Moon lingered near the edge of the fields as the sun climbed higher, watching the bustle unfold. Fifteen tents now dotted the open ground, their rough seams snapping in the breeze. Smoke from hastily lit cookfires curled upward, carrying the faint, earthy scent of porridge.
The serfs queued in uneven lines, collecting wooden bowls with reluctant hands. Their expressions soured at the sight of the meal—thin porridge with only a few strips of meat floating on top. Moon studied their faces, taking in the quiet frowns and the occasional hiss of whispered complaint.
So this is what the past lord allowed, he thought. He let them grow wings, selling grain as if they owned it. No wonder they've forgotten what they are.
Moon's eyes narrowed. These people were supposed to be bound to the land,no better than slaves, yet many looked well-fed—some even rounder than the common folk who scraped to buy their food. Enough of that nonsense. They'll remember their place soon enough.
Not that he intended to starve or mistreat them. But discipline had to return. The food they now turned their noses at would have made a common villager drop to their knees in gratitude.
I'll need eyes on them, he mused. Guards who knew hunger and resentment well enough to stay alert. Who better than those forced to pay outrageous prices just to eat?
A thin smile appeared on his lips as he beckoned to a nearby guard.
"Find the Knight-Generals," he ordered. "Tell them I invite them to dine with me tonight."
The guard bowed and hurried off. Moon faced Bradwell, a thin smile returning.
"Let's head back to the estate," he said. "We have more to discuss."
**
The late-afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of the study room as Moon entered with Bradwell at his side. Two men were already waiting: a stocky, soot-smudged miner and a wiry craftsman with clay under his fingernails.
Bradwell gestured toward them. "My lord, may I present Oren Hale, overseer of the Ridgewell mines, and Garrick Fen, master tile-maker of the market square."
Both men bowed deeply.
Oren straightened first, broad-shouldered and sun-worn. "My lord, I've managed the Ironvein and Graypick crews these ten years."
Garrick followed, voice careful. "Garrick Fen, at your service. I supply most of the bricks and roof tiles for Ridgewell."
Moon nodded, studying them a moment. "Good. We have work to discuss. Sit."
The men exchanged a glance and lowered themselves onto the seats opposite him.
"Before we begin," Moon said, "tell me briefly: Oren, how many men do you currently have in the major mine?"
"Eight hundred regulars, my lord, and a handful of day labourers when the load is heavy. "
"And you, Garrick—your kiln capacity?"
"Three small kilns, enough for tiles and a few brick orders each week. Nothing larger."
Moon leaned forward, satisfied. He began to describe the firing and grinding process, the mixture with clay and sand, the heat required for a proper burn. Oren and Garrick listened, their expressions shifting from polite curiosity to open fascination as the young lord outlined a method neither had heard from any master or merchant.
Oren's brow furrowed as Moon finished sketching the final step of the process on a scrap of parchment.
"Burn the limestone that hot, grind it fine, then mix with clay and sand," Moon concluded. "The result will be stronger than any mud brick."
For a long moment the room was silent but for the hiss of the hearth.
Oren finally exhaled a low whistle. "I've overseen eight hundred men at Ironvein for fifteen years, my lord, and never heard of such a method. If what you say holds, we could build bridges that outlast the mountain itself."
Garrick's calloused fingers tapped the table. "A mortar that sets like stone… with that, even the heaviest roof won't sag. I can fire a hot kiln, but these temperatures and the grinding… it will be a challenge. A welcome one."
Bradwell glanced between them, clearly impressed despite himself.
Moon leaned back, hiding a small smile. "Good. Challenges are where we grow.
Now—before we start pouring stone—we need to set terms."
He slid two parchment sheets across the table, each stamped with a neat heading in bold ink: CONTRACT.
Oren's thick eyebrows rose. "My lord?"
"These outline new responsibilities and pay for the work ahead," Moon said evenly. "Read before you sign. Your service will be critical to Ridgewell's future."
Garrick hesitated, eyes flicking over the crisp lines of script as though he would magically understand what it says.
Moon tapped the parchment in front of Oren first.
"This is yours," he said, voice steady. "It names you Overseer of the Ironvein and Graypick Mines. You'll manage as much miners as needed in both mines. Your pay will be two gold royals per month. You'll keep both sites running in shifts so production never stops, and you'll have one day of rest each week. In return, you guard the mine's methods and output as a state secret. Leak it, and the penalty is death."
Oren's weathered face barely moved, but a flicker of surprise showed in his eyes. "Two gold royals… and authority over both pits."
He nodded once, solemn. "Understood, my lord."
Moon turned to the second sheet and lifted it so Garrick could see the bold header.
"This one names you Minister of Construction. You'll work only for Ridgewell, report daily to the Town Hall, and take one day off each week. You'll design and supervise kilns, new housing, and—when the cement proves itself—larger civic projects. Pay is one and a half gold royals per month. Miss work without notice or reveal any town plan, and the punishment is dismissal or, for betrayal, the gallows."
Garrick stared, throat working. "My lord… I—"
He stopped, lowering his gaze. "I cannot read."
Moon raised a brow. "Then why nod as if you had?"
Garrick lowered his head. "I did not wish to offend."
With a quiet sigh, Moon read every line aloud, deliberate and clear. The fire popped; Bradwell listened with widening eyes, no longer bothering to hide his astonishment at the young lord's precision.
When Moon finished, he set the parchment flat. "Any questions?"
Garrick swallowed hard. "Only this: may I prove worthy of the trust."
He pressed an inked thumb to the bottom of the page, leaving a dark print. Oren followed with a bold signature of his own.
Moon nodded. "Good. Begin preparations immediately. Build stronger, larger kilns. Once the first batch of cement succeeds, we scale up. I'll authorize more laborers—but their wages will be lower," he added, glancing at Bradwell, whose shoulders sagged in relief.
"Understood, my lord," Oren said.
Garrick bowed deeply. "We'll not fail you."
Moon gathered the signed contracts with a faint smile. "Then Ridgewell's new foundations start today."