"Should I introduce paper to them? Proper records, inventories… easier planning…" Elias muttered to himself, quill scratching softly across parchment. His mind traced lines of organization, charts, and lists—things that could someday prevent chaos. Then a sudden, shrill shout from the town below pulled him from his thoughts. Smoke spiraled into the evening sky, curling like black serpents against the dimming sun.
He scrambled to the balcony, eyes widening. Flames licked the granary roof, glowing red-hot, threatening nearby stalls. The acrid scent of burning straw and timber stung his nostrils, mingling with the earthy smell of disturbed soil. Townsfolk scattered in every direction: merchants cursing as their wares caught fire, children shrieking and clinging to parents, and men brandishing buckets without coordination. Carts overturned, water spilled, embers flew. Elias' stomach twisted with panic—he had to act.
He vaulted down the stairs, quill still tucked behind his ear, weaving through terrified villagers and fallen debris. "Move the grain away from the flames! Tear down weakened structures before it spreads!" he shouted, waving his arms, trying to impose order. People froze or shouted over one another, throwing water at random sparks. Panic clawed through the square.
A dilapidated house directly in the fire's path caught his eye. Its timbers creaked ominously, threatening to collapse onto the adjacent granary. "Demolish that house! Stop the flames from reaching others!" Elias barked. Hesitant hands raised axes; sparks flew as the first strikes bit into rotting wood. The structure groaned and finally gave way, slowing the fire's advance.
Buckets were scattered; water lines nonexistent. Elias's mind raced. Grabbing ropes and barrels from a nearby cart, he yelled, "Form a chain! Pass the barrels! Haul water from the river, move it in sequence!" Small teams began to form: some hauling water, others clearing debris, a few keeping sparks from igniting granaries. Sweat stung his eyes, soot smeared his cheeks, sleeves soaked and scorched, but he moved relentlessly.
The mark on his arm pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat against his skin. It throbbed with a rhythm that seemed to sync with the chaos, as though aware of the danger. The villagers looked at him with awe, fear, suspicion, but they followed the instructions, creating fragile order from the pandemonium.
The heat pressed against his back, smoke made his lungs ache, and the smell of burning straw filled every breath. He could hear the snap of timber, the hiss of water hitting fire, the distant wails of frightened children. Every second counted; a single ember could turn the disaster into catastrophe.
Hooves thundered across the cobblestones. Hadrien arrived, calm and collected, flanked by Kael and a handful of guards. His presence alone drew the panicked villagers into focus. No shouting, no orders—just the authority in his stance that cut through the chaos. Elias ran to him, words tumbling out: "Your Grace, the river—use carts to ferry water in sequence! The roof's timber—cut it down before it spreads!"
Hadrien's gaze lingered on him, assessing, weighing, then flicked briefly to the fire. "You acted quickly," he said simply. "Good observation. That will save lives today." His voice carried calm authority, unshaken by the roar of the fire and the frantic crowd.
Elias didn't step back entirely. He guided a few guards to reinforce weak walls, redirect water, and organize the townsfolk's efforts, but he stayed careful not to overstep. Hours dragged by in heat, smoke, and the constant threat of flame. Slowly, the fire's hunger lessened; embers were stamped out, soaked, and contained. The granary remained standing, scarred but intact. Surrounding houses bore blackened marks and singed rooftops, yet none had collapsed entirely. The air was thick with smoke, stinging eyes and throats, leaving the taste of ash in every breath.
When the last sparks were stamped out, Elias leaned heavily against a wall, chest heaving, sweat mixing with soot. Around him, villagers whispered in awe, exhaustion and relief etched on their faces. Merchants began salvaging what they could, murmuring thanks and curses in equal measure.
Kael approached quietly, nodding once. "Good work," he said, voice low and genuine. No lecture, no critique—just acknowledgment of Elias' timely decisions and clear thinking.
The mark on Elias' arm pulsed faintly, unnoticed by anyone but him. Chaos, fire, and panic—the world was untamed and unpredictable, but for the first time, he felt a sliver of control, a glimpse of what his mind could do amidst disorder. He had not fought the flames with strength or authority; he had bent the chaos with observation, ingenuity, and foresight.
Orravia was alive, messy, untamed—and Elias had glimpsed how a single mind, sharp and daring, could shift the outcome of disaster. Today, he survived by wit. Tomorrow, he thought, Orravia would bend to those who understood it, who observed it, and who could anticipate its moves before the world itself caught up