Brineton in spring was a palette of mud and defiant green. The relocated village was a hive of raw timber and hope, higher up the bluffs. Down in the contested zone between old and new, the real work was happening: earth-moving machines gnawed at the land, carving the first channels for the managed wetland. The air thrummed with diesel and purpose.
Rian arrived on Monday as instructed, dressed in worn but serviceable field clothes, his Valeroy elegance subdued but not erased. He reported to the site foreman, a no-nonsense woman named Tamsin, who eyed his clean hands skeptically before assigning him to the survey team—a job requiring precision and patience, not brute strength.
Hadrian and Seraphina watched from the ridge where the new community hall was going up. They saw Rian absorb Tamsin's brisk instructions, then walk to the surveyors with a focused calm. He didn't try to take charge; he listened, then lifted the far end of a measuring chain without complaint.
"He looks… ordinary," Seraphina observed, a strange ache in her chest. The man who had been her emotional sanctuary now looked like any other minor noble lending a hand.
"He looks useful," Hadrian corrected. "Which is what he wanted."
They descended into the site, moving between clusters of workers. Their presence was familiar now, greeted with nods rather than bows. They were the Prince and Princess of the Mud, and their authority was rooted in shared graft.
Rian saw them approaching. He straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers, a faint, uncertain smile on his face. "Your Highnesses. The foreman has me on chaining duty. I'm re-learning trigonometry the hard way."
"Good," Hadrian said, his tone neutral. "The foundation lines have to be exact, or the water won't flow correctly." It was a workman's response, stripping the interaction of any personal weight.
Seraphina nodded. "The local council is meeting at noon to discuss compensation for the disturbed fishing grounds. Your skills might be more appreciated there, Rian, if you're willing."
It was a test, and an offer. A move from physical to diplomatic labor, but within the strict confines of the project.
"Of course,"Rian said. "Whatever is most helpful."
The council meeting in the half-built hall was tense. The fishermen, though supportive of the long-term plan, were anxious about the immediate disruption. Rian listened, then spoke. He didn't grandstand. He translated their fears into specific, actionable points for the royal ledger: compensation per lost fishing day, guaranteed access to new fishing platforms once the wetland stabilized. He was a conduit, not a savior. His old magic was in the service of their vision.
Watching him, Seraphina felt the last vestige of the old, tangled connection dissolve. He wasn't her Rian, the sharer of silent burdens. He was Prince Rian Valeroy, a competent administrator she had employed for a task. The romantic void's most haunting ghost had been laid to rest, not with drama, but with a spreadsheet.
After the meeting, as the pale spring sun slanted through the unfinished roof beams, Hadrian found Rian alone, rolling up survey charts.
"You handled that well," Hadrian said.
Rian looked up,his expression weary but clear. "It's what I do. Translate. Mitigate. It feels… clean, here. The problems are rocks and water and money. Not hearts and silences."
Hadrian heard the unspoken closure in the words. "You're welcome to stay as long as the project needs you. Your work is valuable."
"Thank you." Rian paused. "Freya writes that the desert stars are astonishing. Uninterrupted by humidity or… sentiment." He offered a faint, genuine smile. "I am glad, Hadrian. Truly. For both of you. What you've built here…" He gestured at the muddy, vibrant site beyond the walls, "…it's real. It has weight."
He shouldered the charts and walked away, back towards the surveyors' tent. Hadrian watched him go, feeling not victory, but a solemn sense of balance restored. The ground beneath their feet was new earth, and it could now bear the weight of all their histories without sinking.