Location: Branhal Time: Dawn, Day 40
Alec had always believed the quietest moments said the most.
Which is why, standing atop the ridgeline that overlooked Branhal's grain fields, watching the sun cast gold across the ordered furrows of barley and clover, he felt the shift in the air long before anyone else noticed.
The villagers bustled below — harvesting, inspecting channel flows, updating ledgers. All things they'd learned from him, adopted because they saw it worked. It was progress. Movement.
But the silence behind the sound was no longer the same.
Something had changed.
And he could feel it.
Telltale Signs
It began three days ago. At first, small details:
A new face at the blacksmith's stall, asking Jorren too many vague questions with too polite a smile.
A merchant cart that lingered, even after trade was finished.
A pair of young travelers posing as pilgrims, but with too clean hands and too sharp eyes.
They watched. Listened. Asked about Branhal's waterworks. About "the outsider who built the mill."
They never asked about Gods. Never bartered for food.
And they never made eye contact with Alec.
In the Forge
He stood by the forge that morning, assisting Jorren with a custom pressure-release cap — a prototype for a basic steam container, though primitive — when the blacksmith leaned close.
"You see the pair over by the grain house?" Jorren murmured.
Alec didn't look. He already had.
"The ones dressed like farm sons, but whose boots cost more than my anvil?"
"That's them," Jorren grunted. "They asked Fenn about your 'affiliations.'"
Alec frowned. "Exact wording?"
Jorren nodded. "Said: 'Who sponsors the man in black, the one who fixes things without coin?'"
Alec straightened.
Not "who is he."Not "where did he come from."But who sponsors him.
That was a question born from a bureaucratic mind.
Someone with power wanted to know who Alec worked for.
The answer, of course, was no one.
That would not comfort them.
That Evening – Mira's Concern
He found Mira tending a patient near the well, her sleeves rolled up and hands stained with poultice resin. She glanced up at him as he approached.
"You've been brooding," she said simply.
"Analyzing."
"Same thing," she muttered. "You're about to say something that makes me uncomfortable."
"There are too many new faces in Branhal."
Mira exhaled. "You're not the only one who noticed."
"You should be careful who you speak to."
"I'm not the one drawing maps in the dirt for farmers and bending water like it's clay."
He didn't respond.
After a moment, she looked at him.
"You expected this."
"I did," Alec said. "But not this soon."
"Are they dangerous?"
He thought about it. "Not yet. But they're watching to see if they need to be."
She wiped her hands on a cloth. "What will you do?"
"Nothing."
She blinked. "Nothing?"
"I'll let them watch. Let them record. Let them report back."
He looked toward the hills beyond the village.
"And then I'll see who comes next."
Subtle Escalation
Over the next two days, more signs emerged:
A scholar pretending to copy crop patterns but clearly sketching the mill's gear teeth.
A boy, no more than twelve, asking Dal how the irrigation valves worked — and remembering too much.
The innkeeper's daughter mentioning a man who asked if Alec was "a minor prince from Edenia, hiding from scandal."
The rumors were spreading now — but not by villagers.
They were implanted. Seeded. And they were meant to be heard.
Night at the Forge
On the thirty-second night, Alec sat alone inside the forge, poring over a half-scorched parchment filled with his calculations for a two-chambered kiln. It was late. The coals were banked low, casting warm orange light across his face.
Footsteps approached.
Jorren entered, dropped a flask onto the workbench.
"Barley spirit," the blacksmith said. "Might as well drink before your enemies arrive."
Alec didn't look up. "You're certain they'll come?"
Jorren snorted. "When a man pulls a village out of the mud with words and wires, the world doesn't applaud. It investigates."
Alec finally looked at him.
"They'll ask questions. Offer deals. Threaten," Jorren said. "They'll come with seals and swords and smiles. And they'll want to know whether you're a prophet, a heretic… or a rebel."
Alec exhaled. "And which do you think I am?"
Jorren shrugged. "Don't care. You gave my forge a future. Just don't let them take it away."
The Letter
Alec returned to the healer's hut that night to find something odd.
On his cot, carefully placed and held beneath a stone — a sealed note, no name, no insignia. Just one sentence.
"They know you're here."
The handwriting was crisp, professional. It had no scent. The ink was fresh.
No one had entered the hut while Mira was away.
And no one in Branhal would've left him this.
Alec sat on the edge of the cot, note in hand.
And smiled.