Anna stood at the center of communal kitchen, a space carved from necessity and time. The room stretched around her, its rough-hewn counters lining the walls like weathered sentinels, their surfaces etched with deep knife scars and darkened by stains from years of broths and stews. A single stove crouched in the corner, its dented metal shell patched with mismatched scraps—salvaged steel riveted unevenly over rust. Its flame flickered, casting a warm, wavering glow that danced across the packed-earth floor. Overhead, woven shutters hung crookedly over a narrow window, their fibers frayed but sturdy, allowing slivers of dawn''s amber light to pierce the gloom. The air shimmered with dust motes, tiny specks suspended in the stillness. Along one wall, sagging shelves bore the weight of survival: jars of dried herbs, their contents brittle and faded, and lumpy sacks of roots, each grain and tuber a testament to the village''s fragile abundance.
The kitchen hummed with subtle life. The air thickened with the earthy scent of simmering roots, a warm undertone laced with the sharp bite of crushed herbs and a faint, metallic tang from the stove''s unsteady heat. Anna''s knife met the cutting board in a steady thwack-thwack-thwack, a rhythm as constant as breath. Her hands, calloused yet nimble, guided the blade through a pile of shriveled roots—tough, leathery things harvested months ago and stored against the lean season. Each slice was deliberate, the blade''s edge glinting faintly as it parted the fibrous flesh. She swept the chunks into a chipped clay pot where a thin broth bubbled, its surface trembling with heat, steam curling upward in delicate wisps that carried the promise of sustenance.
The stove faltered, its flame dipping low with a hiss, threatening to snuff out. Anna paused, setting the knife down with a soft clack against the board. She knelt beside the stove, her knees pressing into the cool earth, and ran her fingers over its battered surface, feeling the dents and welds beneath her touch. From her tool belt—a weathered leather strap slung low across her hips—she drew a small wrench, its handle worn smooth by years of use, fitting perfectly into her palm. She twisted a loose valve, her movements quick and sure, the faint click-click of metal aligning metal echoing in the quiet. The flame surged back, steady and bright, licking at the pot''s underside. She rose with a small, satisfied nod, brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow with the back of her hand.
Returning to the stew, Anna gripped a wooden spoon, its handle polished to a sheen by countless hands before hers. She stirred slowly, the spoon cutting gentle swirls through the thickening broth, watching as the roots softened and surrendered their faint sweetness. From a jar on the shelf, she pinched a small cluster of dried herbs—gray-green and crumbling—and rubbed them between her fingers, releasing a whisper of fragrance, sharp and fleeting. She sprinkled them into the pot, her motions measured, stretching the meager flavors to feed the village another day.
A sudden drip-drip-drip pierced the quiet. Anna''s head snapped up, her sharp gaze tracing a bead of water as it seeped through a jagged crack in the kitchen''s slanted roof. It fell in slow, deliberate drops, landing perilously close to a sack of dried grains on the shelf below—a quiet menace that could rot their precious stores. She exhaled a soft breath, setting the spoon across the pot''s rim with a muted thunk. From her belt, she retrieved a strip of leather—supple despite its wear—and a thin shard of salvaged metal, its edges rough and blackened from some long-discarded machine. She tucked them under her arm and dragged a rickety stool into place beneath the leak, its legs wobbling as they scraped the floor.
Climbing onto the stool, Anna steadied herself, the wood creaking beneath her boots. She stretched upward, her fingertips brushing the damp roof as she probed the crack''s edges, feeling the splintered grain give slightly under pressure. With calm precision, she pressed the leather over the gap, smoothing it against the wood to seal the leak, then positioned the metal strip atop it. From her belt, she pulled a small mallet, its head chipped but solid, and drove the metal into place with short, firm taps—tap-tap-tap—until it held fast. She stepped down, her boots thudding softly against the earth, and tilted her head to inspect the patch. The dripping had stopped, the grains safe for now.
Back at the stove, Anna resumed stirring, the spoon gliding through the stew as her thoughts unfurled. A pinch here, a scrap there—it''s always just enough. Barely enough. Her eyes flicked to the newly patched roof. That leak—if I''d missed it, the rain would''ve crept in, taken what we can''t spare. It''s always this way: one crack, one slip, and the whole balance tips. She stirred absently, the broth''s warmth seeping into her hands. We''re woven together, all of us—each knot holding the next. Trust keeps it tight, keeps us standing. But it''s fragile. One pull, one break, and it unravels.
The kitchen glowed with the soft heat of the simmering stew, its earthy aroma curling through the air as Anna stirred the pot with practiced ease. She scraped the spoon along the pot''s edge, coaxing the broth into a gentle swirl, her hands steady despite the faint ache in her wrists from hours of work. The faint hum of the wind turbines seeped through the cracked window, a steady drone that wove into the rhythm of her task, grounding her in the village''s quiet pulse.
A low murmur drifted in on a salty breeze, threading through the open window and tugging at her attention. Anna paused, the spoon hovering mid-stir, her head tilting slightly as the sound sharpened—clipped voices, not the usual hum of neighbors, edged with a tension that prickled her spine. Beyond the kitchen walls, the crunch of gravel underfoot grew louder, punctuated by the groan of the village gate swinging wide, its hinges creaking like a weary sigh.
The kitchen door groaned open, hinges protesting as Kassia stepped inside, her wiry frame silhouetted against the dawn''s amber spill. She cradled a small bundle of freshly picked herbs, their sharp, green scent slicing through the stew''s richness. Anna glanced up, meeting Kassia''s gaze, noting the faint crease of concern on her friend''s brow as she lingered at the threshold, boots scuffing softly against the wooden floor.
"Thought you could use these," Kassia said, her voice steady but carrying a subtle weight, as if testing the air. She set the herbs on the counter with a gentle thud, brushing a speck of dirt from her patched pants.
Anna nodded, a flicker of gratitude warming her chest. "Perfect timing." She gestured to the pot, its steam rising in delicate tendrils. "This needs a bit more bite." But before she could reach for the bundle, the distant voices swelled—sharp, insistent, clashing over the turbines'' hum. Her grip tightened on the spoon, her brow furrowing as the clamor tugged her focus outward.
Mira, a young villager with quick hands and a mop of dark curls, slipped through the door behind Kassia, her apron dusted with flour from an earlier task. "I''ll take over," she offered, her tone bright but firm, stepping forward with a practiced ease. She slid beside Anna, her small fingers wrapping around the spoon''s handle as Anna relinquished it with a faint, approving nod. Mira stirred with a steady rhythm, the broth rippling under her care, freeing Anna to turn her attention elsewhere.
"Something''s stirring out there," Anna murmured, her voice low, almost swallowed by the rising clatter beyond the walls. She wiped her hands on her apron in a slow, deliberate sweep, her calm demeanor giving way to a watchful edge. The kitchen''s warmth lingered at her back as she crossed to the window, peering through the woven shutters. Shadows shifted beyond the patchwork huts, their outlines blurring in the morning''s golden haze, the turbines groaning faintly against the gusts.
Kassia stepped closer, her dark eyes narrowing as she caught the same unease. "Sounds like trouble," she said, her voice a quiet echo of Anna''s thoughts. Without a word, Anna moved toward the door, Kassia falling in beside her, their steps synchronized as they crossed the threshold. The kitchen''s heat faded behind them, replaced by the brisk, briny air outside, their boots crunching on gravel as they stepped onto the uneven path.
Ahead, the strangers emerged into view—a tall, wiry man with restless, storm-gray eyes flanked by two figures clad in cobbled-together gear that whispered of hard survival: industrial boots scuffed and patched with leather, jackets frayed under stains of salt and sweat. His arms were crossed tightly, his posture coiled as he faced Tolvar, the village''s grizzled mechanic, whose wrench gleamed in his grip like a quiet warning.
Tolvar eyed them warily, his hands flexing as if yearning for a wrench. Sweat gleamed on his lined face under the harsh noon sun. "What brings you here?" he asked, his voice rough with caution.
The outsider''s storm-gray eyes flicked to Tolvar, then to Anna, who stood nearby, her tools—wrench, screwdriver, hammer—clinking at her hip, their dents a testament to years of repair. Her blonde hair caught the light, glinting like spun gold as she met his gaze.
"We''ve come to trade," the man said, his voice like gravel crunching underfoot. "I''m Horik. We sailed from the eastern isles in a boat patched beyond reason—rusted pistons, cracked pipes, no spares. We''ve got materials you might find useful, things we''ve scavenged from the ruins."
Anna''s mind snagged on his words, a ripple of curiosity threading through her caution. Eastern isles? Beyond the cliffs, maybe? She''d heard of distant outposts, but the name East Iris didn''t ring true. What kind of crew sails storms in junk, seeking trade here? She held his stare, masking her doubt, the faint clink of her tools punctuating the tense air.
Tolvar''s growl cut through, jaw clenched. "Trade? What do you have to offer, and what do you want in return?"
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Horik''s jaw tightened, his voice dropping low, steady with a leader''s weight. "We''ve got rare metals, salvaged from old machines, and tools that might help with your repairs. In return, we''re looking for knowledge—ways to fix our desalination units. We''ve heard your village has a knack for mending things."
Anna''s unease deepened. Knowledge? That''s vague. What exactly are they after? She glanced at Tolvar, who seemed equally suspicious.
"Knowledge is a broad term," Anna said, stepping forward. "What specifically do you need? We might be able to help, but we need to know what you''re asking for."
Horik''s eyes flicked to her tools, a flicker of calculation softening his edge. "We need designs, methods—anything that can help us purify water. Our people are struggling, and we''ve heard rumors that you have access to pre-collapse technology."
Tolvar''s eyes narrowed, his voice rough with suspicion. "Rumors? From whom?"
Horik hesitated, his storm-gray gaze flicking briefly to the lean man beside him before settling back on Tolvar. "From traders we crossed paths with along the coast," he said, his tone clipped. "They spoke of a village with a knack for mending machines—said you''ve kept old tech alive when others couldn''t."
The lean man shifted uneasily, his scarred cheek twitching as his eyes darted across the group. He said nothing, but his jittery demeanor thickened the air with unspoken tension. Anna''s grip tightened on her wrench, her instincts prickling. Traders? Which ones? And why''s he so on edge? The villagers exchanged wary glances, their postures stiffening as the outsiders'' vagueness stirred doubt.
Tolvar snorted, his broad frame bristling. "Traders talk a lot of rot. We''re a small settlement—patch things with what we''ve got, sure, but we don''t hoard secrets. If you''ve come to trade, show us what you''re offering."
Horik''s jaw tightened, but he signaled to his companions with a sharp nod. They stepped forward, opening their satchels to reveal an assortment of metals—some rusted, others gleaming faintly in the sunlight—and a handful of specialized tools, their edges worn but precise. Anna leaned in, her sharp eyes assessing a particularly well-preserved gear, its teeth still keen enough for intricate work.
"These could be useful," she admitted, her voice measured. "But we need to be careful. Trust is earned, not given."
Horik''s gaze locked onto hers, his voice earnest yet oddly clipped. "We''re not here to take advantage. We''re desperate, yes, but we believe in fair exchange. Let us prove ourselves."
Before Anna could respond, the lean man muttered under his breath, his lip curling in a half-snarl. "If you''re so good at fixing, why not share what you know? Or do you just keep it all locked up for yourselves?"
The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. Tolvar''s face darkened, his wrench rising an inch as he took a step forward, his voice a low growl. "Locked up? We''ve bled for every scrap we''ve got. You don''t get to waltz in here and—"
"Enough!" Anna''s voice cut through the rising heat, sharp and steady. She placed a firm hand on Tolvar''s arm, her touch grounding him as she shot a warning glance at the lean man. "We''re not hiding anything. But we don''t hand out what''s ours without knowing who we''re dealing with."
Horik''s eyes flashed, a flicker of frustration—or was it guilt?—crossing his face. He raised a hand, silencing his companion with a curt gesture. "We didn''t come to pick a fight," he said, his tone softening, though his posture remained taut. "We''ve crossed a hell-sea with rust and hope. All we''re asking is a chance to trade—fair and square."
The wind howled softly, carrying the distant groan of the turbines as the villagers shifted, their suspicion tempered but not dispelled. Kassia, standing nearby, uncrossed her arms, her dark eyes flicking between Anna and Horik''s group with a cautious glint.
Anna drew a slow breath, the weight of the moment pressing against her ribs. "Alright," she said, her voice steady as she met Horik''s gaze. "Let''s discuss this further. Show us what you''ve got, and we''ll see what we can offer in return. But understand this: we value collaboration and trust. Any sign of deceit, and the deal''s off."
Horik nodded sharply, a glimmer of relief—or something else—flickering in his storm-gray eyes. "Understood. We''ll do our part."
The group moved toward the workshop, the tension easing slightly but lingering like a shadow at the edge of their steps. Anna led the way, her mind racing with doubt. Horik''s group seemed genuine, but something about their approach—the vagueness, the lean man''s jittery defiance—nagged at her. She''d have to watch them closely.
The workshop squatted near the village''s edge, its slanted roof patched with scavenged tin, its walls a patchwork of tool racks and half-built machines. Inside, the air buzzed with the soft whir of a hand-cranked generator, its brass gears catching the light that spilled through cracked shutters. Anna placed her father''s leather-bound ledger on a workbench, flipping it open to a page of faded blueprints—sketches of pumps and filters from a bygone age. She angled it carefully, shielding its secrets as Horik stepped inside, his storm-gray eyes sweeping the cluttered space.
With a dull thud, he dropped a weathered satchel onto the bench, spilling out a rusted gear and a coiled strip of copper tubing. "This is what we''ve got," he said, his tone clipped and challenging. "From our pumps. Show me yours works better."
Anna held his stare, her jaw tightening, then reached into a drawer for a small, ornate rotor—her father''s craftsmanship, its edges intricately etched. She placed it beside his gear in silence, letting the contrast speak for itself.
They settled on a practical test: a hand-cranked water filter, a small demo to weigh the idea of purification without risking too much. Anna''s hands moved with quiet confidence, clamping a bent pipe to a frame, her hair slipping over her shoulder as she focused. Horik filed the teeth of his gear, sparks flaring briefly, his motions precise but restrained. Their words were few—short, sharp exchanges about alignment and tension—each watching the other''s hands, gauging every move.
"Needs a seal," Anna murmured, her voice barely audible over the workshop''s low hum. She wrapped a strip of patched leather around the joint, her fingers moving with steady precision, tightening the makeshift gasket until it held firm. The air carried the faint tang of oil and metal, sharpened by the scent of freshly filed gears.
Horik paused, his storm-gray eyes flicking to her hands, then to the small, ornate rotor she''d set on the bench earlier. He slid a copper washer across the scarred wood, its surface glinting dully in the light. "Keeps pressure," he said, his tone flat, as if weighing her reaction.
Anna nodded once, taking the washer without a word and fitting it into place. The silence between them stretched tight, each motion deliberate, each glance a subtle test. She kept the ledger angled away from his view, its pages half-closed, offering only a glimpse of faded ink. Horik''s satchel stayed within reach, its contents hidden beyond the rusted gear he''d brought.
By late afternoon, they carried the contraption to a rain barrel at the village''s edge, where the hulking forms of wind turbines cast long shadows against the amber-streaked sky. A small crowd—villagers and Horik''s crew—watched from a wary distance, their murmurs mingling with the restless breeze. Anna poured a ladle of murky water into the top, her breath catching as Horik gripped the crank. He turned it slowly, the gears grinding with a low, reluctant groan. A gurgle sounded, then a trickle flowed into the tin cup below—muddy at first, then faintly clearer, like a hint of rain after drought. It wasn''t pure, but it was more than sludge.
Anna exhaled slowly, her guarded stance softening just a fraction. "It''s something," she said, her voice even, masking the cautious hope flickering within.
Horik swirled the water in the cup, squinting at it with a critical eye. "More than nothing," he conceded, his tone grudging but edged with reluctant curiosity. He set the cup down with a soft clink, fingers lingering on its rim. "Not enough yet."
Back in the workshop, they placed the demo on the bench—a tentative gesture, less a handshake than a held breath. Its clunky frame of brass and iron gleamed faintly in the slanting light, a fragile link between them. Anna brushed her hands on her apron, grease smudging the fabric as her mind buzzed with the weight of what they''d built—and what it might mean. Across the bench, Horik adjusted his satchel, fingers hovering over the rusted gear he''d offered, as if poised to reclaim it at the first hint of distrust.
"Tomorrow?" Anna ventured, her voice low and measured, probing the shaky ground of their truce.
Horik''s storm-gray eyes met hers, steady but distant, a flicker of doubt—or calculation—shadowing his gaze. "If it''s worth it," he replied, his words clipped, leaving the promise hanging. "We''ll see."
They stepped apart, the demo resting like a silent judge on the bench. Anna''s fingers lingered near the ledger, its leather worn smooth by years of her touch, as Horik slung his satchel over his shoulder, the faint clink of metal echoing in the quiet. Kassia leaned against the doorway, her silhouette stark against the fading light, watching as Horik and his crew trudged into the dusk, their boots scuffing the gravel path toward the village outskirts.
As evening draped the cliffs, the village settled into a watchful hush, the distant groan of turbines fading to a soft murmur. Anna turned back to the workshop, the air thick with oil and iron. She hefted her wrench and resumed work on the turbine she''d been nursing back to life, its gears still stubborn from yesterday''s strain. The sun sank lower, streaking the sky with ember and ash, and soon her mother, Miriam, joined her, cradling a stack of loose pages from the ledger—faded sketches and notes her father had left behind.
They worked together, the clank of Anna''s tools weaving with the rustle of paper as Miriam sorted the notes into piles on a nearby table. "This one''s a pump valve," Miriam murmured, her voice soft but certain, tracing a diagram with her fingertip. "Could fit their setup—if we tweak it." Anna nodded, tightening a bolt, her thoughts split between the turbine and the demo. She divided the pages into sections—some she might share if Horik proved trustworthy, others too vital to risk. The ledger''s secrets were her father''s legacy, a lifeline she''d protect until trust was certain.
The last daylight seeped through the shutters, casting long shadows across the workshop floor. Anna straightened, wiping sweat from her brow as the turbine hummed steady at last. She stepped to the window, gazing out where Horik''s group had pitched camp—a cluster of patched tents glowing with lantern light near the cliff''s edge. A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. One wrong move—a lie, a theft, a flare of temper—could snap this thin thread between their people beyond repair.
Miriam joined her, resting a warm hand on Anna''s shoulder. "You did right today," she said quietly, her eyes on the same horizon. "Kept the peace. That''s no small thing."
Anna exhaled, the ledger''s weight heavy in her arms as she held it close. "Peace for now," she whispered against the rising wind. "But it''s brittle. We''ll see what tomorrow holds."
Outside, the turbines spun on, their creaks a steady rhythm through the night. The demo sat silent on the bench, a rough symbol of what might be—a spark of possibility forged in iron and guarded hope. Anna turned from the window, the ledger cool against her chest, and stepped back into the workshop''s dim glow. The day was done, the truce held, but the questions lingered, sharp as the tools at her hip: Could this work? Would it last? For now, the answers lay beyond the dusk, in the uncertain light of a new dawn.