Garrick ran the daily business like he had been born to it.
One afternoon I sat in council while he handled a dispute between two families over a shared well on the lower slope. The older man wanted exclusive rights. The younger one argued the water fed both households and the nursery stock.
Garrick listened without interrupting, then laid out the split in three quiet sentences: half for each, with the nursery taking priority during dry spells. Both men nodded.
The rest of the pack watched from the benches and no one muttered behind their hands. Garrick had earned that silence. He moved through the keep with steady orders and no wasted words, and the walls felt stronger for it.
That same evening Lila discovered the kitchens. She slipped away from the nursery woman while I was resting and toddled straight into the heat and clatter. I found her perched on a low stool, flour on her cheeks, helping the cooks roll dough with her small fists.
