The smell was the first enemy. Before Taylor could fight the mysterious "A," before she could dodge her father's wrath, she had to defeat the invisible cloud of methane hovering over the courtyard.
It was early afternoon, and the sun was beating down on the muddy grounds of Oakhaven Castle. The air was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and the overflowing privy that sat near the stables like a festering wound.
Taylor stood before a patch of earth, holding a shovel. Her hands, soft and uncalloused, were already blistering.
"My Lady," Hans, the estate's elderly handyman, said nervously. He leaned on his own shovel, wiping sweat from his brow. "Please. Put the tool down. If the Count sees you digging a hole like a common laborer, he will have me flogged."
"If we don't dig this hole, Hans, we're all going to die of cholera," Taylor said, her voice tight. She drove the spade into the mud, grimacing at the resistance. "Do you know what cholera is? It's a demon that turns your insides into water. And it lives in that..." She pointed to the wooden shack nearby.
Hans looked at the shack. "That is just the way it is, My Lady. It smells because it is... used."
"It smells because it is inefficient," Taylor corrected. She stopped digging and reached into her pocket.
She pulled out a scrap of parchment. On it was a drawing she had made earlier with a piece of charcoal. It was precise, angular, and far too advanced for this era.
"Behold," she said, holding it up.
Hans squinted at the drawing. To him, a man who had only ever seen rough sketches in dirt, the straight lines and geometric circles looked almost alien.
"It... it is a box," Hans whispered, his eyes widening in genuine, confused awe. He looked at the paper as if it were a magical artifact. "The lines... they are so straight. How did you draw this without a ruler, My Lady?"
"It's a septic tank, Hans," Taylor said, ignoring his wonder. "Three chambers. Gravity filtration. It separates the solids from the liquids. It stops the poison from reaching the well water."
She looked up at the old man.
"Tell me the truth, Hans. Does your stomach hurt when you drink from the kitchen well?"
Hans blinked. He rubbed his belly unconsciously. "Aye. Sometimes. We call it the curse of the night air."
"It's not the night air," Taylor said deadpan. "It's the poop, Hans. You are drinking the poop."
Hans turned pale. The bluntness of the statement, coming from a noble lady in a fine silk dress, paralyzed him.
"Now," Taylor pointed to a pile of limestone rocks near the wall. "Crush those. We need to make cement."
***
An hour later, the courtyard was a mess of grey sludge and dug earth. Taylor's dress was ruined. Her face was smudged with dirt. But the concrete mix—a crude Roman recipe using volcanic ash and lime—was setting perfectly.
"What is the meaning of this?"
The booming voice shattered her focus.
Taylor stiffened. She turned to see a large man in rusted plate armor marching across the yard. He walked with a wide, stiff gait, his face pale and sweating despite the cool breeze.
[System Analysis]
Name: Sir Bors
Role: Captain of the Guards
Status: Hostile / Physically Compromised
"Lady Taylor!" Sir Bors barked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "The servants say you are practicing witchcraft in the dirt! Mixing grey potions! What madness is this?"
He loomed over her. The old Taylor—the weak, frightened girl from the memories—would have cried.
The new Taylor just stared at his midsection. Her eyes narrowed, scanning him like a detective at a crime scene.
"Sir Bors," she said calmly. "You look terrible."
Bors blinked, taken aback. "I... excuse me?"
"You're sweating," Taylor observed, her voice clinical. "Your skin is clammy. You're walking with your legs apart to minimize friction. And you're irritable."
She took a step closer, invading his personal space.
"How long has it been, Captain?"
"How long since what?" Bors growled, taking a defensive step back.
"Since you had a proper bowel movement," Taylor said.
The silence that followed was heavy. Hans dropped his shovel. The nearby stable boy stopped brushing a horse.
Bors's face turned a violent shade of beet red. "How dare you! I am a Knight of the Realm! I do not discuss such—"
"Four days?" Taylor guessed, her tone sharp. "Maybe five? It's the dehydrated rations and the contaminated water. You're impacted, Sir Bors. You feel like you're carrying a bag of rocks in your gut."
Bors's mouth opened and closed. The anger drained out of him, replaced by the sheer shock of being medically diagnosed by a teenager he had previously ignored.
"How... how can you know?" he whispered.
"I have eyes," Taylor said, tapping her temple. "And I have a solution."
She gestured to the newly constructed concrete structure. It wasn't pretty—it was a grey block with a wooden seat on top and a tall ventilation pipe sticking out—but it was solid.
"That," Taylor said, "is a sanitary latrine. It doesn't smell. It doesn't splash. And the seat is ergonomically designed to assist with... difficult battles."
Bors looked at the concrete box. He looked at Taylor. The pain in his stomach cramped sharply, a reminder of his misery.
"You mock me," he muttered, his pride warring with his desperation.
"I am offering you salvation," Taylor said, dead serious. "Try it. If you don't feel better, you can arrest me for witchcraft. But if it works... you owe me a favor."
Bors hesitated. He looked at his men, who were watching from the wall. Then, the desperation won.
He marched into the small concrete room and closed the wooden door.
Taylor and Hans waited.
There was no screaming. No explosion. Just silence. Then, a long, deep, weary sigh that sounded like a tire deflating.
Minutes later, the door opened.
Sir Bors walked out. He stood straighter. The color had returned to his cheeks. He looked at the concrete box with a strange expression—not worship, but profound, confused respect.
"It... didn't smell," Bors muttered, looking at his hands in disbelief. "And the seat... it was stable."
He turned to Taylor. The hostility in his eyes was gone, replaced by a wary curiosity.
"You built this?" he asked. "With mud and rocks?"
"Civil engineering," Taylor said, dusting off her hands. "It's not magic, Captain. It's just structure. If you control the waste, you control the disease."
Bors nodded slowly. He tapped his breastplate. "My men... they are also sick. The 'night curse', we call it."
"Send them here," Taylor said. "I'll fix the plumbing. You fix the security."
Bors grunted, which was probably the closest thing to a 'thank you' she was going to get. He turned and marched away, but this time, his stride was much more fluid.
[Ding!]
[Quest Complete: The Golden Throne]
[Reward: Trust of the Guard Captain (Low)]
Taylor let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She had survived the first encounter. She had turned a potential enemy into a tentative ally, all by leveraging basic sanitation.
"Hans," she said.
"Yes, My Lady?" Hans asked. He wasn't looking at her like a crazy child anymore. He was looking at her like a worker looking at a foreman.
"Cover the drying cement with straw. If it rains, the chemical bond will break."
"Right away," Hans said, grabbing the straw with enthusiasm.
Taylor looked up at the castle tower. The sun was setting, casting long, jagged shadows over the undeveloped land of Oakhaven.
She had built a toilet. It was a small step. But for a girl trapped in a web of lies and murder, it was a solid foundation.
I can do this, she thought. I can fix this place.
But as she turned to head back inside, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck. That specific feeling of being watched.
She glanced up at the third-floor window—her father's study. The curtains twitched.
Taylor narrowed her eyes.
Was it him? Or was it A?
She gripped her skirt. The plumbing was fixed. Now, she had to flush out the rats.