Life Weaver (ASOIAF / WORM-OC SI)

[Hordac]

LW 29

The Caldera cliffs of Weirstad rose from the morning mist like something half-remembered from a dream.

When the horns sounded from the watchtowers, the harbor answered at once. Bells rang. Doors burst open. People poured down toward the docks in a tide of motion and disbelief as five ships came into view where only one should have been.

At the head of them all, the Obsidian Leaf glided forward, scarred, proud, and unmistakably hers.

For a long moment there was stunned silence.

Then the cheering began.

It rolled across the water, raw and unrestrained. Men shouted names. Women wept openly. Children ran along the quay pointing at the captured galleys as if afraid they might vanish if they blinked.

Runa stood at the rail, arms folded, lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. "I suppose this is what success looks like," she murmured.

Erik said nothing. He watched faces instead. Recognition. Relief. Hope.

On the docks, Korb was already pushing forward, dark hair tied back, he looked tired and haggard but eyes were sharp despite the emotion he clearly despised showing. He stopped at the water's edge, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, and snorted.

"You go away on a single ship," Korb said dryly, "and come back with a small fleet. Subtle as ever."

Erik stepped down onto the quay. "You look tired."

"I am" Korb grunted. "and you look like trouble found you. And lost."

Behind him, Gonir leapt onto a crate, arms flung wide, laughing like a madman. "Five ships!" he crowed. "Five! I told them the sea likes us. I told them!"

Helga shoved past him, tears streaking freely down her face as she seized Erik in a fierce motherly embrace. "Don't ever do that again," she said, voice breaking.

Skaldi clapped Erik on the shoulder hard enough to make lesser men stagger. "You bring spoils, ships, and stories," he boomed. "The gods are paying attention now."

Halldis approached more quietly, eyes already cataloging hulls, rigging, crews. "Captured intact," she noted. "No burn marks. No blood in the water." She glanced at Erik. "Impressive restraint."

Yrsa laughed as she wiped her eyes. "Restraint or not, the kitchens will be very tonight. Won't they Sigrun?"

"Aye" Sigrun replied happily "We'll cook up a mighty feast in honor your safe return. I've been wanting to try a few new recipes too!"

Helga was last.

She didn't speak at first. She simply stepped forward and placed both hands on Erik's face, studying him as if to make sure he was real. Then she pulled him into a tight embrace.

"You're home," she said softly.

"Yes," Erik replied, and for the first time since Braavos, the word felt heavy with meaning.

The days that followed were a controlled kind of chaos, the sort that only looked unruly to those who did not understand what they were seeing. The Braavosi recruits were settled carefully, not crammed into barracks or cast aside to fend for themselves, but placed with intent and cinsideration. Temporary halls went up first, then permanent workshops as timber and stone were brought in. Existing buildings were expanded, walls knocked through, floors reinforced to bear heavier tools.

Erik had put strict building codes that everyone had to follow. This allowed for ground floor and basements to build wide and strong with large gaps between so that future expansion would happened both outward as well as upward. Fire safety was also considered and appropriate measure were enacted and taught.

Weirstad had never maintained true metalworking on this scale. That changed immediately. Kate and her rejuvenated father, Luca, were given full authority over raising a forge complex near the river, where water, charcoal, and transport met. They chose the site themselves, pacing the ground, testing the wind, arguing loudly over chimney height and draw while Erik listened without interruption.

The forge was built from nothing. A waist-high hearth was laid first, stone stacked and mortared, its surface coated thick with clay mixed with straw until it could drink heat without cracking. Luca oversaw the shaping of the tuyere, a clay-and-stone throat set deep into the hearth to drive air directly into the heart of the fire. "If the breath isn't true," he warned the apprentices, "you'll never reach welding heat."

Bellows came next. Two great wooden frames were carved and jointed, their teardrop shapes sealed with stitched hide that smelled of oil and smoke. They were mounted behind the hearth and tested by hand, each pull forcing a steady stream of air through the tuyere until the charcoal burned white-hot. Kate adjusted the rhythm herself, nodding only when the fire responded properly.

For the anvil, they sank a massive hardwood log deep into the earth to drink the shock of every blow. Into it they drove a heavy iron bickern, its horn polished smooth by years of use, hauled from Braavos and reforged to suit Weirstad's needs. Until more anvils could be made, a flat stone served for the first work, and Luca insisted on it. From that crude surface, they forged their own hammers and tongs, then used those to create better tools, stakes, and swages, each piece improving the next.

The workshop rose around the forge last. High ceilings. Wide doors. Open vents cut into the walls so smoke and heat could escape instead of poisoning the men within. Nothing decorative. Everything purposeful. Charcoal bins lined one wall. Water troughs the other. By the time the roof beams were set, the forge was already alive.

Apprentices were assigned at once, not only as helpers, but students as well. Every artisan was given two or three, sometimes more, placed under sharp-eyed supervision. Mistakes were allowed, but repeated ignorance was not. Warehouses filled quickly. Imported looms from Braavos were assembled piece by piece, then taken apart again under watchful eyes as local craftsmen sketched every joint and tension point. Within days, rough copies began to appear beside the originals, clumsier at first, then steadily improving.

Counting tables were set up in long rows, scribes learning to track materials as carefully as coin. Sailmakers claimed open yards where canvas could be stretched and cut in the wind. Ropeworkers strung long frames along the docks, testing twists and tar blends.

Jewelry makers were given gold and silver along with pearls and some other precious stones to make into expensive jewelry that could be exported.

Everywhere, hands moved with purpose.

Erik walked through it all daily.

"No idle talents," he told Korb as they watched a artisan demonstrate a Braavosi construction trick to three wide-eyed apprentices. "And no wasted knowledge."

A mandatory language hall was established within the week. Newcomers were taught the old tongue of Weirstad, while local apprentices and sailors learned Braavosi alongside them. Commands, measurements, and tools were named in both languages until misunderstanding became rare and silence became suspicious. Laughter carried through the halls as accents clashed and blended.

Each Braavosi was paired deliberately with several locals, never allowed to work alone for long. Skills were shared slowly, intentionally, broken down into steps and reasons rather than secrets. Techniques were questioned, tested, and adapted to Weirstad's materials and climate. What worked was kept. What failed was recorded and discarded.

By the end of the first tenday, it was no longer clear which methods were Braavosi and which were Weirstad's. They had begun to merge and evolve.

And Weirstad learned faster than it ever had before.

Gonir wandered through it all like a delighted ghost, offering advice no one asked for and occasionally brilliant insights no one expected.

"This place is changing," he told Runa one evening, watching sparks rise from the forges. "You can hear it, if you listen."

Runa folded her arms, eyes reflecting firelight. "I know. The question is whether the world will let it."

----

Celebration did not mean mercy.

Once the cheering faded and the ships were secured, the harder work began.

Over six hundred men were marched from the captured galleys and penned in one of the larger caves with a single enterance. Sun-hardened sell sails. Privateers with mismatched armor, scarred hands, and eyes that measured exits by instinct. Most were not even Braavosi. Men loyal to coin, captains, or nothing at all.

Korb stood with Erik before them, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

"Six hundred mouths," Korb muttered. "And six hundred knives."

Erik nodded once. "Which is why they get the same choice as the raiders. Penance or death. They'll be useful either way"

The crowd quieted as Erik stepped forward, voice carrying without strain.

"You are not prisoners," he said. "Here in Weirstad, we don't believe in prisons that fatten up lazy criminals while other toil"

Murmurs rippled.

The crowd quieted as Erik stepped forward, his presence alone enough to still the restless shuffling. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. When he spoke, his words carried across the square with calm, measured certainty.

"You are not prisoners," he said. "Weirstad does not keep cages to feed idle criminals while others bleed and work to keep them alive."

A low murmur rolled through the assembled sellsails, wary and uncertain.

"You have three paths before you," Erik continued, unhurried. "Choose carefully, because here, choice still matters."

He lifted one hand, extending a single finger.

"First. Trial by combat. You may face me, or one of my chosen, alone. No tricks. No mercy asked. If the gods judge you worthy and you win, you walk out of Weirstad free."

A few men laughed, sharp and uneasy, trying to pretend bravery where none truly lived. No one stepped forward.

Erik raised a second finger.

"Second. Refuse." His tone did not change. "You will be sacrificed. Your blood and life will be given to the weirwood groves that protect this city. You will not be remembered, but you will be useful."

The laughter died as if cut with a blade. Men swallowed. Eyes shifted. The weight of the words settled like frost.

Then Erik lifted his third finger.

"Third. Penance."

He let the silence stretch before continuing.

"You will serve Weirstad for twenty years. You will swallow a weirwood penance seed. It will take root in you. It will spread through your flesh, bind your will to this city, and make you ours."

A ripple of fear passed through the crowd.

"You break your oath," Erik said softly, "and it breaks you. Completely."

He lowered his hand.

"Serve well, and when your years are done, you will have a choice again. Stay, and become citizens of Weirstad. Leave, and go free with coin earned by honest work."

His gaze swept over them, steady and unyielding.

"These are not threats," Erik said. "They are terms. Decide."

A privateer near the front spat. "And why would any of us trust that?"

Erik met his eyes. "Because you're alive to ask. Now choose and choose wisely"

Silence stretched.

One man stepped forward. Big. Confident. Scar across his jaw. "I'll fight," he said. "I've beaten worse than you."

They cleared a ring. Weapons were distributed

It lasted less than a minute.

The second challenger lasted even less.

By the tenth duel, no one was smiling.

By the twentieth, men were looking at the ground.

In the end, only fifty or so still refused to kneel.

They fought. They lost. Every single one.

Those who fell were bound and taken away, marked for later sacrifice. No cheers followed them. Only grim acceptance.

The rest of them that totaled over five hundred men knelt.

One by one, they swallowed the penance seed.

Some trembled. Some cursed. Some stared straight ahead as the weirwood bond settled into their blood, quiet and absolute.

Gonir watched with fascination, head tilted. "Such a polite little monster," he whispered to Skaldi. "Wood that eats lies. Vines that slip in veins and grips the hearts and souls"

Skaldi grunted. "I don't like it but I can't argue with the results. Some of my best soldiers are the penanced"

Korb spoke quietly to Erik as the last of them were processed. "They'll serve. But they won't love this place. Atleast not in the beginning."

"They don't need to," Erik replied. "They need to sail. We lacked veteran sailors. Now we have plenty"

And sail they would.

The new sailors were deliberately mixed, never allowed to form old crews or follow old captains. Obsidian Leaf veterans were seeded among them. Commands split. Loyalties fractured and reforged by design.

Within days, four ships were crewed properly.

Not barely.

Properly.

Ivar reviewed the rosters and allowed herself a rare nod. "Experienced hands. Weather-wise. Battle-tested. Now we have the beginnings of a proper fleet"

Runa glanced toward the harbor where the repainted black ships rocked gently. "You just turned an enemy fleet into a backbone."

Erik watched the sails. "They were never loyal to begin with."

Helga stepped beside him. "And if they try to turn?"

"They won't, They can't" Erik said simply.

ne of the other massive undertakings that accelerated alongside the workshops was timber cutting for export to Braavos, and with it came the quiet, necessary labor of charcoal making for metalworking. The forests west of Weirstad, threaded through by the Antler River, were worked with deliberate restraint. Trees were felled in marked sections, chosen for straight grain and strength rather than speed. Branches were stripped where they fell, bark scored and trimmed, and the green logs slid into the river in controlled releases, never enough to choke the current or foul the flow.

Not all the wood went to the water. Harder cuts and off-length pieces were stacked in covered pits deeper in the forest, where charcoal burners sealed them beneath earth and turf. Slow, smothered fires were lit and watched for days, then weeks, until the wood surrendered everything but its carbon. When the pits were opened, blackened charcoal was bagged and hauled downriver by cart and barge, light in weight but rich in heat, enough to feed the new forges without draining the shipwright's timber.

River Antler Guides took over the floating logs. They rode the moving wood in narrow skiffs, boots wet, poles and hooks always in hand, steering, separating, and recovering strays before jams could form. Shouted signals echoed from bank to bank as the logs were coaxed into the river's deeper channels. After only a few days of steady work, the Antler itself seemed trained, carrying timber westward with a predictability that felt almost unnatural.

At the river's mouth, the flow slowed beneath the curving stone piers that guarded the estuary like the tines of a great antler. There the timber was gathered, counted, and sorted again. Logs were bound into massive sea-rafts, each one a floating lattice of forest, lashed tight with resin-sealed rope and iron clamps driven home by mallet and wedge as the greater timbers were prepared for the long pull toward Braavos.

-------

Two months later

Two months of hard work later, the next shipment for Braavos was ready.

Timber was the heart of it. Most of Weirstad's effort had gone into logging and preparing the great trunks for transport, selecting straight-grained giants and working them down with care rather than haste. The first products to come out of the newly raised forges were not weapons, but tools: steel saws forged long and thin, their teeth cut true and hardened for the lumber crews upriver. With them, the work sped up, cleaner and more precise, each tree yielding more usable wood than before.

Alongside the timber went the goods Weirstad had already become known for. Carbon fibre armor and weapons, light and unnervingly strong, were packed in oiled wrappings. Bundles of rare animal pelts were stacked deep in the holds, each one carefully cured. Chests of gold and silver jewelry followed, worked into clean, deliberate designs and set with pearls taken from cold waters, understated enough to intrigue, valuable enough to command attention.

By the time the cargo was tallied and sealed, the docks were crowded with stacked wealth and quiet confidence. This was no desperate venture or hopeful gamble. It was the measured output of a system that had learned to make trade goods itself and now intended to sell it to one of the richest cities in the world.

The timber sea-rafts waited at the mouth of the Antler, vast floating lattices of forest bound tight with iron and resin. When Stigr Warged with his animal and whispered the call, the sea itself seemed to listen.

Levi rose.

The leviathan did not strain against the rafts. He pulled forward, and the water followed him. Tow-lines fanned out from his harness, drawing the timber islands into his wake as if they belonged there. Waves flattened. Wind lost its voice. What should have been an unwieldy, impossible cargo crossed open water with steady, terrifying inevitability.

From the quarterdeck of the Obsidian Leaf, Ivar watched in open fascination, his grin sharp and restless.
"A forest that walks on water," he said. "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd have a difficult time believing it."

Erik stood beside him, hands resting on the rail, eyes on the moving rafts.
"Just be careful in Braavos" Erik advised "Don't take risks. It's not worth it"

Ivar turned his head slowly, studying Erik's profile, amusement flickering into something sharper.
"Me? Careful," he repeated, tasting the word. "You know I've never been very good at that."

"That's exactly why I'm saying it," Erik replied "You're not going there to rile them up. You're going there to sell wood and goods and leave with coin. Nothing more. Remember why you're going."

Ivar laughed under his breath.
"Oh, I remember," he said. "I just enjoy walking close to the edge."

"Not this time Ivar" Erik stated clearly "You'll get the chance to have fun after this. For now, play it safe"

"Fine" Ivar groused "Ruin all my fun"

The Obsidian Leaf, captained by Ivar, sailed alongside the moving forest, close enough to guard and guide, far enough to avoid Levi's churn. Her holds carried finer trade goods, worked materials, tools, and sealed chests from Weirstad's workshops. Stigr stood at the bow, half in the world of men and half elsewhere, his will riding the leviathan's mind. When Levi drifted too shallow or too fast, Stigr corrected him with a thought. When currents shifted, Levi adjusted without command.

From a distance, it looked like a myth unfolding in plain sight. A ship escorting a forest across the sea. A beast older than sail towing wealth no navy could seize.

Author notes

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[Hordac]

LW 30

The weeks that followed were spent not in spectacle or expansion, but in the quieter, harder work of assimilation.

The penanced sailors were deliberately kept ashore, housed within the city rather than sent back to sea. Officially, it was to keep an eye on them. In truth, it was just as much to force familiarity and find the troublemakers. They worked the docks, hauled timber, learned new routes through streets that had once felt hostile, and shared meals in common halls instead of eating apart. Day by day, Weirstad stopped feeling like a sentence and began to feel like a place. The defiant stubborn ones were separated and posted in placed where a more careful eye can be kept on them. Not that the Penance seed symbiote needed it but redundancy was always good to have.

Erik made no speeches about redemption. He didn't need to. The hope was simple and practical: that most of them would change their minds. That they would grow used to the rhythm of the city, to steady work and predictable nights, and perhaps even grow to like it. At the subtle hinting of Helga to her more zealous followers many found themselves invited into households, into shared laughter, into the beginnings of something resembling a future. Those unhappy with their profession were quietly encouraged to apprentice under locals and use this chance to find a career they liked. A few began to speak of staying, of taking partners, of putting down roots where none had been intended.

The same care was taken with the down on their luck Braavosi artisans and skilled workers brought from Braavos. They were not isolated or set apart as foreign specialists. Instead, they were woven deliberately into existing workshops, paired with local hands, their methods observed, questioned, and slowly adopted. Some new workshops that had to be built were given many locals as apprentices. Differences in technique became conversations instead of barriers. Accents softened. Habits blended. Pride gave way to mutual respect.

Erik insisted on it being done this way. No enclaves. No divisions. No guilds. If Weirstad was to grow, it would do so as a single body, not a collection of competing parts that impeded progress.

He wanted every newcomer whether they be sailor, smith, scribe, or weaver to feel that this was not a temporary shelter or an imposed exile. He wanted them to look around, after weeks of shared labor and shared nights, and realize they were no longer guests. They were not treated as captured assets or borrowed hands but equal members of a free society that was trying its best to be above discrimination of any sort. Each craft was given space, materials, and apprentices. Everyone had equally great opportunity to grow and fulfill their dreams.

Painters and sculptors were settled near the river light, where stone dust and pigments could be washed away easily. Goldsmiths worked beside pearl traders, refining techniques that blended Braavosi delicacy with Weirstad's heavier northern aesthetics. Woodcarvers shared long halls with architects, their sketches pinned beside beams and scale models as new districts slowly took shape.

Textile sectors also bloomed. Tailors, spinners, weavers, auroch and yak wool workers, and embroiderers working side by side. New improved looms that were copied, improved, and sometimes broken, filled the air with constant motion. Patterns changed. Styles softened. Weirstad began to look like a city.

Metal rang from dawn to dusk. Blacksmiths, metalworkers, armorers, and tin workers expanded Kate and Luca's forges into a complex of heat and sound. Nearby, stonemasons, bricklayers, and carpenters raised permanent structures instead of temporary sheds, buildings meant to last generations, not seasons.

Apothecaries and pigment makers took over a cluster of stone rooms near the groves, cataloguing plants, resins, and powders. Leatherworkers of every specialization found purpose. Cordwainers crafting fine shoes, shoemakers and cobblers dividing labor cleanly, saddlers and glovers shaping luxury and utility alike. Girdlers, botteliers, scabbard-makers, thongers, and bookbinders turned hides into everything a growing city needed. Even earthenware craftsmen were brought in, their kilns glowing at night like low stars.

And then came the moneyers, the coin makers. The mint was established within the giant hybrid Heart Tree itself, built in one of it its vast hollowed interior chambers to keep it close at hand and secure against theft and tampering. Deep root chambers were hollowed and reinforced with stone and iron, their entrances hidden behind living bark and guarded day and night. The tree's sheer mass shielded the mint from fire, frost, and forced entry, while its living presence discouraged carelessness and corruption alike.

Here, metal was weighed, tested, and struck under constant watch. Every die was accounted for. Every blank counted. Nothing entered or left without record

Gold and silver were brought under heavy guard, carried in locked chests and watched by his most loyal men. Each bar was weighed twice, tested for purity, then broken and fed to the crucibles. The metal flowed bright and clean, poured into molds cut to exact measure. When the blanks cooled, new dies were brought out that were simple in design, deliberate in meaning and difficult to counterfeit.

One face bore the mark of the heartwood with a face in the trunk, unmistakable even when worn thin. The other was etched with runes of durability and attraction, worked subtly into the metal itself. They were not merely decorative. The runes strengthened the coin against wear and corrosion and gave it a faint, almost unconscious pull, something that made the hand reluctant to let it go. Coins meant to last. Coins meant to circulate. Coins meant to be chosen, again and again, over any other measure of worth. So that eventually it would become the preferred currency for international trade.

It was the first large-scale deployment of magic runes Weirstad had ever attempted, and it did not come easily. Eldri Runetongue labored for weeks over wax molds and test blanks, arguing late into the night with Runa, while Bloom of the Children of the Forest corrected them both in soft, patient tones older than their language. The challenge was not power, but restraint. The runic lattice had to be compact enough to fit within the thin skin of a coin, subtle enough not to flare or draw attention, and stable enough to feed on nothing more than the faint ambient energies that permeated the air of Planetos itself.

Dozens of designs failed. Some cracked the metal. Others drank too deeply and warped. A few worked too well, clinging to hands so stubbornly they had to be pried loose with a knife. In the end, they found balance: a nested pattern, shallow but precise, that sipped rather than consumed, reinforcing without dominating. When the first successful coins were struck and cooled, the runes went quiet, settling into the metal like something that had always belonged there.

Weirstad's money was not large-scale showy magic like that of the Valyrians.
It was patient magic that was hidden in plain sight.
And it would travel farther than any spell ever cast in a single night.

"These coins are the first step in creating our economy," Erik said as the first blanks were struck, the sharp ring of metal echoing through the mint. He watched closely, not the coin, but the faces around him. "The free folk are used to barter, meat for grain, labor for shelter. Coin will feel like a trick to them at first."

He picked one up, turning it between his fingers so the light caught the runes.
"So it must never be a trick. Anyone who holds one of these should know exactly where it came from, why it's worth something, and that it will still be worth something centuries from now."

One of the moneyers frowned thoughtfully. "Trust won't come quickly."

"No," Erik agreed calmly. "But consistency builds faster than fear. Fixed weights. Fixed purity. No debasement. No sudden changes." His eyes hardened slightly. "And anyone caught shaving, clipping, or falsifying my coin will wish they'd chosen sacrifice instead."

That earned a few thin smiles.

The accountants exchanged glances, already thinking in columns and ledgers, supply and flow. They understood what Erik was building, not just currency, but control without chains. A system that rewarded honesty, punished greed, and made Weirstad the quiet center of trade whether merchants admitted it or not.

The hammers fell again.
Coin by coin, an economy was born.

For now, they struck only three coins, simple in concept and absolute in clarity. Gold, silver, and bronze. No confusing weights, no shifting ratios, no hidden tricks meant to favor the powerful over the poor. Each denomination followed a strict factor of one hundred. One hundred bronze coins equaled a single silver. One hundred silver coins equaled a single gold.

The simplicity was deliberate.

Bronze was meant for daily life. Wages, food, tools, ferry fares, and drink. Heavy enough in the hand to feel real, common enough that no one feared spending it. Silver was the measure of craft and trade, used for finished goods, contracts, and shipments that crossed borders. Gold was rarer, reserved for ships, land, tribute, and long-distance exchange, a store of value that could travel anywhere and be trusted.

Each coin shared the same language of symbols and runes, scaled carefully so that no matter the metal, the promise remained identical. A bronze coin did not pretend to be a silver one, and silver never masqueraded as gold. Weight, size, and color made deception difficult, while the runes made counterfeiting impossible.

Erik insisted the ratios never change.

"People can learn numbers," he told the moneyers. "We will not let them learn mistrust. Once you break the scale, you break belief."

So Weirstad's economy began not with abundance, but with certainty. A child could count it. A sailor could trust it. A foreign merchant could test it and know its worth without ever hearing Weirstad's name spoken aloud. And as the coins passed from hand to hand, from port to port, they carried more than value with them.

They would carried the idea that this city meant what it made. It would become one of the many ways Weirstad would become known of quality and trust.

Every artisan was given a workshop. Every workshop was given apprentices. No skill remained isolated. No knowledge was hoarded. Weirstad did not grow fast, but it grew wide—interlocked, layered, and stubborn in the way only living things could be.

Painters worked beside sculptors, trading pigments for chisels. Goldsmiths shared space with moneyers, learning the precise weights and alloys that would soon circulate through every hand in the city. Woodcarvers and architects argued over grain and load-bearing curves while stonemasons and bricklayers turned those arguments into walls that would outlast them all. Tailors, spinners, and weavers filled long halls with the whisper of thread, while auroch and yak wool workers and embroiderers transformed imported luxuries into something unmistakably Weirstad.

Blacksmiths and armorers labored near the charcoal pits, where steady columns of smoke marked the slow burning of timber into fuel hot enough to bend steel. Apothecaries ground herbs beside pigment makers. Cordwainers, saddlers, glovers, and girdlers worked fine leather into forms both practical and beautiful, while cobblers repaired the old and bookbinders gave permanence to words that might otherwise fade. Even the earthenware craftsmen found their place, turning local clay into vessels that carried everything from coin to grain to ink.

Each newcomer was paired with locals. Each local was expected to learn as much as they taught. Mistakes were corrected publicly. Success was shared deliberately. Accents clashed. Tempers flared. Old guild habits died hard.

But by the end of those weeks, fewer people spoke of leaving.
More spoke of building.

They argued about expansions, about new kilns and deeper forges, about houses instead of barracks, about who might marry whom once the next winter passed. Children of Weirstad began using foreign words without realizing it, and the newcomers started swearing in the old tongue when they were tired or hurt.

And that, Erik knew, was how a city stopped being a refuge—
and became a home.

--------

A few days later Erik was out on an inspection tour of their newly planted fields. In particular he was interested in the fields planted using grain and vegetable seeds imported from Braavos.

The wind worried at the young fields as Erik walked among the plots, Helga and Sigrun at his sides. The ground was marked with neat rows and careful stones, every effort made to coax life from the soil. Too much of it lay bare, the promise of green reduced to scattered, stubborn survivors clinging to life.

"I had expected them to have a hard time growing here" Eik commented "But this is worse that any of my calculations"

Helga stopped first, crouching to touch a wilted shoot, her fingers gentle despite the calluses earned through honest work.
"They tried," she said quietly. "Some even succeeded us for a while. Grew straight and proud. Then the cold came back. They aren't hardy like ours are"

Sigrun folded her arms against the wind, expression sharp and unsympathetic. She nudged a dead stem with her boot.
"Braavosi seeds are soft," she said. "They expect kindness. This land gives none."

Erik knelt, scooping up a handful of earth and letting it sift slowly through his fingers. The soil was dark, rich, alive. Not the problem.
"The ground is fine," he said. "So is the water. It's the air that kills them. The cold nights. The way the frosty winds returns when it shouldn't, even in summer."

Helga looked up at him, searching his face. "Can you fix it?"

Erik hesitated, just long enough to matter.


"Yes," he said. Then he shook his head. "But not by cutting the plants apart and remaking them into something else."

Sigrun studied him closely. "You could change them," she said. "Make them harder."

"I could," Erik agreed. His mind was already accelerating, opening like a many-petaled flower. "Bioengineer thicker cell walls. Alter frost responses. Change how they store sugars. It would work. It would take time and lots of experimental trails"

Thoughts stacked and collapsed in rapid succession in Erik's enhanced mind. Spliced resilience. Engineered strains. Test beds. Generations of trial. And the cost. Taste altered. Nutrition shifted. Familiar foods becoming something else entirely. Years before stability. Years he did not want to spend.

"But I don't want only engineered crops," Erik continued. "I want the originals too. The foods as they were meant to be eaten. I want both. The originals must also grow here"

"But how?" Helga asked

He rose slowly, gaze sweeping the barren plots as his thoughts leapt again. Stone shelters. Sunken beds. Heat-trapping walls. Smoke-warmed pits. Glass greenhouses—

No.

Myr's monopoly flared in his mind like a warning brand, a political dead end he refused to step into. Imported panes would be costly, fragile, and far too visible. Any large purchase would ripple outward through merchants and spies alike, noticed by eyes he had no interest in drawing this early.

I could make my own glass, he admitted to himself, the idea forming cleanly and then being weighed just as quickly. But it would be a massive undertaking. New furnaces. Purified sand. Controlled temperatures. Skilled glassworkers trained from nothing. Months, perhaps years of diverted labor and attention.

He dismissed it with a quiet breath.

I don't have the time, he thought. And I don't have the surplus yet. Resources were better spent building people, systems, and momentum. Glass would come later, when Weirstad could afford the luxury of patience.

For now, he needed something faster. Cheaper. Quieter.

Something that already lay at his feet.

"leaves" Erik muttered "Of course!"

Protection, not alteration. Green houses made not of glass but something else. Something they could make easily without being on Myr's radar

Shelters that breathed. Light that passed through. Warmth that lingered.

Plastic.

The word surfaced with surprising clarity, dragging a memory behind it. A documentary watched once, long ago. Crude oil. Refineries. Polymer chains. Waste and smoke and poisoned rivers. He discarded most of it instantly. No oil. No refineries. No ruined land.

But not all plastic was born that way.

His thoughts sharpened, reorganized. Cellulose. Leaves. Plant fibers. Binding agents. Plasticizers. Heat and pressure. Films and sheets thin enough to pass light, strong enough to break wind. Structures that trapped warmth without sealing life away.

Bioplastic.

He stopped walking.

Leaves. Bark. Sawdust. Organic waste they already had in abundance from the logging effort. Glycerol from rendered fats. Gelatin from bones. Ash and lime. Water. Heat. Every raw material already within Weirstad's grasp.

His pulse quickened.

Cold frames wrapped in translucent sheets. Layered insulation. Removable coverings for summer and winter. Greenhouses without glass. Cheap, light, replaceable. Subtle enough to draw no attention from foreign eyes.

Sigrun watched him smile, slow and certain. "You've found something," she said.

"Yes," Erik replied softly. "I don't need to change the land. I don't need to change the plants."

Helga followed his gaze back over the fields, the failed rows and stubborn survivors alike. "Then what do you change?"

"We change the space around them," Erik said. "We hide the crops from the cold."

Sigrun frowned, practical as ever. "And hide them from the sun as well?" she asked. "You'd kill them just as surely."

Erik turned to her, a spark of quiet excitement in his eyes. "Not if what we hide them with lets the sunlight through."

Understanding flickered across Helga's face first. "Something clear," she murmured. "Something thin."

"Something we can make ourselves," Erik added.

The wind swept across the empty rows again, tugging at cloaks and snapping at exposed skin, but Erik barely felt it now. His mind was already elsewhere, assembling sheds and frames, imagining molds and presses, sheets stretched tight over growing beds. Waste becoming shelter. Refuse turned into protection. Failure reshaped into advantage.

"Yes," he murmured to himself, rare satisfaction bleeding into his voice. "That will do."

------

Erik refused to let waste exist in Weirstad. Not if said waste could be used to make bioplastic.

Where others saw heaps of stripped branches, leaf piles, bark, and sweepings left behind by the great logging effort for Braavos, he saw a resource waiting to be disciplined. The forests fed the city twice over, once in timber and again in what was discarded. He ordered the organic refuse gathered, not burned or dumped, but sorted. Leaves, small branches, bark shavings, even sawdust too fine for carpentry were pulled aside and carried to a new set of low, steaming sheds downwind of the workshops.

The waste material had become a raw material.

The process began simply. Leaves were washed clean of soil and sap, then spread across drying racks under sun and wind until they crumbled easily between the fingers. Once dry, they were ground into a fine green-brown powder using millstones modified for light material rather than grain. The powder was then soaked and treated, first in alkaline solutions derived from ash and lime to break down unwanted compounds, then in carefully prepared green solvents that Erik devised with the apothecaries, mixtures that separated usable cellulose from lignin and resin without poisoning the workers or the land. What emerged was not waste but pulp, thick, fibrous, and pale.

That pulp became the foundation.

It was blended with natural binders and plasticizers. Gelatin rendered from bones, glycerol refined from fats, and plant oils were added in precise ratios, then heated slowly in large copper vessels while apprentices stirred constantly to prevent scorching. The mixture thickened into something strange and new, neither cloth nor wood nor leather. While still hot, it was poured into molds or spread into thin sheets, pressed flat, and left to cool and cure.

The result was a material that bent without tearing, resisted water for a time, and returned harmlessly to the earth when buried or burned. Biodegradable sheets used for packaging, sacks that replaced costly leather for short-term use, protective wrappings for cargo, liners for baskets and crates, and agricultural films for seed beds and soil protection. It was not meant to last forever. That was the point.

Weirstad's artisans learned quickly. What began as refuse became product. What had once clogged yards and fouled air became another export, another advantage. Even the charcoal burners benefitted, as the extracted lignin and bark residues burned hotter and cleaner than raw wood.

Erik watched the first finished sheets laid out to cool and nodded once.

"Nothing we take should die useless," he said. "If the forest feeds us, we return the favor by wasting nothing."

The skepticism in the workshops was as thick as the steam from the copper vats. The elder artisans, men and women whose hands were calloused by decades of honest timber and stone, poked at the cooling sheets with wary fingers.

"It's a trick of the light, Erik," Gonir muttered, flicking a translucent membrane. "It's too thin for a roof, too weak for a boot, and it rots in a few years. What good is a thing that's born to live only a couple of years?"

Erik didn't look up from the ledger where he was noting the curing times. "The forest dies every autumn, Gonir. Does that make the spring useless?"

He stood and beckoned them toward the eastern slope of the valley, a patch of land that the frost claimed weeks before the rest of the town. There, a skeleton of thin, arched saplings had been erected—a ribcage of wood stripped of its bark.

"Help me," Erik commanded.

They unrolled the long, pale rolls of the cured bioplastic. It was slightly cloudy, catching the morning sun but letting the light pass through in a soft, diffused glow. They stretched it over the wooden ribs, pinning it down with weighted stones and wooden stakes. Within an hour, they had created a series of long, shimmering tunnels.

Erik stepped inside the first tunnel and gestured for the others to follow. The air inside was instantly different. It felt heavy, still and significantly warmer than the cool breeze outside.

"You ask what good it is," Erik said, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. "We live at the mercy of the frost. We eat what the cold allows us to grow and that gets us roots, hardy grains,kale and afew other edible plants. But inside these skins, the sun is trapped. The soil thinks it is summer even when the peaks are white with snow."

"The bioplastic allows for sunlight to enter but prevents long-wave heat from escaping. The physical barrier shields delicate shoots from the "black frost" that usually killed late-season crops. The sheets keep the humidity high, reducing the need for constant watering in the windy area close to the coast." Erik explained

"In these tunnels," Erik continued, pointing to the tilled earth beneath their feet, "we will plant the vegetables Braavos thinks we can only get through trade. Sweet peppers. Vine-ripened tomatoes. Green leafy vegetables Herbs that usually wither the moment the first leaf turns gold."

He looked at Gonir, who was now feeling the warmth of the trapped air with genuine surprise.

"It isn't meant to last forever, Harl. It's meant to last a few seasons. When the harvest is done and the plastic grows brittle, we plow it back into the dirt. It becomes the very soil that feeds the next crop. It's not waste. It's a bridge."

The skepticism began to melt, replaced by the quiet hum of calculation. They weren't just looking at "rotting" sheets anymore; they were looking at the ability to feed Weirstad through the long, lean months.

Author notes

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[Hordac]

Ch 31

Even though the green tunnels were a great milestone, Erik wanted to ensure the crop's survived and thrived. He worked directly on the seeds themselves, making genetic adjustments that would enable the crops to survive the harsher conditions and improve their yield.

Half of each seed stock was altered, the remainder left untouched as a control. The changes were restrained and reinforcing rather than transformative, reinforcing cold-resistance traits already present in the plants' lineage. Cell structures were subtly strengthened, frost-response mechanisms made more responsive, and energy storage adjusted to better survive sudden freezes. Flavor, yield, and nutritional value were deliberately preserved.

Once complete, the seeds were returned to the farmers and planted openly in the newly constructed bioplastic growing tunnels. Altered and unaltered seeds were set in adjacent rows beneath the same translucent skins, sharing identical soil, light, and water. The tunnels broke the wind, trapped warmth, and shielded the young shoots from black frost, creating a space where resilience could be guaranteed rather than hoped for.

When the colder winds returned, the results were clear. Outside the tunnels, exposed crops withered and eventually failed. Meanwhile inside the green tunnel, the unaltered plants struggled but lived, while the reinforced crops not only endured but grew steadily, their leaves thickening and darkening with health.

The farmers noticed this quickly. There was no cheering, only longer pauses during morning rounds, hands lingering on leaves that should not have survived. Word spread not in proclamations but in planning. conversations about staggered plantings, winter stores, and seeds worth saving. The prospect of more food, and more kinds of food, mattered deeply. Fresh vegetables meant fewer illnesses, better strength through winter, and meals that felt like living rather than enduring.

It became clear that the tunnels provided protection, the altered seeds provided margin, and together they offered something the North had rarely known: food guarantee. Not excess. Not miracles. Simply enough variety and reliability to keep people healthier, better fed, and quietly happier than they had been in years.

The news spread outward from the fields into the city, and from the city into the wider reaches of the true North. It became another wonder of Weirstad, not one of spectacle but of certainty. Another reason for free folk to visit, to trade, or to settle. Another small, deliberate step toward a prosperity built not on conquest or chance, but on trust and preparation.

The Obsidian Leaf returned three days later.

Her silhouette appeared first against the gray sea, black hull cutting cleanly through the chop, sails reefed and disciplined. She came in heavy, not with timber this time, but with weight of a different kind.

The weight of coins, Iron, silver and gold bricks. The weight of unemployed Braavosi skilled labor

The weight of success.

Ivar was the first down the gangplank, boots thudding on the dock, beard braided tight and eyes bright with something between triumph and disbelief. Stigr followed close behind, quieter as ever, gaze already cataloging the harbor like a man counting what had changed in his absence.

They brought ledgers.

And chests.

Lots of chests.

The unloading took hours. Bars of iron stamped with Braavosi marks. Silver ingots wrapped in oilcloth. Gold, less of it, but enough to make even the most stoic dockhands pause.

And coin.

Weirstad coin.

The moneyers had not expected that.

Ivar slapped a bronze piece down onto a crate with a sharp ring. "They took it."

One of the accountants frowned. "Tested?"

"Of course they tested it," Ivar replied, grinning. "Bit it. Weighed it. Scratched it. Ran it past two moneychangers and a suspicious priest. Then they asked if we had more."

Stigr crossed his arms. "They didn't like the runes."

"That's putting it mildly," Ivar said. "Called it unnerving. Which is Braavosi for they trust it but don't like it."

Erik, standing nearby, allowed himself a small, satisfied exhale.

"How much?" he asked.

Stigr handed over the ledger.

The numbers were clean. Conservative. Undersold, if anything. Timber fetched premium prices—straight northern grain, cut clean and cured properly. Resin and pitch moved faster than expected. The bioplastic sheets, quietly included as packing material and samples, had sparked interest even without explanation.

"They think it's some northern bark-craft," Stigr said. "Didn't press too hard."

"Good," Erik replied. "Let them wonder. What about our trader friend and his son?"

"Belicho was more than relieved," Ivar replied. "I gave him the medicine you prepared for his son and the instructions that went with it. After that, doors opened quickly. Too quickly for chance."

He glanced around before continuing. "He pushed the trade through personally. Cut his own commission to the bone. And he gathered others for us, Braavosi craftsmen and skilled hands who'd fallen out of favor or run out of coin. People with reasons to leave."

Korb's expression hardened. "That kind of help never comes without strings."

"Exactly," Ivar said. "None of them looked like obvious spies. That worries me more than if they had."

Erik nodded slowly. "We observe. Quietly. Pair them with locals. No enclaves. No access to sensitive work until trust is earned. The hybrid tree spore will infect them in a few days and then if they so much as sneeze in the wrong direction. We'll know"

He paused. "Success draws attention. That's inevitable. What matters is whether those who come looking find a secret worth stealing, or a system too strong to be uprooted."

That night, the return of the Obsidian Leaf was celebrated.

The sailors who had once expected punishment now drank alongside locals, spending bronze without hesitation and laughing at jokes that would have earned them glares weeks earlier. Some still carried the stiff posture of men waiting for a sentence, but it was fading. Coin passed from hand to hand without suspicion. Cups were refilled without keeping count.

Nearby, artisans argued animatedly over half-finished plans. Gonir and two younger smiths sketched forge expansions directly onto a table dusted with flour, debating airflow and charcoal supply as if the matter were already settled. A pair of weavers listened with half an ear, more interested in whether the new looms could handle finer thread than in who technically owned the space. No one spoke of permission. They spoke of when.

Farmers clustered in knots at the edge of the square, their talk no longer circling around how long stores would last. They argued instead about planting rotations, about whether the altered seeds should go into the tunnels first or saved for late spring fields, about how much land could be risked without threatening winter reserves. Disagreements were sharp but hopeful. Survival was no longer the baseline.

Children ran through the streets in uneven packs, darting between adults and carts, shouting words borrowed from foreign tongues without knowing they were foreign at all. The streets felt narrower for it—fuller. Alive.

Erik stood at the edge of the square, hands clasped behind his back, watching it all with the stillness of someone who understood that moments like this could not be commanded. They could only be allowed.

Helga came to stand beside him, her shoulder brushing his, eyes following the same scenes. "You did this," she said quietly, not accusing, not praising. Simply stating what it looked like from the outside.

He shook his head. "No. We all did. I just guided them. They chose to listen."

Jakob leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed, scanning the square with an old man's eye. "Listening is rare," she said. "Keeping it is harder."

"Then we keep earning it," Erik replied.

A little farther off, Ivar raised a mug in their direction without ceremony before turning back to his table, already deep in conversation with a recruited Braavosi sailor about routes and contracts. Stigr stood behind him, silent as ever, watching hands and faces instead of drinks, counting futures the way other men counted coin.

Helga smiled, small and genuine. "They're not afraid tonight," she said.

"No," Erik agreed. "They're content."

Above them, lantern light reflected off new stonework and half-finished beams. Beyond the square, the bioplastic tunnels caught the moonlight in pale arcs, sheltering seeds that promised variety instead of scarcity. Weirstad did not feel like a refuge anymore.

Out beyond the lights, the tunnels gleamed faintly under moonlight, their bioplastic skins whispering softly in the wind. Beneath them, seeds—old and new—pushed roots into warming soil.

Weirstad was no longer waiting to see if it would survive. It felt like a place people wanted to become part of.

----

The council reviewed the early reports with more seriousness than celebration. Yield projections were still cautious, but the implications were unmistakable. Increased food security, even by modest margins, translated directly into healthier bodies, lower winter mortality, and fewer labor days lost to illness. The variety mattered as much as the volume—fresh greens and vegetables meant fewer deficiencies, stronger immune resistance, and children who grew rather than merely survived.

Helga spoke for the households, noting the change in morale almost immediately. People planned meals again instead of rationing them in advance. Mothers worried less. Workers took risks on apprenticeships and long projects because the fear of an empty larder had loosened its grip. Stability, once gained, reinforced itself.

Sigrun focused on resilience. A population that ate well endured stress better, fought harder when needed, and recovered faster from injury and loss. She pointed out that well-fed people were also harder to panic and slower to turn desperate—no small advantage in a growing city that would inevitably draw envy and pressure.

Erik framed it in simpler terms. "Food doesn't just keep people alive," he said. "It tells them tomorrow is worth preparing for."

The council agreed that the tunnels and altered seed program should be expanded steadily, not aggressively. No dependence on a single method. No promises made faster than they could be kept. But as a foundation for long-term population health and collective morale, the consensus was clear: this was not merely an agricultural success.

Attention then turned to the remaining problem—the four captured ships still riding at anchor.

The debate was sharper here.

Sigrun argued for retaining them as a defensive fleet. Ships meant reach, warning, and deterrence. Even a modest squadron could make raiders think twice. Others countered that idle ships drained manpower and supplies, and that openly maintaining a fleet would draw exactly the kind of attention Weirstad was not yet ready to answer.

Trade options were proposed instead. Sending ships to other free cities. Testing relations with Westerosi ports—Oldtown, Sunspear, Lannisport, Gulltown, Planky Town, the Weeping Town, even White Harbor. Distance became the deciding factor. Oldtown, Sunspear, and Lannisport were dismissed quickly—too far, too visible, too politically dense for early outreach.

In the end, they settled on White Harbor.

It was close. Northern. Pragmatic. A place where ships were valued more for their cargo than their origin.

Two of the four vessels would be sent, laden with timber, resin, and surplus goods, not enough to boast, but enough to be taken seriously. Their crews would be mixed by design. Penanced former sellsails who had reformed the most were paired with veterans from the Obsidian Leaf, overseen by officers Erik trusted, and supplemented by local recruits who had been training on the captured ships.

No single loyalty. No single failure point.

The remaining ships would stay, maintained but unadvertised, their fate deferred until Weirstad could afford either a fleet or the attention one would bring.

With that, the council adjourned.

-----------

With the city stable and the council occupied with longer arcs of planning and Runa busy with her own projects and mastering runes with the help of Bloom, Erik finally found something rare.

Time.

He spent it where he always did when problems resisted force or policy—alone in the lab, surrounded by notes, samples, and the quiet hum of restrained curiosity. One issue had been pressing at him for weeks now, unresolved not because it was dangerous, but because it was inefficient.

They needed more wargs.

Not warriors trained into the role, but true wargs—those born with the capacity to reach beyond their own skin. The problem was not training. It was discovery. Wargs were rare, and worse, unreliable to identify. Most never realized what they were. Others learned only after moments of crisis, too late to be cultivated safely. Chance and luck dictated one of Weirstad's most valuable assets.

Erik disliked systems that depended on luck.

He began with what he had.

Blood samples from every confirmed wargs in Weirstad, handled carefully, anonymized, catalogued. He compared them relentlessly. Patterns emerged slowly, then all at once. A shared sequence. A recurring marker nestled deep in the genome, subtle but unmistakable once seen. Not the power itself, but the capacity for it. A door, not the room beyond.

"So that's you," he murmured to himself.

Finding the marker was the easy part.

Finding people who carried it was harder.

He paced the lab, ideas forming and collapsing in equal measure.

'Thos isn't the modern world where everyone can be tested in a diagnostic lab' Erik thought

One option was direct contact. He'd have touching everyone, probing gently, feeling for resonance. Effective. Also impossibly slow, deeply inappropriate, and guaranteed to breed fear.

'I don't want to spend weeks doing this!' Erik thought 'There has to be a better way'

Another thought crossed his mind and was dismissed just as quickly. Standing beside Helga during her sermons. Offering blessings. Letting his power brush the crowd indirectly.

It would work.

Which was precisely why he hated it.

Too close to manipulation. Too close to faith being used as a tool. He would not blur that line anymore than iit already was, not here, not now.

He stopped pacing.

His gaze drifted upward, through stone and timber, toward the massive hybrid Heart Tree that anchored Weirstad like a living spine. Its roots fed half the city. Its canopy shaded markets and halls alike. Its spore cycles were already carefully controlled, tuned to release harmless biological markers for air purification and pollen suppression.

And then inspiration came!

Erik smiled.

"Of course," he said softly.

The tree already touched everyone. Its spores were everywhere an in everyone.

He didn't change its nature. He added to it.

Within the spore-release system, Erik introduced a secondary, harmless spore, biologically inert, incapable of reproduction, designed to degrade naturally within days. It carried no magic, no compulsion, no influence. It did exactly one thing.

If the spore encountered the warg genetic marker in a person's body, it triggered a temporary, unmistakable reaction. A vivid shift in skin pigmentation. Bright. Purple. Impossible to miss. Impossible to fake. Gone within a few days leaving no trace behind.

Those without the marker?

Nothing happened at all.

No pain. No side effects. No sensation. No change.

He spent the next few days refining the release timing, ensuring even distribution, testing degradation rates. When he was satisfied, he informed the council.

Reactions were… mixed.

Sigrun stared at him for a long moment. "You're telling me," she said slowly, "that anyone who turns purple might be a warg."

"Has the potential," Erik corrected. "Training and temperament still matter and decide if they can become one"

Helga tilted her head, thoughtful. "And they'll know?"

"Yes," Erik said. "So will everyone else. Which is why this only works once."

That sobered the room.

Sheriffs were briefed carefully. Instructions were explicit: no arrests, no pressure, no announcements. Anyone showing the coloration was to be invited, not seized. Observed quietly. Gathered discreetly in the Great hall. Explanations given later.

"We're not hunting," Erik said firmly. "We're offering answers."

The spores were released at dawn.

By midday, the city noticed.

A dockworker with purple hands. A baker whose face had turned violet halfway through kneading dough. A child laughing in the street, delighted by the color of her arms, unaware of what it might mean.

Confusion followed. Then curiosity.

Then understanding.

By evening, the sheriffs' lists had begun to fill.

-----

By the following morning, the main hall within the hollow of the hybrid Heart Tree was full.

Purple stood out starkly against wood and stone. Skin tones ranged from pale violet to deep bruised plum, some faint enough to be doubted, others impossible to ignore. People clustered in uncertain knots, voices low, eyes darting. Infants cradled against chests bore faint lavender cheeks. Elderly men leaned on canes, their hands unmistakably colored. The range alone unsettled everyone.

Korb, Jakob, and Stigr halted just inside the threshold.

They stared.

Jakob was the first to speak. "That's… a lot more of us than I was expecting."

Korb crossed his arms, scowling at his own hands. "I was expecting dozens at most." He glanced around the hall again. "Not this."

Stigr said nothing, but his jaw tightened as his gaze swept the room. Soldiers' instincts didn't care about color—they cared about numbers.

Helga approached them first, purple unmistakable even beneath the hall's filtered light. Ketil followed a step behind, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and affront.

"I hate this color," Ketil said flatly, rubbing at his forearm as if it might come off. "If I'd known, I would've objected on principle."

Korb snorted. "You and me both. I look ridiculous!"

"It's undignified," Ketil agreed sourly

"It is quite entertaining looking at you two" Helga smiled despite herself. "Fortunately for you, It is temporary," she reminded them.

"That's not the point," Ketil muttered.

Their attention drifted back to the room to the sheer number of people gathered. Fear, curiosity, excitement, and disbelief all lived together under the Tree's vast ribs.

"They didn't know," Jakob said quietly. "Any of them. They're so many like us"

"No reason to," Helga replied. "Most people never get the chance. Or if they do, the pull is weak. Or they dismiss it. Or they're afraid."

She looked around thoughtfully. "Warging isn't just ability. It's proximity. Temperament. Opportunity. And sometimes… something else we don't yet understand."

Korb's eyes found Erik across the hall, standing apart, watching rather than directing.

"You knew," Korb said.

Erik met his gaze evenly. "I suspected. Statistically, it never made sense that so few existed."

"And now?" Helga asked, practical as ever. "What do we do with all of them?"

Erik didn't hesitate. "What else?" He raised his voice just enough to carry. "Everyone trains."

A murmur rippled through the hall.

"Not all of you will succeed," he continued calmly. "Some may never move beyond awareness. That's fine. This isn't conscription. It's instruction. Knowledge is not obligation."

Korb exhaled slowly. "And who's teaching?"

Erik glanced at him, Jakob, Stigr, and Ketil. "You are. You four have walked the path already. You know the dangers better than anyone." A pause. "I'll assist where I can."

Stigr nodded once. Jakob looked overwhelmed, but resolute.

Korb opened his mouth to argue then stopped.

"No," he said firmly. "Not like this."

Ketil nodded immediately. "Agreed. Absolutely not."

Helga blinked. "Not like what?"

Korb gestured at his skin. "Not while we're purple."

Ketil scowled. "I refuse to instruct anyone while looking like a bruised grape."

A few nervous laughs broke out nearby, tension easing just a fraction.

Erik allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. "Very well," he said steeping forward and placed a hand on Ketil "Give me a moment all I'll reverse it"

"Good," Ketil said. "Then we teach."

He looked around the hall again, at the infants, the elders, the dockworkers and farmers and children.

"But why do we need so many wargs?" Stigr asked at last.

The hall quieted around the question. It wasn't suspicion in his voice, only curiosity. Numbers mattered to him. Every skill had a cost.

Erik turned from the crowd to face him. "Because sight decides survival, dominance and victory" he said calmly. "Because knowledge is power"

He gestured outward, as if tracing the shape of the city beyond the living walls. "We need more eyes in our cavalry, scouts who can see beyond hills and forests without riding blindly into traps. We need them in our defense forces and among the sheriffs, watching borders, roads, and approaches no watchtower can fully cover."

He paused, then added, "And we need them especilly out at sea."

That drew attention.

"I once read the work of a scholar from Yi Ti " Erik continued changing China with Yi TI as the cavitations were very similar "He was a famous strategist named Sun Tzu. He wrote that if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the outcome of a hundred battles. Victory comes not from strength alone, but from understanding and knowing where your enemy is strong, where they are weak, and where they do not expect to be seen."

Some of the council exchanged glances. Others simply listened.

"We are getting stronger every day," Erik went on. "But strength without intelligence invites disaster. Wargs give us knowledge before danger arrives. They let us act and merely react. They let us choose when to fight or when not to."

Stigr's brow furrowed. "And the sea?"

Erik's expression hardened just slightly. "The sea is where the need for intelligence and dominance is the greatest."

He folded his hands behind his back. "If we are to trade, to move ships, to defend our coast, then the waters around Weirstad cannot be left to chance. Ships are good but we need an edge over our enemies. We need wargs who can bond with leviathans, whales, krakens, creatures that see what no sailor ever will. Storms, fleets, threats moving beneath the waves."

A quiet understanding spread through the room.

"The land can be watched by walls and towers," Erik said. "The sea is too vast and open. It cannot be defended as easily. Not without help from our giant marine friends."

He looked back at the gathered purple-skinned crowd not as resources, but as possibilities.

"We need an army of wargs," he concluded. "We need enough to ensure that nothing approaches Weirstad unseen by land or by water or even the skies"

Stigr considered that, then nodded once. "Information is important," he said.

"Exactly," Erik replied. "Battles won before they're fought."

The Tree's vast hollow seemed to listen along with them, its roots deep in earth and its branches stretching toward sky and sea alike. And beneath the living arches of the Heart Tree, surrounded by people who had never known what they carried inside themselves, Weirstad quietly took another step away from chance and toward certainty.

Author notes

If you want to support my writing and get exclusive pre-release ACCESS TO THE NEXT THIRTEEN CHAPTERS of the story, consider becoming a Patron of this work.

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