Greyrest's council chamber wasn't grand, just a stone-walled room with tall windows, a long oak table, and the constant scent of ash from the hearth, but it had become the heart of its growing civilization.
Today, that heart beat louder.
Ethan stood at the table's head, hands braced against the smoothed wood as the others took their places. Beside him sat the Steward Halric, dutiful and calm. Gerran, still dusty from the wall, nodded a quiet greeting. Mearve, sharp-eyed and never without her ink-stained journal, waited with quill ready. Elen, ever present, settled in with her usual thoughtful silence. From across the western mountains, two envoys from Riverhelm, one a seasoned woman with braided gray hair, the other a younger man in scaled leather, took their seats after a long journey.
And at the far end, the oldest man in the room: Elder Cavan, whose voice had once guided Greyrest when it was still a scattering of tents. Though age had stooped his frame, his eyes missed nothing.
Ethan scanned the circle.
No sign of Alder Murn. That was intentional.
He'd made sure of it.
The merchant-lord had grown bolder in his manipulations, using his wealth and influence to plant doubts like weeds between brick and mortar. Dangerous, Ethan had realized, wasn't always a blade. Sometimes it was a whisper.
So Murn had not been invited. Not this time.
"Let's begin," Ethan said.
Halric opened the meeting with reports, grain stores, supply routes, the strengthening of the southern wall. Gerran followed with defense updates, including the troubling increase of strange tracks near the forest line.
When the Riverhelm envoys spoke, their tone was respectful but cautious. They brought word of new trade routes forming along the coast, of movements among the scattered warbands in the east. Riverhelm was growing, and they had begun to watch Greyrest with measured interest, even admiration.
But with interest came questions.
"Your city rises fast," said the older envoy, adjusting her weathered cloak. "And we hear of… tensions. One man seems to challenge your authority openly."
She didn't name Murn.
She didn't have to.
Ethan folded his hands. "Alder Murn trades freely in Greyrest. He holds wealth, not power."
Cavan stirred. "But wealth can buy influence, and influence unguarded becomes control."
Mearve tapped her quill. "He's not just sowing doubt. He's offering alternatives. Quiet promises to craftsmen. Delays on timber unless he's included in decisions."
The younger envoy leaned forward. "So why is he not here now?"
Ethan didn't flinch. "Because this is a council for builders. Murn is not building, he's angling to own what others create. Until that changes, he has no seat here."
A quiet settled over the room, not hostile, but heavy with shared understanding.
Then Elen spoke, her voice low but firm. "He believes Greyrest is a prize to be claimed. He's wrong. This isn't a prize. It's a promise."
Mearve nodded. "Then we'll need to make that promise visible. Not just walls and trade, but something more. Something he can't manipulate."
Ethan looked around at them, at this unlikely circle of warriors, scribes, elders, and allies from beyond their borders, and felt something tighten in his chest.
This wasn't a meeting of convenience.
This was becoming a government.
A future.
"Then we draw lines," he said. "We make it clear that the future of Greyrest belongs to those who build it, not buy it."
Outside, Murn stood beneath the eaves of a nearby barn, watching shadows move behind stained-glass windows.
He had not been invited.
But he'd heard enough.
His smile was thin.
"You've drawn your lines, Ethan Cole," he muttered. "Let's see if you can hold them."