The smoke from the raid still lingered days later, a bitter ghost above the horizon. Families camped inside Solvantis' half-built walls, cooking thin porridge over shared fires. The city stank of sweat, fear, and too many bodies pressed close.
Kael walked among them in plain wool, refusing the guards that Daren tried to press upon him. A king could not stay behind stone while his people lived in the dust.
Children stared, wide-eyed. A girl tugged her mother's sleeve. "Is he really the king? He looks too young."
The mother hushed her, bowing stiffly. Kael only smiled faintly, moving on.
---
In the council hall, Mira unrolled her parchment again. Her quill scratched as Kael reported the state of the villages.
"Two fields were lost to fire," Kael said. "But the rest… the clay holds. Shoots are sprouting stronger."
Mira paused. "Already? Too soon for harvest."
Kael nodded. "But the green is thicker, healthier. The roots dig deeper."
[touched thing : sprouting barley ; current state: young, strong shoots ; potential usage: food ; suggestions: mix with turnroot (a hardy tuber, similar to carrot) next season for soil balance]
He did not say that aloud. The mark's whispers were his alone.
Daren leaned forward, scowling. "Stronger shoots do not stop raiders. While you play farmer, the Ashfang sharpen their blades. What answer will you give the next time their torches come?"
Kael met his eyes. "An answer of walls. We finish the northern palisade first. Then the watchtowers along the river."
The commander snorted. "Wooden stakes won't stop fire."
"They will slow it," Kael replied. "And slowing is enough until our fields feed soldiers."
Old Renn chuckled in his seat. "Your grandsire would have liked you, boy. He, too, saw no shame in dirt beneath a king's nails."
At the mention of Roderic, the room quieted. The old king's absence hung like a shadow no candle could banish. Some whispered he wandered still, searching the Spine for secrets of the sky knights. Others feared he was long dead, bones bleaching under mountain storms.
Kael clenched his fist under the table. If he yet lives, I will find him. And if he does not… then I will finish what he began.
---
Outside Solvantis' walls, fishermen mended their nets. Kael crouched beside one, an old man threading flax through the gaps.
[touched thing : woven river flax ; current state: durable, water-absorbent ; potential usage: rope, net ; suggestion: coat with pine oil to resist rot]
"Oil?" Kael asked aloud.
The fisherman blinked. "What?"
"Have you ever rubbed pine oil on the ropes?" Kael clarified. "It keeps the rain from eating them."
The old man frowned. "Oil is for lamps. Too costly for nets."
Kael thought a moment. "Then use only on the main ropes, not all. It will last longer."
The fisherman muttered, but curiosity flickered in his eyes.
Nearby, young boys carved wood into narrow hulls, pushing them into the surf. The toy boats bobbed in the waves, some capsizing, some gliding. Kael watched, lips tightening.
Solvane's ships were little more than riverboats, flat-bottomed and flimsy. Against storms, they broke like twigs. Against raiders, they fled. If Solvane was to trade—or defend—the sea, it would need more.
He placed a hand on the damp driftwood of a beached boat.
[touched thing : coastal fishing boat ; current state: leaky, patched ; potential usage: short trips ; suggestion: reinforce hull with layered planks, curve bow for wave-cutting]
Kael straightened, thoughts racing. He would not yet speak of it. One reform at a time. The council already eyed him with suspicion; too many sudden changes would only deepen doubt.
Still, he could see it: stronger vessels, sails that caught more than the river breeze, trade routes that stretched beyond the horizon.
---
The next weeks were steady toil. Workers cut pine in the Dawnwood to fortify the palisade. Villagers spread clay with aching backs, muttering prayers that the king's madness might yield bread.
One dusk, Kael joined Mira by the wall. She was sketching the stars in her ledger, recording constellations as they rose over the sea.
"You keep many records," he said.
She didn't look up. "It is my duty. If Solvane falls, words may outlive us."
"Do you believe it will fall?"
Her quill paused. She finally turned her eyes to him. "Every small kingdom falls, in time. The question is whether it is remembered."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Then I will see Solvane endure. And not as a forgotten footnote."
Mira studied him for a long breath. Then she wrote, slowly: King Kael speaks as though history bends at his will.
Kael almost laughed. "Perhaps it does."
---
The first sprouts of harvest came, green and thick across the darkened soil. Farmers bent low, murmuring surprise. The barley grew heavier than any had seen in years.
Children tugged at the stalks, grinning as their hands filled. Women carried baskets heavy with turnroots, larger than before.
The murmur spread: The king's dirt is working.
Kael stood among them, quiet pride swelling in his chest. For once, the mark was not curse nor burden—it was salvation.
But even as the fields flourished, smoke rose again on the horizon. This time farther, across the river.
Kael's heart hardened. Prosperity invited envy. And Solvane's neighbors—raiders, tribes, even other lords—would not sit idle while the kingdom grew strong.
The mark warmed faintly against his palm, a silent whisper of possibilities.
He raised his eyes to the dark line of the Spine, looming against the dawn. Somewhere beyond, his grandfather's fate lay hidden. Somewhere beyond, the wider world waited.
And Solvane would be ready.