Coin had a sound.
It wasn't just the metallic clink of silver hitting silver; it was a deeper resonance—the kind of sound that shifted the weight of a room. In a village where the only recent sounds had been the roar of floodwater and the screams of goblins, the heavy thud of an ironbound coffer was better than a choir.
When a hungry village heard that coin was being spent on walls and seed rather than silk and ceremony, it changed the way people stood. Shoulders rose. Chins lifted. Doubt, which had been a heavy shroud over Asmora, shifted into a wary, fragile "perhaps."
Asmora still looked wounded, but it looked wounded the way a soldier looks after a battle they survived, rather than a battle that killed them. And survival, as James Silver had learned in both his lives, was always the first foundation. You couldn't build a legacy on a graveyard.
The morning was cold enough to frost the edges of every breath. The river ran swift and impatient beyond the half-finished embankments, but the gabions held firm. Alaric stood in the village square beside a makeshift table that had once been a cellar door. The carpenter had propped it on crates and declared it "good enough," which was how most real work began.
Alaric leaned over a roll of parchment, his small fingers tracing the rough lines of the stonemason's drawing. His hand was steady, though his chest still felt a bit hollowed out from the mana-hangover he'd earned in the ruins.
Gina stood at his right shoulder like a shadow that had learned to scowl, while Dawn stood to his left. She was bundled in a thick cloak, peeking over his shoulder with a curiosity that refused to be dimmed by the frost.
"If we're doing it right, Your Highness," the stonemason said, his voice a gravelly rumble, "we do it once. Stone doesn't like being moved after it's set."
Alaric nodded, his mind calculating. "We do it once," he agreed. "Palisades are for today. Stone is for forever. We don't just build for the people here now; we build for the people who will come when they hear Asmora has food."
Asimi watched from a step back, her hands clasped. She was the one who had brought the clerk—a man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else but in the mud.
"We will purchase cut stone," Asimi said, her voice a calm command. "Enough for a complete perimeter. And seeds. High-yield, hardy strains."
Alaric added, "Beans, barley, and root vegetables. Things that can grow even if the sky is sulking." He looked at the clerk. "Write it down. Every copper. I want the books so clean they'll make the Imperial Auditors cry."
The stonemason drew a line wider than the village's current edge, leaving a broad ring of open ground.
"Space for expansion," Alaric noted.
"Aye," the mason replied. "If the village grows into a town, you don't want to be tearin' down your own walls. Better to have the wall where the future is going to be."
Alaric took a piece of charcoal. His hand was small, but his lines were decisive. He marked a gate placement on the main road and another near the river.
"Two gates?" Gina muttered, her eyes narrowing. "That's two ways in for an enemy."
"It's also two ways in for trade," Alaric countered. "A fortress that can't breathe is just a very expensive tomb, Gina."
Dawn peered at the drawing, her black hair brushing against Alaric's cloak. "Where would the ruins be?" she whispered.
Alaric drew a small, jagged symbol in the direction of the hills. "Outside," he said quietly. "Safe. For now."
By late afternoon, the carpenter had been summoned to discuss the storehouse. Alaric knew that growing food was only half the battle; keeping it from rotting or being eaten by rats was the other half.
"I want it raised," Alaric told the man, who was currently dusting sawdust off his beard. "Stone foundation, timber frame. And I want the seams sealed with blacktack."
"That'll cost, My Lord," the woodcutter added, leaning on his axe.
"Everything worth doing costs," Alaric replied. He didn't have time for cheap. He had 500,000 gold dragons and a war on the horizon. "Strong is better than pretty. We're building a larder, not a ballroom."
That evening, the frantic energy of the construction gave way to the quiet hum of the private pavilion. Inside, the air smelled of incense and the faint, ozone-metallic scent of mana. Alaric sat on a cushion, legs crossed, trying to feel the "lock" of the second sphere.
You push with impatience, Alanor's voice murmured in the back of his mind. The second sphere is not a door you kick. It is a lock you align.
Alaric gritted his teeth, sweat beading at his temple. "Then teach me," he whispered inward.
Later, the archmage replied, a hint of amusement coloring the thought. First, your student.
Alaric opened his eyes. Dawn was sitting across from him, her cloak folded neatly. She looked nervous—her hands were clutched so tight in her lap that her knuckles were white. She was smart, but she didn't have the benefit of a thirty-year-old soul. To her, this was all magic and mystery, terrifying and wonderful.
"You're really going to teach me?" she asked, her voice small.
"If you want to help in the ruins, you have to be able to control your mana," Alaric said. He moved closer, noticing the way she bit her lip. "It's not just a feeling, Dawn. It's a tool. If you thrash, you drown. If you guide, you move."
"It sounds hard," she pouted, a very seven-year-old expression crossing her face.
"It is," Alaric said, softer this time. He reached out, hesitating for a second before placing his hand near hers. "But you're not doing it alone."
He guided her through the breathing. He told her to listen to the pulse beneath her ribs. The 'hum' of the Lune mana. At first, it was chaotic. A burst of cold mana flared out, frosting the edge of the cushion.
"I did it!" she gasped, her face lighting up.
"Steady," Alaric cautioned, though he felt a pang of pride. "Control first. Celebrate after."
For an hour, they sat there. Alaric watched her closely—not just as a teacher, but as a boy who felt a strange, grounding pull toward this girl. In the palace, everyone was a player or a pawn. But here, in the cold light of the pavilion, Dawn felt like a partner. He cared about her in a way that made the 'James Silver' part of him feel protective, and the 'Alaric' part of him feel less lonely.
Then, it happened. A shift in the air. A literal click in the mana around her.
Dawn's eyes widened. "Alaric... something changed."
"The first sphere," Alaric said, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "You did it."
Dawn stared at her hands, her royal blue eyes shimmering. She looked at Alaric, and for a moment, the world of politics and stone walls vanished. There was just a girl who had found her power and a boy who had shown her the way.
"I'll be useful," she vowed, her cheeks coloring faintly. "I'll prove them wrong."
"You already are," Alaric said.
Gina made a soft sound from the entrance—something between a huff and a sigh. Even she could see the bond forming, a pact made of mud, gold, and moonlit mana.
Outside, the hammers continued to fall. Alaric sat back, feeling his own second sphere boundary pulsing. He was close. So close he could taste it.
He had sold his stars for stone, but as he looked at Dawn's triumphant smile, he realized he'd bought something much more valuable than a wall. He'd bought a future.