Location: North of Branhal Time: Morning to Evening, Day 4
The road north was muddy from last night's rain, the earth thick and clinging beneath their boots. The air held the smell of wet moss and pine, and birds chirped from the high trees overhead.
Alec walked with deliberate pace, carrying a satchel of tools over his shoulder — mostly borrowed, some improvised, all insufficient. Behind him trudged two men assigned by Silla: Braen, broad and lazy-eyed, and Tomas, wiry, with a permanent sneer on his face. Both wore boiled leather and rusted swords they didn't need.
Silla rode behind them on a stocky mare, reins in one hand, the other resting near her sheathed dagger.
"Nice day for superstition," Tomas muttered to Braen.
"'Cept we're following the cause of it," Braen replied.
"I can hear you," Alec said without turning.
"Good," Tomas said. "Wasn't whispering."
Silla said nothing.
They reached the rise above the river around midday. The forest fell away, revealing a wide bend in the water and the ruined mill, its broken wheel jutting crookedly out of the stream like a snapped limb. Moss covered the stone walls. A tree had fallen through the east side of the roof years ago and rotted in place. The wheel was misaligned, the axle cracked, and the feeder chute jammed with stones and weeds.
Braen scratched his beard. "Well, there it is."
Tomas whistled. "You gonna say a few words, stranger? Or do you just wave your hands and fix it by will?"
"I don't fix things by will," Alec said, already stepping off the path and down the slope. "I fix things by understanding them."
The Mill – Up Close
Up close, the damage was worse. The support structure had sunk on one side due to rot. The wheel itself was warped by years of pressure, several of its paddles cracked or missing. The river, once harnessed neatly through the channel, had carved a new path around the mill, bleeding off too much force.
Alec crouched beside the base, running his fingers along the stone foundation. He tapped it gently, listening to the pitch. Hollow in places. Crumbling mortar. He stood, squinted up at the wheel's height, then stepped into the mill itself through the broken doorway.
Dust and mold clung to every beam. The grinding stones were coated in moss and rust. The gears were rusted through. He smiled faintly, despite the decay.
"There's life in you yet," he murmured.
"What's that?" Tomas called.
"Talking to ghosts?" Braen added, laughing.
Alec emerged, wiping his hands. "Get the tools unpacked. Rope, nails, wedge hammer, that length of chain. We'll start by clearing the chute and stabilizing the west support. After that, we'll pull the wheel from its axle."
Braen blinked. "That'll take hours."
"Yes."
"You don't even know it'll turn again."
Alec looked at him calmly. "I don't guess. I test. And if it doesn't turn, I'll make something that does."
Silla dismounted, handing her reins to Tomas. She walked slowly toward Alec.
"You're serious about this?"
"Yes."
"You think it matters?"
Alec met her eyes. "To you? Maybe not. To Harwin? Definitely. To the people hauling sacks of barley on their backs because this mill died a decade ago? Yes."
"And to you?"
He turned back toward the water. "This is just the beginning."
Later – The Labor of Proof
By late afternoon, Alec had cleared the feeder chute, removed the tangled branches and weeds choking the channel, and traced the wheel's full rotation angle. He'd instructed Braen to begin digging a brace trench while Tomas — grumbling — helped carve replacement paddles out of split pine.
The work was hot, rough, and slow.
But Alec never once faltered.
He pulled rusted bolts with bare hands. He lashed together makeshift scaffolding from rope and branches. He guided Tomas — clumsily — through adjusting the shaft angle using nothing but leverage, measured stone, and an improvised level made from a reed and bowl of water.
"Where'd you learn this?" Braen asked at one point, leaning on his shovel.
"Everywhere," Alec said.
Tomas snorted. "That's not an answer."
"It is," Alec said, not looking up. "You just don't understand it."
Evening – Turning the Wheel
As the sun dipped low, the last paddle was set.
The makeshift gear teeth — hammered into shape from repurposed nails — clicked awkwardly into place. The balance was far from perfect, but the basic structure was now aligned. Alec stepped onto the side platform, sweat soaked into his tunic, blood dried on one knuckle where he'd slammed it into stone.
He turned toward the river.
"Cut the twine."
Braen, at the chute's edge, hesitated, then sliced the rope with a small belt-knife.
Water surged forward.
The chute groaned, splashed, and finally — the wheel creaked. Wood strained. The paddles dipped into the water. For a moment, it looked like the whole thing might collapse.
Then the wheel lurched, stuttered… and turned.
It let out a deep, grinding growl — wood against metal, water against resistance — and then slowly rotated in a full, glorious circle.
Tomas stood slack-jawed.
Silla's eyes widened.
Braen whooped and slammed his hand against the stone.
"You—" Tomas pointed. "You actually—"
Alec stepped down, watching the rotation. "It's not finished. The inner gears need full replacement. But the principle stands."
He wiped his hands on a rag.
"It works."
That Night – Firelight Conversations
They camped near the mill rather than return in darkness. Silla insisted on it, though Alec suspected she wanted time to think. The fire crackled between them, throwing dancing shadows over the trees.
Tomas drank heavily from his flask, not saying much. Braen lay nearby, already snoring. Silla stared into the fire, arms wrapped around one knee.
Alec sat opposite her, sharpening a bit of iron he planned to use for a future gear.
"You've earned more respect than I expected," she said finally.
"Your expectations were low."
"I thought you were dangerous because of what you didn't do. But now I think you're dangerous because of what you can do."
Alec looked up.
She met his gaze. "That wheel turned. With a pile of broken wood and ideas no man here has seen before. That scares me."
"Good," Alec said. "Fear makes people pay attention."
"And then?"
"Then they listen. Then they learn."
Silla's mouth twisted. "What if they don't want to learn?"
"Then I'll find the ones who do," Alec said. "Because the future's going to move forward whether they're ready or not."
A long silence passed between them.
"You're not like Harwin," Silla said. "You won't build by council or compromise."
"No," Alec said softly. "I'll build by necessity."
She nodded. "And you'll need people who know how to fight."
"Eventually."
"I'll be watching you, Alec."
"I know."
Return to Branhal
They returned before midday the next day. The news of the mill spread faster than the wagon wheels behind them.
By sunset, a dozen people had walked north just to see it.
The council would reconvene in two days.
And Alec, still covered in dust and sunburn, finally slept soundly — not because the work was done, but because something had begun.