The first heavy rains came earlier than expected. Thick sheets of water blanketed the marsh and softened every step. What was once solid ground near the new houses turned to sucking mud, and for once, even Levi wished the swamp would just dry up and stay dry.
But the buildings held. The roofs didn't leak, the storage hut remained dry, and Mae's old cottage felt warmer than usual despite the season's damp claw. After months of work, of cutting wood, moving stone, drying swampgrass, and trading swampberries for bread and cheese, Bogwater stood taller than it ever had.
And that was the problem.
Levi stood outside the nearly finished storage barn, frowning at a stack of moldy bundles. Some of the rushgrass had spoiled—the roof had been late going up, and the rain came early. A minor setback, but one that gnawed at him. If they couldn't store their goods, they couldn't trade. And if they couldn't trade, they couldn't grow.
He made a mental note to reorganize the shelves and salvage what he could. But that didn't solve the bigger issue.
"What now?" he muttered.
Jory passed by, helping two younger boys lift a heavy crate into the barn. They'd come from the outer marsh a week ago. One had bruises on his arm and avoided questions. The other spoke of an uncle who beat him for wasting food.
And yet here they were—working. Staying.
Levi hadn't promised them safety. But maybe he was becoming that promise.
That night, under Mae's roof, he sat with a smudged ledger and an aching back. The tea was warm, but the quiet was colder.
"I need goods," he said aloud, mostly to himself.
"No," Mae replied from across the room. "You need time."
Levi blinked. "I don't follow."
"You've built faster than most ever do. Don't burn the house down by rushing to fill it."
He thought about that long after she snuffed the candles.
The next morning brought more than rain. A figure in a patchy cloak returned from the treeline—familiar, limping slightly.
The stranger from weeks ago.
He'd left with nothing more than dried meat and bruised pride. Now he returned with mud-stained boots and a grin full of gossip.
"Word's spreading," he said, sipping broth by Levi's fire. "They say there's a boy in the bog raising walls like a Southron prince. One with coin and no lord."
Levi said nothing.
"Reckon it's true?" the man asked, eyeing the roof. "Coin and no lord?"
Levi shrugged. "Depends who's asking."
The stranger left by dusk, leaving only a tattered map behind. It marked small paths and waypoints Levi had never seen—some ruined, some still trading.
That night, Harwin came with a skin of drink and a frown deeper than usual.
"You've done well," the older man said. "Too well."
"That's... not how praise usually works."
Harwin didn't laugh. "You've drawn eyes. Not just marsh folk. Reeds hear things. So do the Freys. Even House Tallhart sends riders this far south now and then."
Levi went still. "You think they'll care?"
"Not yet," Harwin said. "But they will. And you'll need friends before they come asking what gives you the right to build."
Another day passed. Then another. The rains broke briefly, and during the lull, a young girl arrived. She was maybe ten, wrapped in a ragged cloak and dragging a broken-buckled satchel behind her. She said nothing for hours, just stared at the fire, refusing food until Mae coaxed her into a bite.
When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper.
"Men came. Burned what was left. Took who they could."
Levi offered her a blanket and a corner of the storage hut. Not because he knew what to do—but because no one else would.
By week's end, six more people had arrived. Word was truly spreading. Whether for food, safety, or work, they came.
And Levi felt it—the pull of something bigger than him. Not just a village. Not just a shelter.
A place.
But what kind? That was still unwritten.