Location: Armathane Time: Day 66 After Alec's Arrival
Three days after the reports from Grendale, the city of Armathane shifted beneath its usual routine.
It began in the market stalls, where merchant scribes were overheard asking for "the irrigation schematic devised by the outsider." It moved into the artisan quarter, where stonemasons argued over whether seawall arcs worked better convex or concave—one citing "Alec's Grendale curve" as evidence. And it finally reached the noble towers, where a minor viscount asked aloud whether a man without title should be allowed to command laborers with no chain of oath.
It wasn't organized.
But it was spreading.
Which meant Vaelora had to act before the story shaped itself.
—
She summoned Lady Alra to her study midmorning.
The court whisperer arrived dressed in sea-gray with black ribbons in her sleeves—colors of observation, not engagement. Her arrival was silent, but the weight she carried was not.
Vaelora did not sit.
Neither did Alra.
"The name has grown," the duchess said.
"It was never going to stay small," Alra replied. "The stories are blooming in trade routes. No bard would waste a phrase on a tax collector. But a man who trains rivers to kneel?"
She smirked. "That sells."
Vaelora paced slowly.
"I want three versions of him," she said. "Crafted, not invented."
Alra tilted her head. "Say more."
"One for the court. One for the people. And one to be whispered."
The whisperer smiled.
"Go on."
"For the court, he must be 'our investment.' Something shaped by Midgard's vision. A tool of ducal foresight. No autonomy. No threat."
"And for the people?"
"A rebel craftsman who refuses privilege but brings plenty. A hero without crown."
Alra nodded slowly. "And the whispered version?"
Vaelora paused by the hearth.
"A builder who may one day become more than that. But only if he's allowed to."
Alra's eyes gleamed. "That rumor will spread best."
"Because it carries ambition. But not yet revolt."
"Clever."
"Careful," Vaelora corrected.
She turned back.
"I want you to place these rumors accordingly. The merchant quarter. The guildhouses. Let them talk—but only about what we've chosen."
"And if someone else starts pushing alternate stories?"
"Then we show them that truth is a luxury we own."
Alra bowed and left.
—
By noon, Vaelora met with her court chronicler.
Master Renvar was a small man with ink-stained fingertips and an impressive memory for contradiction. He rarely spoke unless prompted, but when he did, the court often shifted in its wake.
"Write a record," she instructed, "not as proclamation, but archival preamble."
"To what event, Your Grace?"
"To the Grendale Project. Frame it as a case study in ducal innovation. Attribute leadership to coordinated Midgardian initiative. Name Alec as a steward, not a commander."
"Understood."
"Note that a duchess must often see value before others do."
Renvar's quill scratched without question.
She watched him for a moment, then added:
"And include a quote. From me. Something to mark this as foresight."
Renvar blinked. "Suggested phrasing?"
She walked to the window, thought for a moment, then said:
"Midgard does not merely survive. It teaches the future how to thrive."
He nodded.
It would be repeated in four tongues before dusk.
—
Later that evening, Vaelora penned a private letter to Dame Lethra of Eldemar, a distant cousin by marriage and a known broker of gossip among the minor lords.
It read:
Lethra, You once told me the future would be built by those who understand what the land refuses to give. Let me introduce you, in time, to a man who refuses to ask permission from the elements. He is no noble. But he is building something more permanent than walls. More soon.—V.
She sealed it with red wax.
This would reach court ears within a week—and let others begin speculating. That was the point.
The best leash was one the dog didn't feel.
—
Near midnight, she sat alone on the balcony of the high solar. Below her, Armathane glowed like a net of golden veins wrapped around bone.
She poured herself a glass of plum wine and said nothing for several long minutes.
He was succeeding. She'd seen it coming.
But success, once begun, had a hunger.
How long before Alec began asking for his own roads? His own militia? How long before he wanted to choose the next village?
And what would she do when the crowd started looking to him instead of her?
She had time. A few months, perhaps.
Not more.
she wondered if she could find a way to bind him to her to still under her authority.
Perhaps an alliance? maybe a title?.
she didn't know for now. All she knew was that -
Power didn't sleep. It simply changed owners.
And Vaelora had never let go of anything worth keeping.