The discussion flowed steadily, with debates over sourcing timber from the nearby forests, where twisted trees grew amid ruins; plans to repair the granary, whose walls were crumbling like old bread; and the need for healers, as minor injuries from the palace's decay plagued the workers.
Tension simmered beneath the words; the kingdom was fragile, resources scarce, and whispers of discontent from the city folk reached even here.
Elara felt a faint prickle in her nose, a warning not to push her powers too soon, but she ignored it, focusing on the tasks.
A knock echoed at the hall's entrance, heavy and insistent. The guards tensed, hands on hilts, but Lysandra raised a hand. "Let him in."
The doors groaned open, admitting a man who filled the frame with his broad shoulders and commanding presence.
He was tall, his frame muscled from years of labour, with a beard streaked in grey and eyes like polished steel—sharp, assessing.
His clothes were practical: a worn leather vest over a linen shirt, boots caked in mud from the city's streets.
Behind him trailed a group of men, perhaps a dozen, carrying tools, hammers, saws, ropes, that clanked softly in their bags.
The scent of sawdust and sweat followed them, a stark contrast to the hall's lingering aroma of roasted chicken.
"Lysandra," the man said, his voice gravelly, nodding to her with familiarity that made Elara's brow twitch slightly.
He turned to Elara, bowing deeper. "My Empress. I am Garrick, master builder. Your queen summoned me, and I come with my crew."
Lysandra's lips curved faintly. "Garrick. It's been years. Show her what you can do."
Garrick stepped forward, unrolling a rough sketch on the table, a map of the palace grounds, marked with proposed repairs. His fingers, calloused and scarred, traced the lines.
"The roofs first—slate from the quarries north, if we can secure them. Walls reinforced with stone and mortar. We'll need labour, but my men are skilled."
His crew nodded, their faces weathered but determined, eyes scanning the room with quiet appraisal.
Elara studied the sketch, her fingers brushing the parchment. It felt rough, like sandpaper, and the ink smelled fresh. "And the city? The people's houses leak as much as our halls."
Garrick's eyes met hers, unflinching. "One stone at a time, Empress. But with your... gifts," he glanced at Lysandra, hinting at knowledge of Elara's portal, "we can accelerate. Loyalty buys speed."
Tension hung in the air, unspoken questions about his price and his true motives. Lysandra's hand rested on her dagger, a subtle warning.
The maids exchanged glances, quills pausing. Elara felt a surge of suspicion; in this ruined world, trust was a luxury. Yet, necessity pressed.
"Begin today," she commanded. "Brenna, assign quarters. Liora, supplies. Aveline, oversee the lists."
As Garrick and his men filed out, the hall fell quiet. Lysandra leaned close to Elara, her breath warm against her ear. "He'll build, but watch him. Men like him always have layers."
Elara nodded, a knot of suspense forming in her gut. The rebuilding had truly begun, but so had the games of alliance and potential betrayal.
The morning wore on, the hall emptying as tasks were delegated.
Elara stood by the window, gazing at the courtyard below where Garrick's men already hammered at a leaning wall, the rhythmic thud echoing like a heartbeat.
Dust rose in clouds, mingling with the scent of fresh-split wood. Lysandra joined her, their shoulders brushing, a touch that sparked warmth amid the chill of uncertainty.
"What if he's not what he seems?" Elara murmured, her voice low.
Lysandra's eyes narrowed. "Then we handle it. As always." Her tone carried a possessive edge, a reminder of their shared madness, the way they ignored shadows tailing them, knowing they could strike back harder.
The maids bustled nearby, but a faint tremor in the ground—barely perceptible—made Elara pause. Was it her imagination, or the first stirrings of something larger? The day felt charged, pregnant with change, and not all of it welcome.