let's go back."
By noon, Ethan sat alone in the manor's study. The room smelled of mildew and dust, its shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten ledgers. On the table lay a stack of parchment, crowded with inked lines.
Aqueduct schematics filled one sheet. Another detailed drainage revisions, diverting runoff into controlled channels. A third redrew Greyrest's crude street grid, widening lanes to allow carts and markets. Others showed reinforcements to the palisade, a sturdier gatehouse, towers positioned to cover blind spots.
The drawings were crude, straight lines drawn by hand, ink smudged where sweat touched the page but they were something Greyrest had not seen in years. A plan.
Ethan set his quill aside, flexing cramped fingers. This is the beginning. If I can impose order here, perhaps I can build a future too.
A knock broke the silence. "Enter," he called.
Steward Marn stepped in, his lined face etched with unease. His hands clasped behind his back like a man bracing for bad news.
"My lord," he began cautiously, "some of the masons are… unsettled. They say you've ordered the south wall torn down."
Ethan did not look up from his parchment. "Not torn down. Rebuilt. It's structurally unsound."
Marn's brows knitted. "And the granary? I heard you mean to dismantle it as well."
"Relocate," Ethan corrected. "The current site is too low. Poor ventilation breeds rot. If we move it uphill, the wind will keep it dry."
The steward shifted uneasily. "You want to change everything. But will the people obey? Greyrest is fragile. They fear too much upheaval."
Finally, Ethan lifted his eyes. They were calm, but unyielding.
"If we don't change, this town dies. One fire, one breach in the wall, one bad harvest and Greyrest will be nothing but ash and bones. Tell them this: better to rebuild now than bury later."
Marn swallowed, the weight of those words pressing against his doubt.
"Also," Ethan continued, "I want maps. If this town has any, old or new. And history books. Bring them."
The steward blinked. "Maps, my lord? History? What need have you of those?"
Before Ethan could answer, Lina's voice cut in softly from her corner.
"Because if he is to rule, he must be a good ruler. And a good ruler knows what he is doing."
Ethan allowed himself the faintest smile. "Exactly. See to it, Steward."
Marn bowed stiffly. "Yes, my lord." But as he turned to leave, his thoughts churned. This boy is not the same as before. Since the master's death… he has changed beyond recognition.
At the door, he paused. "Do you need anything else, my lord?"
"Not for now," Ethan replied. "But I will send for you if I do."
"Very well." Marn left, the door creaking shut behind him.
The study fell silent again. Ethan leaned back, eyes on his inked diagrams, but his hand stilled when Lina's whisper broke the quiet.
"You've changed," she said.
His fingers lingered on the parchment. For a heartbeat, her words weighed heavier than the future of Greyrest itself. She was right, he had changed, more than she could ever imagine. A soul not of this world now wore the face of her young master.
But he could not tell her that.
Instead, he exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on the lines he had drawn.
"Change is necessary," he said at last. "After all, my father is dead. I can't keep hiding anymore. If an attack comes and we're unprepared, none of us will survive."
Lina said nothing. She only watched him, her young eyes filled with questions she dared not voice.