Day 3: Midday
Kael left the fuel briquette operation under the anxious supervision of Steward Elms and walked back to the agricultural fields. The work there was, in a way, the most difficult of all. It was easy to command a knight or enforce a logistic; it was nearly impossible to command a farmer to abandon centuries of tradition.
The farming crew, drawn from the best of the Core laborers, was tired but compliant. They were diligently hauling the ash and manure mixture from the village waste pits and spreading it across the compacted, pale fields. They were following the Baron's technique—deep plowing to break the hardpan, followed by mixing the "spirit" (the organic waste) back into the soil.
Kael found Torvin, the skeptical farmer, working a heavy, wooden plow. Torvin's resentment was palpable; he worked with discipline, earning his ration, but his eyes were clouded with doubt. He was performing Kael's orders, but he did not believe in them.
"Torvin," Kael called out, stopping near the edge of the turned earth. "The work is strong. But your doubt is heavy enough to slow the plow."
Torvin stopped, leaning heavily on the handles. The wind immediately picked up the fine dust and swirled it around them. "My lord, I turn the soil as commanded. I earn my bread. But the land rejects the filth. We have always used the fallow cycle. If you keep putting filth on the ground, the grain will sprout small and bitter. It is the nature of the soil."
Kael knew this was his critical moment. He had to replace Torvin's reliance on cyclical tradition (fallow fields, which simply deferred nutrient depletion) with the logical, systemic process of nutrient replacement.
"The fallow cycle is a lie that your former Barons told you to justify their laziness," Kael stated, his voice firm. "They overworked the land for four years, then rested it for one, believing the magic of nature would fix their mistakes. The land is not magical, Torvin. It is hungry."
Kael squatted down and dug his hand into the soil he had ordered turned. He picked up a handful of the gray dust and separated it from the dark, rich mixture of ash and manure.
"When you plant grain, the crop pulls out the most precious element the soil holds: the element of life that makes the seeds plump and strong," Kael explained, simplifying the concept of nitrogen. "Your ancestors never put that life back. They kept demanding, and the soil grew weaker and lighter, until the wind could simply blow it away."
Kael then picked up a handful of the organic mixture. "The filth you hate? This is the very life you took. The ash holds the rigid bones of the land—the potassium and calcium. The manure holds the living spirit that makes the leaves green—the nitrogen."
He looked Torvin straight in the eye. "We are planting legumes and grain together. The legumes, the small bean plants, are the givers. Their roots take the spirit from the very air and place it directly back into the soil, for the grain to feed on. The grain, the taker, grows tall, but the givers remain in the ground, repairing the damage."
Torvin stared at the mix of science and superstition. The idea of a "giver" plant sounded like ancient lore, but the logic—that the land was starving because they had constantly taken from it—was undeniable, perfectly matching the years of declining yields.
"And the ash?" Torvin asked, his voice rough with doubt.
"The ash creates friction," Kael said, providing a practical, physical answer. "It breaks the wind's hold. When we turn it deep into the soil, it holds the light, frail topsoil in place, preventing the wind from stealing the seed before it has a chance to root. It is a physical defense against the wind, Torvin, not a curse."
Kael stood up, wiping the dust from his hands. "You are not working for the Emperor. You are not working for me. You are working for the soil. If you believe in the sanctity of this land, then you must believe in the logic that says you must feed it before it can feed you."
He handed Torvin a small bag containing the painstakingly sorted legume seeds. "Scatter these with the grain. Plant them deep. Your belief means nothing. Your actions, your disciplined use of my method, will yield the results. Now, resume the plow. We have barely touched the necessary acreage, and the forty-day clock is running."
Torvin stood there for a long moment, clutching the bag of legume seeds. His face was no longer fueled by anger, but by a quiet, calculating curiosity. He was a man who understood cause and effect, and the Baron had provided an undeniable cause for their failure—and a logical, measurable, non-magical solution.
The disciplined labor resumed. The wind howled, the ash flew, and the farmers, led by the grudgingly convinced Torvin, began working with a renewed focus. They were fighting tradition, but they were now armed with superior knowledge.