Dust swirled in the air, hammers rang, timber clattered to the ground. The
new city was only in its foundations, yet it already felt as though it was
breathing. I walked forward with Marcel and Boris. At a large wooden table
stood Karrel, his expression grave. Beside him were Clara—with her calm, steady
gaze—and Thrain Stonehand, the silver-bearded dwarf with a small hammer hanging
at his belt.
"Your Majesty," Karrel greeted, "we're working on the city layout. Clara has
been helping with her ideas."
I nodded, then let my eyes rest on her. "And who is she?"
She bowed politely. "I am Clara, Your Majesty. Just a farmer… but Chairman
Karrel allowed me to assist. It is an honor."
"Marcel, Boris," I said, "send word to Erel. Make sure Clara receives fair
pay for her work."
We bent over the map. Clara pointed at the chalk lines. "The market in the
center. Four main streets leading there. Everyone at equal distance."
Karrel added, "We'll need a ring road, so the flow of goods won't choke the
market."
Thrain tapped the table with his hammer. "Eight gates. Warehouses outside
the ring. If they're in the center, freight wagons will jam the market every
morning."
I exhaled. "And water?"
Clara pointed toward the eastern river. "Draw channels into a public well.
More practical than digging a well in every house."
Thrain gave a firm nod. "I can build underground channels. Water must flow
right. A city survives only if its foundation and water are strong."
I set my finger on the map's edge. "Add a mana-train station. This city must
be linked directly to Caelora and the main lines."
Clara hesitated briefly, then spoke softly. "In that case… this city won't
be just a home. It could become a meeting place."
My gaze lingered on her longer than it should have. Her slight smile, the
light in her eyes, the way her finger traced the map—they all awakened
memories.
Clara… or Elara. The Oculus had already told me the truth, but I chose silence.
And each moment I looked at her, Laraswati's presence returned. The longing
never faded.
I lowered my head, pretending to busy myself with notes. The scribbles meant
nothing. The king's gaze on Clara… too long, too deep.
Our king never looked at common folk like that. Clara did have talent—I was
the one who brought her to this table after seeing her sense for space and
order. But now… was this still about skill, or something more?
I cleared my throat, then pointed at the map again. "Clara, check the
distance between the market and the warehouses. We can't have the morning grain
traffic cutting across people's path."
"Yes, Chairman. Western warehouses for produce, southern for building
supplies. The flows won't mix."
Thrain grunted in approval. "Finally, someone talking with their head."
I tapped the map once more. "Add a meeting hall near the market. A city
needs a place to speak, not only to trade."
I stood tall behind the king, but my heart was restless. My cough a moment
ago—my subtle reminder—had changed nothing. That gaze still lingered.
Your Majesty… don't let everyone read it. The people need a king, not a man
in love. But who am I to say so? Just a servant. My tongue has no right to
rebuke further.
I wrote quickly: Erel—ensure Clara's fair wages.
Then, with a slightly trembling hand, I added a note to myself: Arrange
inspections. Keep visits brief.
I bowed my head low, trying to hide my burning face. My hands busied
themselves with scribbles that may never be read.
Gods, I nearly laughed. King Arthur—usually cold as stone—was now looking at
Clara like an ordinary young man. If I dared laugh, I'd be done for. But still…
what a rare sight.
I jotted an extra note: A school near the meeting hall. Children need a
place to learn.
Then I closed my notebook. Who knows? Perhaps the idea would be useful. Perhaps
Clara would see it… and smile.
I stomped my heel hard into the ground. The echo was solid, good. The stone
below was willing to work. That was a good omen. The foundation would hold, the
city would endure.
Clara spoke again—about streets, about wells. Her words were simple but
precise, like the fall of a hammer landing just right. I nodded. "Don't make
the alleys too straight. Let the wagons slow down. The children will play
safely that way."
She looked at me and smiled. A plain smile, but honest.
Then I saw the king. His gaze never left her. Too deep. Too long.
I frowned, my beard swaying as I huffed.
…What the…? Our king, the man who crushed Ethereal in two weeks, who swallowed
Draxenhold, who forced Solaris to bow… now looked at a village girl as though
he'd trade the world for her?
The discussion ended toward evening. Decisions were set, the plans drawn,
and tasks divided. The king clapped Karrel on the shoulder, then left with
Marcel and Boris. The dusk's dust followed their steps, leaving us to prepare
for tomorrow.
That night, the bonfire crackled. Metal cups clinked, liquor ran down
throats. The workers laughed, sang, and then hushed to hear me speak.
I raised my cup, my voice heavy. "You know how great our king is. How he
crushed Ethereal in two weeks. How he swallowed Draxenhold. How Solaris bent
without a fight."
A roar broke out—"For Valoria!"
I leaned forward, my tone lower. "But you should also know this. Our king…
is just a man."
Silence spread. The fire popped. I drank again, then said, "I saw it with my
own eyes. His gaze weakened. He looked like a man ready to trade everything—for
a peasant girl."
Shouts and whispers burst.
"No way!"
"A peasant girl? You're drunk, Thrain."
"If that's true… then our king is more human than we thought."
"Who is she? Who's the girl?"
I laughed short, draining my cup. "Believe it or don't, that's your choice.
But tonight, let's drink—to the new city, and to a king who, it turns out… has
a heart."
Cheers and laughter rang again. The fire leapt, painting faces red. And in
the noise of that night, a new story began to spread: the tale of a mighty king
who, behind all his strength, was still just a man.