Mero chooses to directly oversee certain aspects of the reconstruction project, opting for responsibilities that do not require deep technical expertise. He decides to focus on coordinating teams, tracking visible progress, organizing resources, and, most importantly, communicating with the residents, a task he considers essential for rallying support for this ambitious endeavor. This approach allows him to stay actively involved without getting lost in the intricacies of engineering calculations or architectural plans that are beyond his experience. Sven observes this decision with benevolent curiosity, wondering about the priorities his companion wishes to establish in this vast reconstruction effort.
The neighborhood near the river stretches out under a sky often veiled by smoke from nearby construction sites. Its once modest buildings—houses with brown wooden facades and slightly sloping red-tiled roofs—are now reduced to blackened skeletons by fire. The quays, formerly lined with warehouses of ochre stone walls and rustic wooden frames, are now a chaos of collapsed beams and charred planks, while the wide, lazy river reflects the gray tones of this desolate landscape. The cobblestone streets, once bustling with the comings and goings of carts and merchants, are now littered with debris, their gutters, once filled with lively water, now clogged with ash and soot. Here and there, remnants remain—a solitary chimney standing like a sentinel, a half-collapsed wall revealing the faded colors of a mural, shards of broken glass glinting in the pale morning light.
After reflection, Mero designates communication with the residents as his top priority. He understands that their trust is crucial for the project's success in a city still haunted by the shadows of disaster. This mission gives him a central role in the reconstruction without requiring him to handle tools directly or decipher engineers' sketches. Sven approves of this direction with a discreet smile, commenting, "That's well thought out, Mero. The residents need to hear a voice guiding them through this chaos."
To structure this task, Mero develops a clear and thoughtful strategy, blending his sense of duty with a sincere listening to the people's needs. He orders the establishment of a communication office in the heart of the riverside neighborhood, a modest yet welcoming building made of light-colored stone from nearby quarries, its chalk-whitened walls contrasting with the surrounding ruins. The facade, adorned with a massive wooden door with iron fittings, opens onto a bright room with windows framed by green shutters, offering a view of the streets where carts are beginning to roll again. Inside, benches of worn oak, polished by years of use, line the walls, their surfaces marked by the passage of time. A sturdy table, covered with crumpled parchments and quill pens with ink-stained tips, stands in the center, ready to receive the citizens' concerns. Rickety shelves, laden with ledgers bound in worn leather, line one wall, while a blackened hearth, darkened by past fires, adds a rustic touch to the space. Mero appoints a manager, a man with a friendly face and salt-and-pepper hair, whose quick pen diligently records every word, then transmits the essential points to his master for a swift response.
Mero also organizes regular public consultations, held in the neighborhood squares under white canvas awnings stretched between wooden poles, their edges gently fluttering in the river breeze. These gatherings attract crowds of residents, their clothes still marked by soot and their faces weathered by hardship, who gather on makeshift benches made from salvaged planks or stand with arms crossed under gray-streaked skies. The squares, bordered by half-rebuilt buildings—walls of rough stone with still-irregular edges, freshly cut beams stacked near carts with creaking wheels—vibrate with an energy mixed with hope and mistrust. The cobblestones, cleared of debris but still cracked by the fire's heat, bear the traces of a painful past, while recently planted willows along the banks add a hesitant touch of greenery to the reborn urban landscape. He sets up an efficient system to collect their grievances and suggestions, with ink-stained scribes recording every word in leather-bound ledgers, their yellowed pages rustling in the gentle breeze, ensuring no voice is ignored.
To ensure clear and constant information, he oversees the publication of bulletins—posters plastered on walls blackened by smoke, their hand-drawn letters in black ink contrasting with the fresh chalk, and announcements carried by town criers whose voices echo through the narrow alleys lined with rubble, their echoes bouncing off the facades of half-rebuilt houses. These messages, written with studied simplicity to reach even the least literate, describe the progress of the work—“The first houses near the Weavers' Quay will be completed in fifteen days; their stone walls will withstand the winter winds”—and anticipate inconveniences—“A water outage is planned tomorrow near the mill square to lay pipes; cisterns will be available at the corner of Willow Street, under the new willows planted this month.” Every detail is thought out to avoid misunderstandings and soothe fears, a task Mero carries out with meticulous attention, his eyes scanning the parchments under the flickering light of candles in his office at the school.
He also creates a team dedicated to managing complaints and emergencies, composed of courteous yet efficient men and women capable of responding quickly when a resident reports a problem—a leak in a temporary pipeline flooding a narrow alley, or a delay in food delivery leaving a market with half-empty wooden stalls. Mero maintains a visible presence in the neighborhood, often visiting in person, dressed in a sober tunic with cuffs embroidered with a discreet silver thread, his boots treading the still-warm cobblestones from recent work. The residents begin to recognize his slender figure and attentive gaze, their initially hesitant greetings gradually becoming warmer—a nod from a calloused-handed boatman, a shy smile from a woman carrying a wicker basket overflowing with laundry.
Sven, admiring this structure with a light smile, comments one day as they walk down a street lined with half-rebuilt houses, their white stones shimmering under a sky veiled by distant smoke. "You have a talent for rallying spirits, Mero. This city owes you more than new walls—it owes you a voice."
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Mero nods, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the shops with roofs still damp from the last rain and the carts with creaking wheels carrying freshly cut beams. "That is enough," he replies, his voice tinged with quiet confidence. "They must know that we are by their side, without overwhelming them with details they don't need to bear."
The months pass, and under the attentive supervision of Mero and Sven, the work in the riverside neighborhood begins to shape a new urban silhouette. The city of Mor, still marked by the scars of the fire, gradually rises again, its streets coming alive with the sounds of reborn life—the clatter of hammers on nails, the creaking of carts pulled by horses with steaming nostrils, and the voices of residents discussing under canvas awnings stretched above temporary stalls, their rough wooden planks still fragrant with resin. Buildings emerge from the ashes like phoenixes of stone and wood: houses with light-colored stone facades, their windows framed by dark green shutters, line the repaved alleys where gutters drain the lively waters of autumn rains, their murmurs blending with the lapping of the river.
The wide, winding river snakes through the neighborhood, its waters shimmering under a pale sun that pierces the gray clouds, reflecting the silhouettes of wooden cranes that rise above the construction sites like vigilant sentinels. The quays, lined with warehouses with ochre facades reinforced by massive beams, regain their luster, their arched doors opening onto interiors where the cries of boatmen and the lapping of waves against dark wooden pilings resonate. The old warehouses, once reduced to charred skeletons, give way to robust structures with steep roofs covered in shiny red tiles, their interiors bustling with the roar of forges and the clatter of looms, while light smoke escapes from black stone chimneys, rising in graceful swirls toward a sky streaked with cottony clouds.
The squares, bordered by half-rebuilt houses—their walls of rough stone with still-irregular edges, their freshly cut beams stacked near carts with creaking wheels—vibrate with new energy. The cobblestones, cleared of debris but still cracked by the fire's heat, bear the traces of a painful past, while recently planted willows along the banks add a soothing touch of greenery to the reborn landscape, their leaves rustling in the river breeze. The neighboring streets, still littered with piles of stones and stacked beams, come alive with the passage of carts with creaking wheels and the murmur of artisans at work, their modest shops with painted wooden facades—ochre, olive green, dark red—adding splashes of color to the gray of the ashes.
Mero dedicates himself to communication with exemplary constancy, ensuring that the residents remain informed and heard. The riverside neighborhood office becomes a vibrant place, its light-colored stone walls echoing with the voices of citizens who flock there—merchants in worn tunics carrying wicker baskets overflowing with dried fish, women in patched skirts discussing under open windows, barefoot children playing near the door with sticks and stones picked up from the street. The windows, framed by green shutters, let in the mingled scents of grilled spices from street vendors and the damp earth of nearby construction sites, while the worn oak benches, their surfaces marked by the passage of time, welcome visitors in a constant murmur of conversations.
The public consultations, held under white canvas awnings fluttering in the river wind, attract growing crowds. The squares, bordered by half-rebuilt houses and piles of stones, fill with residents whose clothes are still stained with soot, their faces weathered by hardship but lit with a glimmer of hope. Mero often appears there, flanked by Sven, to explain the progress of the work with a clarity that soothes minds, his voice resonating above the lapping of the river and the creaking of carts passing over the cobblestones. Sven, with a touch of humor, lightens the atmosphere—“Soon, you'll be traveling by tramway without even dirtying your boots!” he says one day, provoking laughter among the crowd gathered under the awnings, their shadows dancing on the walls of rough stone. Complaints are recorded in ledgers with pages blackened by ink by agile-fingered scribes, their quills scratching the paper in a steady rustle, and Mero ensures that responses follow quickly—a temporary well dug near a market with faded canvas, a food distribution organized under a hangar with beams still fragrant with resin, its red-tiled roof gleaming under a pale blue sky.
The information bulletins become a welcome tradition, their posters plastered on the whitened walls of reborn buildings—facades of light-colored stone with still-irregular edges, their windows framed by green or ochre shutters—their letters drawn in black ink contrasting with the fresh chalk. Town criers, their strong voices carrying far in the narrow alleys lined with rubble, read the messages aloud for those who cannot decipher them—“Work on the covered market will begin next week near the old Willow Tavern, a building with white stone arches that will soon house your stalls; prepare for a week of noise!” or “A detour will be in place near the east bridge, its blackened stone arches still standing, until the end of the month; water cisterns will be available at the corner of Merchants' Street, under the newly planted willows.” These efforts, modest in appearance, gradually strengthen the residents' trust, who begin to see in Mero not only a royal heir but an ally in their disrupted daily lives.
Sven, faithful to his complementary role, supports these initiatives while taking care of resources for the artisans. His visits to the workshops resonate with the sound of hammers striking iron and the hiss of bellows reviving the embers, the forges coming back to life under new roofs with robust frames, their ochre stone walls rising like beacons of hope in this reconstructing landscape. The neighboring streets, still lined with piles of stones and stacked beams, come alive with the clatter of looms and the murmur of cobblers at work, their modest shops with painted wooden facades—ochre, olive green, dark red—adding splashes of color to the gray of the ashes. "You have a gift for rallying hearts, Mero," he tells him one day as they inspect a newly completed quay, the smooth wood under their boots gleaming under a pale blue sky streaked with a few cottony clouds, the freshly tied ropes coiled near the iron bollards, the river reflecting the golden hues of the setting sun.
Mero gives him a complicit smile, his gaze sweeping over the shimmering waters and the houses with smoking chimneys that gradually rise along the banks, their red-tiled roofs gleaming under a sky veiled by smoke from nearby forges. "To each their strength," he replies, his voice filled with quiet confidence. "Together, we are not just rebuilding a city—we are reinventing it, stone by stone, hope by hope."
