The royal steward handed me a faded banner—nothing else. Not a sword, nor even a half-decent shovel. I stood in the middle of the town square while the villagers gathered, their faces tight with skepticism. It felt like a trial more than a celebration. Someone passed out scraps of bread; a chicken wandered too close to the council dais, and nobody stopped it.
The Lord Regent’s voice rang out, brittle with cold authority. “With the last of the council’s confidence, we name you Hero of Crosswater. Protect us.” The applause was scattered, strained. Then he stepped back, leaving me alone before the townsfolk and the battered crest of the kingdom—a lion, its mane patched with thread.
Before the ceremony was even finished, trouble arrived at a run. A boy splashed through the muddy square, panting, “The west dam’s cracked again! Water’s coming through! My father says if it gives, the mill and half the riverfields are lost!”
The crowd erupted. The miller’s wife pressed forward, fists clenched. Old Ren from the carpenters’ guild spat in the dust. “This is why we needed a proper engineer, not a hero with a bedsheet!”
I swallowed my retort. Instead, I scanned the square—dozens of villagers stood ready, some with tools on their belts. I counted only three shovels, a coil of rope, and a few iron buckets. My mind ticked through the options. Time was bleeding away with the water.
A voice inside me whispered: No sword, no magic words. Only what I make of this.
I glanced at the council, then at the anxious knot of villagers. If I failed them now, trust would break quicker than the dam.
Some worried faces turned to me, waiting. The moment stretched, brittle as ice. It was up to me now.
Water, time, and trust—all spilling out. I had to act.