The next morning came with cold mist and the scent of damp moss. Levi woke early, rising from Mae's floor bedding with more stiffness than usual. But something inside him buzzed—a nervous energy that wouldn't let him lie around.
Outside, the fog clung low to the earth, swallowing most of the marshland path. Chickens clucked near the fence, and Jory was already stirring the morning fire. Harwin sat outside sharpening a blade, though he had no battle to fight today.
Levi stepped out, clutching a roll of papyrus and the stubby quill he'd been given yesterday.
"You look like a lord with that paper," Harwin teased without looking up.
"I don't know what I look like," Levi muttered, then sighed. "But I've work to do."
By midday, he and Harwin walked toward the struggling village again—this time with a wagon carrying what Levi could spare: bundles of dried swampberry loaves, smoked lizard meat, two small kegs of ale, and a bundle of that rough cloth Mae had woven last summer.
The people greeted them with caution. The same boy from before—the one with tangled hair and cautious eyes—stepped forward. His name, Levi learned, was Wyll.
"You came back," Wyll said. Not a question. Just wonder.
Levi nodded. "And I meant what I said. I'm not here to save you all, but I want to build something. Something that'll last."
He explained the plan: to build a house near the marsh path with storage in the back, where food and supplies could be kept safely. It would take weeks, maybe months, but he'd pay anyone who helped.
Not everyone believed him. An old woman scoffed. A thin teen muttered about false hopes. But Harwin stepped in, laying his hand on the wagon's edge.
"He may be soft-spoken," Harwin said, "but I've seen him stand before Lord Stark himself. He's no liar."
By the end of the day, four youths and two elders agreed to help. Levi wrote their names down on the papyrus carefully, his letters crooked but readable. One of the elders, a woman named Elsbet, offered a rusted hammer and a memory of how her husband once laid stone.
That evening, Levi returned to Mae's hut and asked her if she knew anyone with building experience. After some thought, Mae mentioned a man named Old Bran, once a woodsman with a knack for sturdy roofing and shed frames. He lived closer to the salt trail but might be convinced to help.
With Harwin's help, Levi planned to visit the man within the next few days.
That night, when no one was watching, Levi slipped out from Mae's hut. The moon hung low over the bogs, and mist still lingered like a ghostly veil.
He walked quietly to the chosen spot near the marsh path—land firm enough for a foundation but close to both the village and Bogwater.
From the shadows of his cloak, he summoned them: two hundred wood planks and two hundred mossy stone slabs, dropped in small clusters so as not to be noticed. The noise was quiet, barely a whisper against the breeze.
"Two hundred each should be enough," he muttered, looking at the growing piles with a mix of awe and dread.
He tucked his hands into his sleeves. "Start small... build up. Don't waste it."
Then he turned back to the path, heart racing not from the cheat, but from what came next.
He wasn't a lord. He wasn't even a proper builder.
But maybe... maybe this was how it started.
The morning after his quiet midnight summoning, Levi walked down the trail again—this time with purpose. The air was crisper now, tinged with salt and pine, as he made his way toward the salt trail where Old Bran was said to live.
Harwin had drawn him a crude map on a strip of bark. "Follow the mossy stones," he'd said, "and you'll smell his pipe before you see him."
Sure enough, not long after a bend near an old willow, Levi saw a shack built half into the earth, its roof sagging with sod. Smoke curled lazily from a crooked chimney. Outside sat an old man with a white beard long enough to rest on his belly, carving a length of wood while a hound lay at his feet.
"You're the boy who's stirring the village," Bran said, without looking up.
"I guess I am," Levi replied. "You must be Old Bran."
"Aye. Mae sent word through her niece. Said a fool wanted to build a home."
Levi chuckled awkwardly. "A home. With a storage room. Nothing fancy. Just… something real."
Bran finally met his eyes. "And silver?"
Levi reached into his coat and produced the pouch. He opened it and held out a pinch of silver stags—more than most men earned in a season.
Bran raised a brow but didn't smile. "Steep price. But you'll get good timber joints, and a roof that don't leak in the autumn."
"That's all I ask."
The old man took the silver, weighing it with a nod. "We'll start after two sunrises. I'll bring the tools. You get the land ready."
"I've already brought materials," Levi said, trying not to sound suspicious. "Wood and stone, near the marsh path."
Bran grunted. "Then I hope your stone's not soft bog scrap. But we'll see."
As Levi turned to leave, the old man added, "You build something for yourself, it changes how the village sees you. You build something for them… they never forget."
The words stuck with him on the walk back. It wasn't just about food or coins anymore. If he wanted to build a place in this world, he had to build with it.