As Ethan stood in front of the old Town Hall, the sun peeked through scattered clouds. The building leaned as if it wanted to collapse into the dirt. Its timber roof sagged, its walls were patched with mismatched stone, and weeds grew between the cracks. To Ethan, it looked less like a place of leadership and more like a tomb.
"The old barons ruled from here?" Ethan asked, raising a brow.
Lina nodded. "Yes. But after he was gone, no one dared to step inside. They said it was cursed. I think people simply gave up."
Ethan turned to Marn, who stood nearby with his arms folded. "Why has no one rebuilt it? Not even your father?"
Marn shrugged. "Because they thought it pointless. Any hall would just fall again, or be burned when raiders came. And there's no army to defend it."
Dust curled at Ethan's boots as he crossed the cracked threshold. Inside, the air was thick with mildew. A long, dark hall stretched before him, ending in a broken dais. Shattered chairs lay on their sides, glass shards glimmered in the corners, and rats darted away into the shadows.
Ethan stood still for a long moment, then spoke firmly.
"We're rebuilding this first."
Over the next days, Ethan spread out parchments on a flat board and began sketching. His "new Town Hall" was not just a meeting place it was the heart of order. He explained it to Lina, Marn, and the elders as he drew.
The main council hall has wide rectangular space at the center, large enough for the whole town to gather if needed. A raised wooden platform at one end would serve as the dais. "This will be where decisions are made," Ethan said. "Not behind closed doors. Everyone will see it."
A side chamber, cool and dry, with stone shelves. "All maps, books, land records, and accounts will be stored here," Ethan explained. "If we forget our past, we lose our future."
Two smaller chambers on the opposite side. "For trade talks, disputes, or planning. Not every matter needs the whole village listening," he said.
A modest room tucked at the rear. Lina raised her brows when he added this. Ethan simply said, "The town's leader should live near the hall, but not take it over. It's for duty, not luxury."
At the back of the building, he marked out two rooms for tools, ledgers, and surplus supplies. "Later, one will hold weapons and armor. For now, nails and hammers will do."
The entry space, widened and cleared, so visitors and villagers could wait before entering the council chamber.
A small hearth for food, and an attached yard for latrines. "Councilors with full stomachs and empty bladders argue less," Ethan said dryly, earning chuckles from the men nearby.
Lina stared at the parchment. "You mean to build all this here? In this ruin?"
"Yes," Ethan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "This place will not be a ruin anymore."
The villagers gathered the next morning. Ethan divided them into groups.
Those who knew stone laid the foundations.
Carpenters stripped the old beams and cut new ones.
Farmers, when not tending crops, hauled rubble and mixed clay.
Children carried stones in baskets.
Lina managed supplies, counting nails, wood, and rope with the sharpness of a merchant.
The first week was only rubble clearing. Dust and broken wood piled high. The roof was torn off and burned. By the second week, they laid the new stone foundations, wider than before, and packed clay between them for strength. Ethan inspected every corner, checking angles with his weighted string.
By the third week, walls began to rise. They were not polished, rough stone layered with clay, but they were strong. Wide gaps were left for windows, because Ethan insisted on ventilation. "A hall filled with smoke and sweat is no hall at all," he said.
The villagers grumbled at first. "Why build so big?" "Why waste stone on a room no one sleeps in?" But the sight of order, of stones neatly set one over the other, made even doubters stop and watch.
By the sixth week, the roof was raised: thick timber beams covered with layered thatch, treated with ash and oil to resist fire and rain.
By the eighth week, carpenters placed the long table in the Main Hall, big enough for twelve seats. Benches lined the walls for townsfolk. The dais at the end was raised from sturdy planks.
The side rooms were simpler: shelves of stone for the archive, wooden partitions for meeting rooms, and bare storage chambers that would later hold supplies. Ethan's own quarters were plain, a bed, a desk, and a window overlooking the square.
It took nearly three months before the Town Hall stood complete. The villagers gathered on the morning the last stone was laid. Smoke from cooking fires curled into the sky, and the crowd filled the plaza in front of the hall.
Ethan stepped onto the dais, hands resting on the table behind him. His voice carried through the chamber and out the open windows.
"This is not my hall," he said. "This is yours. Here we will plan, here we will argue, here we will decide. No more whispers in corners. No more waiting for strangers to tell us what to do. Greyrest belongs to its people, and this hall is its heart."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, from the back, the old carpenter who had doubted most began to clap. Slowly, others joined. Rough, calloused hands beat together until the hall echoed with applause.
That Night
Later, Ethan sat in his small room, lantern light flickering across his notes. Outside, families walked past, children running ahead, laughter in their voices. The hall glowed with firelight, its shadow stretching across the square.
Lina entered with a cup of tea. She set it down beside him, then stood quietly.
At last, she whispered, "You've given them something they didn't know they needed."
Ethan sipped the tea, staring out the window. "I only hope it's built on stone, not sand." He set down the cup. "Tomorrow, tell Marn to find a scribe. Every book, every scrap of record in this town, I want them stored in the archive. If this hall is our heart, the library will be our memory."