After Arad Youssef gave his oath, I let the silence linger for a moment before shifting my gaze toward the other three people still standing before me.
The air inside the room had not fully settled. The old wooden floor creaked beneath their feet, and the faint smell of damp timber mixed with the cold draft slipping through the gaps in the wall. No one spoke too loudly. No one moved carelessly. Even after hearing Arad's pledge, the others still carried traces of tension in their shoulders, as if their bodies had forgotten how to relax.
Stella Leslie and Ivan Gregor stood side by side.
Both of them were former slaves, people who had spent too many years surviving under orders they were not allowed to question. For people like them, obedience was not loyalty at first. It was instinct. It was the reflex of someone who had learned that silence could mean one more day alive.
That was why, when I appointed Stella as the doctor of this village and Ivan as its craftsman, neither of them immediately looked proud. They looked startled, almost frightened, as if the titles themselves were heavier than chains.
Stella lowered her eyes to the floor. Her thin fingers gripped the edge of her worn skirt, twisting the fabric again and again until her knuckles turned pale. Her hair fell slightly over her face, hiding most of her expression, but I could see the way her lips pressed together.
She wanted to speak, yet she was afraid of saying too much.
"Lord Fragha…"
Her voice finally came out, quiet and uncertain, barely stronger than the wind scratching against the shutters.
I looked at her without rushing her.
Stella swallowed. "I am grateful for the freedom you have given me. Truly, I am. But… why appoint me as the doctor?" Her fingers tightened around the cloth. "I have never studied at any academy. I have no certificate, no formal training, nothing that would make me worthy of such a position."
The room grew still again. Ivan glanced at her from the side, but said nothing. Arad remained quiet as well, his expression solemn after giving his oath.
I leaned back slightly in my chair, resting one arm on the rough wooden table. The chair groaned beneath my weight, but I kept my gaze steady on Stella.
"I know you may not have received a formal education," I said. "I also know this village does not have the luxury of waiting for an academy-trained physician to appear at our doorstep."
Stella's shoulders stiffened.
Before calling the four of them here, I had already asked Viktor about Stella, Ivan, Arad, and Hans. I had no intention of handing out positions blindly. A ruler who did not understand the people he intended to use was nothing more than a gambler throwing dice in the dark.
"And I heard something else from Viktor," I continued. "During the journey here, when other slaves were injured, you treated their wounds."
Stella's eyes moved, but she still did not fully look up.
"Bandages, herbs, cleaning wounds, stopping bleeding, watching for fever," I said calmly. "You did what you could with what little you had. You did it without orders, without pay, and without anyone promising you recognition."
Her grip on her skirt loosened slightly.
"That alone is enough to impress me."
Stella slowly raised her head. The movement was small, hesitant, as though she expected my words to turn into mockery at any moment. But when she found no ridicule in my expression, something in her face changed.
It was not confidence. Not yet.
It was the fragile beginning of disbelief, the kind born from receiving acknowledgment after a lifetime of being treated as a tool.
"Lord Fragha…" she whispered, her voice trembling faintly.
"You will learn," I said. "You will make mistakes. You will ask questions. You will study whatever knowledge we can obtain. But more importantly, you already possess the one quality this village desperately needs in a doctor."
She stared at me.
"You care whether people live or die."
For a moment, Stella seemed unable to answer. Her eyes lowered again, but this time it was not the same frightened gesture as before. She bent her head deeply, her voice small yet firmer than before.
"I will do my best, Lord Fragha."
I gave her a slight nod, then turned my attention to Ivan Gregor.
Unlike Stella, Ivan did not look as if he were about to shrink into the floor. He was short, broad-shouldered, and solidly built, with the distinct features of a half-dwarf. His arms were thick beneath his worn sleeves, and his calloused hands hung at his sides like tools waiting to be used.
But ever since I named him the craftsman of this village, his hard jaw had been trembling.
At first glance, it might have looked like anger. His brows were furrowed, his mouth tightly shut, and the muscles in his neck stood out. But the longer I watched him, the more I realized he was not suppressing resentment.
He was holding something back.
"Ivan," I called.
His head snapped up. "Yes, Lord!"
"Do you object to my order?"
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then Ivan's eyes lit up.
His entire body seemed to ignite from within. The muscles in his arms tensed, his back straightened, and his stern, protective expression shattered like a mask struck by a hammer.
The next instant, he jumped onto the fragile wooden table.
Thud!
The old table shook violently beneath his boots. Stella flinched. Hans took half a step back while clutching his magic staff. Arad's eyes widened, and even I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.
Ivan spread his arms and flexed with ridiculous confidence, turning from one side to another as if the cracked wooden table were a grand stage built for his return.
"No, Lord! Quite the opposite!" he declared, his voice booming through the cramped room. "I am extremely excited, hoihoihoi~!!!"
His laughter rolled out with such force that dust fell from the ceiling beams.
For the first time since I had met him, Ivan's stiff face was filled with burning passion. Not the obedient expression of a slave. Not the guarded look of someone protecting himself from punishment. This was the raw, unfiltered joy of a craftsman who had just heard the word he had been starving for.
Ugh…
Everyone in the room froze.
The atmosphere turned strange in an instant. Stella stared at him with her mouth slightly open. Hans looked as though he had just witnessed a dangerous magical phenomenon. Arad's solemn expression cracked, though he quickly covered it with a cough.
It seemed we had just discovered the true nature of a dwarf who had been denied craftsmanship for far too long.
Ivan blinked, finally noticing the silence. His grin stiffened. Slowly, he climbed down from the table, one foot at a time, and cleared his throat.
"My apologies, Lord." He lowered his head, though the excitement in his eyes had not disappeared. "It has been years… since I last held a real forging hammer."
The mood shifted again, quieter this time.
Ivan looked down at his hands. The thick calluses across his palms were not the marks of delicate work. They were scars of forced labor, of hauling stone, pushing carts, and carrying burdens until skin split and hardened.
"Under my former master, I was treated as a beast for moving rocks," he said, his voice rougher now. "They forced me to do heavy labor every day, but they never let me touch a design, a tool, or a piece of metal worth shaping. If I so much as looked at the forge for too long, they beat me away from it."
His fingers curled inward.
"To them, these hands were only useful for lifting."
He clenched his fists tightly, then raised his gaze to me. The earlier absurdity was gone from his face, replaced by something painfully sincere.
"When you called me a chief craftsman, Lord… it felt like something dead inside me woke up."
I watched him in silence for a moment.
Good.
Not because of his suffering. That was not something to celebrate.
But the fire returning to Ivan's eyes was real. A village could be built by hands, but a kingdom needed hands that burned with purpose. Ivan did not merely want to work. He wanted to create. He wanted to prove that the craft stolen from him still lived in his blood.
For Constantia, that passion would become fuel.
I nodded with satisfaction. "Then keep that fire, Ivan. This village will need it."
Ivan struck his fist against his chest. "Yes, Lord!"
My business, however, was not finished.
My gaze moved toward the corner of the room, where the man with glasses had been standing as quietly as possible. Hans Carter held his magic staff close to his chest, hugging it like a condemned man clinging to the post of a gallows. His shoulders were hunched, and his glasses had slipped slightly down his nose.
"Hans Carter," I called.
Hans jolted as if struck by lightning. His glasses nearly fell from his face, and he fumbled to push them back up with trembling fingers.
"Y-yes, Lord Fragha?"
I studied him for a moment. Compared to the others, Hans looked the least prepared to receive any kind of responsibility. His robe was worn at the sleeves, his posture timid, and his face still carried the pale memory of fear from earlier.
But fear alone did not make a man useless.
"I did not call you here to wield a sword," I said. "Nor do I need you to haul stone."
Hans blinked rapidly, uncertainty spreading across his face.
"I need your mind," I continued. "From this day forward, you will serve as my Administrative Secretary and the Chief Researcher of Constantia."
My voice left no space for refusal.
The words struck him harder than any insult could have.
Hans went completely still. The fear that had dominated his face until now slowly faded, but what replaced it was not relief. It was bitterness—deep, old, and heavy. He lowered his magic staff from his chest, and when he looked at me again, his eyes seemed far older than before.
"Researcher?"
A dry laugh escaped him. It held no joy, only self-mockery.
"Lord," Hans said softly, "you have chosen the wrong man."
His fingers tightened around the staff.
"I am nothing more than a failed Rank E mercenary," he continued, his voice thin but painfully clear. "A weak man who could not even withstand your aura without fainting."