Location: Branhal Time: Morning, Day 31
They rode in beneath clouds and contempt.
The road to Branhal had been long and cold, churned to muck by ox-carts and early autumn rain. Sir Loran Vaegyr, tax auditor of the Duchy of Midgard, held the reins of his gray stallion with a gloved hand and a scowl carved into his thin, aristocratic face.
Behind him rode a company of fifteen — a mix of lightly armored levy guards and scribes bearing scrolls, seals, and empty ledgers.
The last time they'd visited Branhal, six months ago, the place had been on the verge of ruin. Poor barley yield. Rust in the iron. Children with hollow cheeks and mothers with defeat in their eyes. Taxes had been reduced by the Duchess's decree, but not out of mercy — simply because there'd been nothing worth taking.
This visit was expected to be no different.
"Ash, rot, and empty barns," muttered Baelor Fint, the junior auditor riding at Loran's side. "Same as always."
"Take the levy," Loran said. "Stamp the seal. File the failure. Move on."
But as they reached the ridge above the village, both men pulled their horses to a halt.
Branhal… was not what it had been.
The village sprawled in crisp symmetry — rows of orderly tilled fields, most already harvested, others filled with bright green clover and strange rotating crops. New wooden irrigation channels curved through the western farms, flowing with water redirected from the nearby stream via a simple but elegant sluice gate.
At the village's edge, smoke rose not from fires of desperation, but from blacksmith forges, now doubled in number. A new grinding mill stood where a broken one had once rotted, and children ran between homes no longer crumbling at the corners.
The guards muttered.
Loran narrowed his eyes.
"Who rebuilt Branhal?" he said aloud, the tone edged with confusion and suspicion.
Baelor blinked. "This can't be right. The whole economy was collapsing six months ago."
"Then someone lifted it out of the grave."
And Loran didn't like not knowing who.
The Welcome
They were met at the village boundary by Headman Harwin, dressed in a clean tunic and polished boots, his white-streaked beard neatly trimmed. He bowed without submission, gesturing toward the central square with a casual authority.
"Sir Loran," Harwin said, voice pleasant. "Your arrival was expected. The records are ready, and the tribute's already tallied in the granary yard."
Loran dismounted, confused. "You were not scheduled to receive advance notice."
"And yet here we are," Harwin said.
Guards exchanged looks. Several villagers passed nearby, leading carts filled with barley, dried meats, wool bundles — more than double what was expected for a place like Branhal. All of it stamped with the crest of Edenia, clean and sealed.
Maelor frowned. "You've… already tallied and processed the tax?"
"With precise recordkeeping," Harwin said. "You'll find our ledgers up to date."
Loran's sharp eyes moved over the people. Stronger than expected. Faces fuller. No children in rags. No bony cattle. The village had not just recovered. It had thrived. And there had been no aid requested. No duchess's tithe delivered.
This… smelled like something deeper.
Harwin led them to the longhouse where a long table had been set, scrolls unrolled and sealed under wax. Several village scribes — not hired from the capital but trained locally — were waiting.
It was too clean. Too efficient.
And Loran hated efficiency when it came from peasants.
The Numbers
Two hours passed.
Loran reviewed the ledgers himself while Baelor interviewed the local steward and confirmed inventory. The guards grew restless — standing outside near the granary, where rows of sacks were neatly stacked and labeled.
"This is twice what we expected," Baelor muttered. "And the tithe was categorized properly."
"Three sets of measuring stones," Loran said, not looking up. "Each set checked and rechecked. Coin weights accurate. Even the count of arrow fletchings is logged."
He looked up at Harwin.
"This level of detail does not come from a shepherd council."
Harwin smiled faintly. "We've had help."
Loran's fingers stopped mid-scroll.
"Help?"
Harwin leaned forward slightly. "A man. He came to us after the last storm season. Injured. Outsider. Called himself Alec."
"That is not an Edenian name," Loran said sharply.
"No. It isn't."
Baelor leaned in. "This man — Alec — is he a noble?"
Harwin laughed softly. "Not in title."
Loran's gaze darkened. "But clearly in power."
Harwin said nothing.
The room cooled.
Then, faintly, a low mechanical clank echoed from outside.
Loran turned. "What was that?"
Harwin rose. "Perhaps… you should see it for yourselves."
The Evidence
They followed Harwin across the village square to the western edge, where a low wooden structure with a broad channel and crank wheel stood. A crowd had gathered — men and women moving water, some turning a large wheel attached to a simple chain-and-slat system.
A lift-powered irrigation pulley, using water force to push buckets up from the stream and spill them into overhead channels that then fed directly into the field furrows.
One of the guards muttered, "Is that a mill wheel?"
"No," said Baelor, awestruck. "It's a... contraption."
Children turned valves with wooden levers. Teenagers checked pressure at the base where the channel angled. It wasn't graceful — not precise — but it worked.
Loran watched the controlled flooding of barley furrows, the precision shaping of the field.
This was industrial agriculture — the seed of it.
"How?" he asked, eyes narrowed.
"Alec taught us," said a boy nearby proudly. "He says water listens if you speak its language."
Baelor turned slowly toward Harwin.
"What is this man to you?"
Harwin folded his hands behind his back. "He's the reason you're not leaving with half-empty bags and excuses."
Meeting the Stranger
They found him later, near the forge, speaking to the blacksmith in low tones. Alec wore a sleeveless wool tunic and rough-spun trousers, arms streaked with soot, his dark hair pulled back into a tie. He looked up as they approached.
Loran stopped several paces away, instinctively wary.
"You're the outsider."
"I am."
"Alec," Loran said, testing the name. "No title. No lineage. No land."
Alec shrugged. "All correct."
Baelor spoke up. "You've reorganized an entire village's economy and engineering in under a season. How?"
Alec looked at the forge. "By looking at what they had and using it correctly."
Loran's jaw tightened. "Where are you from?"
Alec met his gaze. "Far from here."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have," Alec said. "You came for tax, not truth. You have the first. The second will wait."
Silence.
"You're a threat," Loran said quietly.
"I'm a tool," Alec replied. "Whether I become a threat depends on how you use me."
Baelor's eyes widened. "You speak like a general."
"I speak like a man who knows what comes next."
Loran stepped closer. "The duchess will hear of you."
"I hope she does," Alec said.
Loran blinked. "Why?"
"Because she'll need men like me when the rest of this world starts to fall apart."
That Night – Tension in the Camp
Loran's men camped outside Branhal that night, setting no fires, posting double watches. The guards whispered about "the machine-man" and "god-sent stranger." Some wondered aloud if Alec was a sorcerer.
In his tent, Loran sat alone, writing.
To Her Grace, Vaelora of Midgard,
I have encountered something… unprecedented.
The village of Branhal, once destitute, now flourishes with innovations beyond any rural development I've seen. The change traces to a single man: a foreigner named Alec. He has no crest, no record, and speaks like a tactician. He has revived infrastructure, weaponized water, and trained peasants to keep ledgers more precise than court scribes.
He is dangerous. Not through force, but through competence.
This man did not rise from these lands. He fell into them.
I recommend an immediate inquiry into his origin, alliances, and purpose.
I fear, with all due respect, that Alec may be not just a miracle…
But a catalyst.
Signed, Sir Loran Vaegyr, Duchal Auditor
He sealed the letter with wax.
And sent the rider before the sun rose.