The morning mist clings to the jagged pines like a funeral shroud, damp and heavy. Daniel and Steward trudge through the grey light, their breath blooming in small, rhythmic clouds. The donkeys, burdened with massive, aromatic logs, let out occasional low brays that echo against the silent trunks of the Pirus forest. It has been a week since they left the safety of the open Jurat plains, and the transition into this vertical world of wood and shadow is visceral.
They find the trail—a dark vein cutting into the green. It leads toward Lake Greywater, known to the locals as Admonito, and as they follow it, the environment begins to change under the influence of unseen architects. The long stretch of road remains unpaved, a raw scar of dirt, but it is no longer a chaotic mess. Parallel to the path, two deep channels have been dug with surgical precision. Water flows through them with a crisp, bubbling sound, diverted toward the village.
Daniel stops, wiping sweat from his brow despite the morning chill. He stares at the irrigation. "Why were they truly digging these trenches but a week ago? Digging ditches while the dragon's blood was barely dry... it seemed a fever-dream of madness then."
Steward adjusts the harness on his lead donkey, a glint of predatory excitement in his eyes. "There be no waste of toil here, Daniel. Mark the scale of it! Great commerce is afoot. A road of this fashion shall breed a hunger for wood and stone like a winter wolf. Every hamlet upon that lake shall crave a quay; every hearth-side will pine for a floor that is not common muck."
They continue deeper, the canopy closing in overhead. Out of the shadows of a massive, moss-covered spruce, a man steps into the light. Daniel flinches, his hand going to his belt. It is the bandit they have encountered three times before—a man usually associated with a knife at the throat. But today, he wears a rough tabard and carries a spear, standing with a posture that suggests unwanted discipline.
"I bide here as a guard of the peace," the man says, his voice flat and devoid of its former malice.
Daniel blinks, his tension ebbing into confusion. "Thou... hast reformed? In truth?"
The bandit shakes his head, a bitter scowl twisting his face. "Nay. The slave-soldiers laid me low. They gave me a choice: this labor or a shallow grave. I had a mind to keep my breath." He glances nervously at the dense thicket behind him. "I know not who else lurks in the shade, but they be close at hand. They've set watchers in every bush. Even the trees have eyes in this new age."
Daniel and Steward exchange amazed looks before moving on. The dirt road eventually gives way to the section Hano had promised. The transformation is startling. The ground is paved with flat, interlocking stones, held together by Kigumi joints—wooden joinery that breathes with the moisture of the forest. Beneath the surface, glimpses of water-permeable pebbles suggest a complex drainage system. The canals on either side are lined with river stone, turning the previous muck into a smooth, rhythmic walk.
Yet, the trees on either side are unnaturally dense, their branches weaving together into a wall of needles.
"They surely bewitched the Ents to grant passage for this road," Steward whispers, eyeing a massive oak that seems to be watching them. "But I wager they could not win leave to fell the great timber. These trees be ancient and stubborn as the mountains."
"Perchance they sought to mend the lack with more steel and watchers," Daniel adds, nodding toward the thickets where shadows seem to move with purpose.
A figure emerges from the gloom ahead. It is Aldo, his cloak damp with dew, his eyes tired but sharp as he conducts his inspection. He spots the merchants and raises a hand in a brief, weary wave. Daniel and Steward wave back, pulling their donkeys to a halt.
"How fared thy journey?" Aldo asks, his voice rasping slightly from the humid air.
"The way is mended, and well-mended at that," Daniel says, gesturing to the stone paving. "But the verges... they are yet choked with green. It feels as though the forest yearns to swallow the path whole once more."
Aldo leans against his spear, his gaze drifting to the dark treeline. "There was no other path to take. The Ents of Pirus allowed us but this much and no more. They hold their canopy dearer than our ease. Thus, I have set more steel to the watch. If thou canst not see the horizon, 'tis best to have a man with a musket every hundred paces."
He doesn't wait for a farewell. He simply turns and continues his trek into the mist.
"Hold! Aldo!" Steward calls out. "What be the toll for passing the gate?"
Aldo stops. He turns his head slowly, fixing Steward with a long, unblinking stare that makes both merchants shift uncomfortably. The silence stretches, broken only by the drip of water from a leaf.
"I did petition the Marquis on that matter," Aldo finally says. "The old lord moves with the speed of a glacier. He yet debates the portions in some gilded hall. Therefore, I have deemed there is no toll."
Steward's jaw drops. "No toll? Truly?"
Aldo shrugs and disappears into the fog. Daniel looks at his partner, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "This road is both fair and sure, and since there be no tithe to pay... I wonder what Aldo intends next? No man carves a highway for naught but charity."
"I purpose to plant mushrooms, vines, and strange herbs that glow with a fey light along the verges," Aldo's voice floats back through the trees before he vanishes entirely.
The merchants press on, reaching Admonito village hours earlier than their previous records allowed. The village is a frenzy of activity. Daniel grins, his heart light. "While these slave-soldiers bide here, we should seize the hour and travel with all haste. This peace shall not endure forever."
"We must summon more of our fellows from The Holden Guild of Nacreia," Steward suggests, eyeing the new pier. "There be gold to be won from this mire."
They head to the tavern, which has undergone a radical transformation. The wood is polished, the hearth is roaring, and the atmosphere is thick with the scent of roasting meat and hops. Other merchants are already there, haggling over stacks of timber. A slave-soldier approaches Daniel and Steward, meticulously measuring their logs before handing over a heavy bag of silver coins.
A man in a leather apron approaches their carts. "Wainwright and joiner, sirs! I can strengthen those axles for a few coppers."
Daniel looks to the bar. "Roy! Roy Bowman! Is this knave a true craftsman?"
Roy, the tavern owner, looks up from a keg and nods. "He be sound, Daniel. Let him fall to his work."
The merchants collapse into their seats, the smooth wood of the benches a luxury. Ruby Mason glides toward them with two foaming mugs of mead.
"The yield of wild honey hath grown of late," she says with a bright smile, setting the drinks down. "Thou shouldst taste of my honey-cake. 'Tis the finest batch mine oven hath ever yielded."
Roy Bowman chuckles from behind the bar. "Thou shouldst let thy swain be the first to suffer it, Ruby! He'd bolt it down for fear of thy temper, else thou'dst be sour for a week!"
Ruby tosses her head, a playful spark in her eyes. "My craft at the hearth hath mended, Roy! Besides, thou hast not tasted a morsel of mine in years. Thou art but crusty because the Earthlings keep a finer cellar than thine own."
"Whence came all this honey?" Daniel asks, taking a long, appreciative draught.
"From the lands south and west of Heilop," Roy explains, leaning on the counter. "The slave-soldiers have carved a road even to the border. They have opened ways meant to join with Jurat. The whole realm is opening like a ripened nut."
Daniel recounts their trip, while Steward describes their encounter with Aldo. Roy listens with the patient air of a man who has heard every traveler's tale. "They have even mended the docks that join the villages. Everything moves with a swifter pace."
Ruby leans in, her voice hushed. "They look not like the high-born at all. Their way of command... 'tis naught like the tales. No silks, no footmen, naught but mud and maps."
Roy Bowman scoffs softly. "Thou dreamest too much of a knight upon a white palfrey, Ruby. He shall not succor us. These Earthlings shall likely mend the whole world in the coming month, and see—even this pothouse is the better for it."
"I am of a mind with thee," Daniel says, clinking his mug. "I would they did rule us in truth. They be hard to trick, but the trade is fair. A man knows the ground he stands upon with them."
From the kitchen, old Mrs. Nancy Mason grumbles, her voice like grinding stones. "I cannot find heart to welcome such masters. 'Tis not the right way of things."
Steward turns to her, confused. "Why dost thou sulk, Grandam? No taxes are gathered, the roads be fair, the roofs be mended—what more could thy heart desire?"
Roy leans over and whispers. "A few days past, she had a great fray of words with Aldo. She would not yield on the matter of her fence-lines. Aldo grew not angry; he but looked upon her and said, 'I govern, I do not rule.' That is why she sours. She hungered for a tyrant to spear with her tongue, and he gave her a clerk."
Daniel and Steward chuckle. "Grandam, at least thou canst bandy words with the master here. In Jurat, if thou didst cross a Duke's son, he'd have thy head upon a pike 'ere sunset."
The tavern door swings open, and Ryong enters. He lacks the weary edge of Aldo, moving with a brisk, professional energy. He approaches the merchants and slides two pieces of parchment across the table.
"Maps, free of tithe," Ryong says. "And this other scroll."
Daniel picks up the second sheet. It is vibrant, filled with drawings and bold text. "What be the use of this?"
"The Earthlings call it an 'infographic'," Roy interjects. "They draw and write to show the face of Pirus to the world. They say 'tis 'promotion' to make our name known. They would have the world know this be no longer a mere swamp."
"Handy, in truth," Daniel says, tucking it into his vest. "I'll show this to my guild-brothers. 'Twill make the sale an easy one."
At a nearby table, a merchant calls out, "White bread and chilled cream! Bring it hither!"
Ruby hurries to serve. Steward stares at the white bread in disbelief. "How can they harvest wheat and find ice for cream in this place? 'Tis a pine forest!"
"More traders arrive with every tide," Roy says simply. "The road brings the world to our door." He points to a large wooden sign. It has neat columns listing village names and needs. "Comtois—the man who rolls—devised that. 'Tis a ledger of wants. It tells a trader exactly what to haul to which village to fill his purse."
Daniel and Steward finish their mead as the wainwright announces their carts are ready. They stand, feeling the weight of the silver.
"Then we must make haste," Daniel says, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "The hour to grow rich is at hand."
They set off again toward the docks. The late afternoon sun turns the lake into a sheet of hammered gold. Dozens of merchants unload wares—honey, salt, wheat, stone—onto flat-bottomed boats for the sixteen villages of Greywater. The silence of the ancient forest is gone, replaced by the roar of a world waking up.