Two weeks passed in a blur of stone dust and silver light.
Oakhaven Manor rose from the ground like a black stone giant. The roof was slated with heavy grey tiles scavenged from the deep mines, and the windows were glazed with the clear glass Caspian had helped produce. It was stark, imposing, and beautiful in a way that defied the rugged landscape. It looked less like a farm and more like the seat of a new power in the North.
The refugees had moved out of the temporary tents and into the new stone barracks built into the west wing. The farm was producing surplus food thanks to the accelerated growth cycles of the Spirit Wheat. The trade route with Renard, who had left a magical drop-box near the old oak stump, was firmly established, bringing in tools and spices in exchange for mana-infused produce.
Life was good.
But peace, as Ignis often reminded them over breakfast, was just the reloading phase.
