The fortress had learned to breathe again. Not with the shallow gasp of survival, but the slow, steady rhythm of a place that had begun to dream.

  It began with a scent.

  Faint at first, teasing the senses like a memory of spring. Then stronger, richer—notes of wild rose, lavender, crushed mint, and something warm and earthy beneath. Irineus followed it to its source, nose wrinkling, curiosity piqued.

  He found Alexios in the east wing, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in flower petals and steam.

  Petals and herbs steeped in steam, fruit peels curling in copper stills, fragrant oils dripping into clay dishes. The aroma led him through a newly plastered doorway into what had once been an unused storeroom.

  Now it thrummed with purpose.

  Barrels lined the walls. Bundles of lavender, rosemary, and rose hips hung from rafters to dry. Children worked diligently at long benches, separating petals from stems, grinding blossoms into pastes.

  And in the center of it all stood Alexios, his sleeves rolled and his hands gloved, leaning over a wide copper still as steam hissed around him.

  Irineus stared. “What in the name of sanity is this?”

  “A perfumery,” Alexios replied without looking up. “We shall bring some elegance to this fortress, You're welcome.”

  Irineus blinked. “You built a perfumery… in a fortress?”

  Alexios finally turned to him, holding a vial of golden liquid up to the light. “Better than letting the kids throw rocks at each other. Or starting fires. Or carving swords from table legs.”

  “And you just… decided to do this?”

  “I requisitioned an empty storeroom. Had Gunnar hammer out the boiling vessels. Used discarded linens as strainers.” He gestured to a nearby tray. “That’s elderflower and mint. We’re calling it Rain Bloom.”

  “You’re naming them now?”

  “Of course. Can’t sell ‘Hope No. 3’ to the Emilians.”

  Irineus gave a long sigh—but it ended in a reluctant smile. “You’re a lunatic.”

  Alexios grinned. “A lunatic with a nose for opportunity.”

  By midday, the perfume workshop was humming—children raced through the wildflower fields at dawn, returning with armfuls of blooms. They’d taken to the task eagerly, bartering scents like treasure, arguing over the best blossoms for “smelling like morning rain” or “dreams.”

  Later that day.

  The air around him was not fragrant.

  His attempt to distill alcohol from wild berries and forest roots had produced a substance that was, technically, flammable—but barely drinkable. He’d labeled the latest batch Rotgut Two.

  Martin approached, pinching his nose. “Are you trying to poison someone?”

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  Irineus frowned at the bubbling brew. “It’s a work in progress.”

  Martin poked the barrel with a stick. “This isn’t wine, it’s regret in liquid form.”

  “I don’t want to rely on imported spirits forever.”

  “Well, until then, let’s hope the Emilian traders don’t cut us off.”

  Irineus grunted. “It’s not for pleasure. It’s for trade. Spirits, like salt, move borders.”

  Martin chuckled. “You sound like a statesman.”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  Three days later, Lord Philip Emilian arrived.

  The gates opened slowly, revealing not a grim outpost—but a thriving settlement. Smoke curled from chimneys, gardens bloomed between timber houses, and children chased each other between rows of linen drying in the breeze. He rode at the head of a caravan—twenty horsemen, three wagons, and banners bearing the falcon-and-blade of House Emilian. The gates opened not for a guest, but for kin.

  Philip dismounted, eyeing the settlement with open astonishment.

  “Saints above,” he muttered. “It’s not a garrison anymore.”

  “No,” Irineus said beside him. “It’s slowly becoming a town.”

  Philip looked around—stone dwellings, smoke from hearths, children playing between herb gardens. The air smelled like bread, leather, and roses?

  “Is that perfume?”

  Irineus didn’t answer. The answer was yes.

  Philip was ushered to the long hall where Livia waited, dressed in a modest linen gown, her hair tied back with a ribbon spun from the weavers’ latest work. Her smile faltered slightly as their eyes met.

  “Brother.”

  “Little sister.” He embraced her, then stepped back. “You’ve made a home of this ruin.”

  “We all have.”

  Over a quiet dinner, Philip leaned toward Irineus.

  “You’ve done well. But tell me—what’s next?”

  Irineus sliced a strawberry in half. “Continue building. Secure the roads. Train the militia.”

  Philip chuckled. “That’s not what I meant.”

  Irineus paused.

  “You are not going to be any younger,” Philip said softly. “ The fortress is in good shape, people are well feed. Perhaps it’s time to think of marriage.”

  Irineus's jaw tightened. “In this world? Now?”

  “Especially now,” Philip insisted. ”Without heirs, all of your wealth and glory will perish. Think about it, you have a responsibility to preserve the ancient bloodline of Tiberian Emperors. When you die who will be there to carry the banner?“

  Irineus looked away. “I’ve buried too many friends to think about having children.”

  Philip sat back. “ Having heirs is as important as having your grain stores full.”

  Across the hall, Livia had gone still. She rose abruptly, murmured an excuse, and left.

  Philip watched her go. “She feels more at home here than I’d hoped.”

  Irineus said nothing. He just drank his wine.

  The Tenakans came by boat.

  Six river-skiffs, carved from single tree trunks, pulled up to the stone dock. Their people disembarked calmly—tanned, lean, wrapped in fish-skin cloaks and woven hemp robes. Their leader, a man named Ikaru, bowed low.

  “We bring gifts,” he said. “And an offer. Fish, oil, hemp cloth, ropes. You need these. We need what you make.”

  Irineus led them through the keep personally. The perfumery fascinated them. The forge impressed them. The gardens pleased them. And the wine? They could barely stop grinning.

  That evening, trade agreements were inked on flax parchment. Two days by boat. A quiet river between them. It felt like hope.

  The militia trained at dawn.

  Sixty strong. Young, eager, clumsy. Their armor still pinched. Their boots were stiff. But they drilled relentlessly under Sebastian’s barked orders, and every day they improved.

  Gunnar stood watching, arms folded, a slight smile hidden beneath his beard. “They’ve got fire. That’s enough, for now.”

  Sebastian approached Irineus. “They’ll need months before they’re truly ready. But they’re proud. And they’ll fight to protect this place.”

  Irineus nodded. “Then we’ve done well.”

  That night, Irineus wrote to Lord Philip.

  He described the trade pact with Tenaka. Proposed checkpoints along the river road. Sketched maps, marked supply caches. When Philip’s reply came, it was swift.

  Three checkpoints. Fortified lightly. I’ll supply men if needed.

  Irineus folded the letter slowly, hands lingering on the seal. Then he stepped outside, where the scent of flowers drifted through the night and children’s laughter echoed from the orchard.

  Somewhere near the southern parapet, Livia stood alone, watching stars blink into view. He joined her quietly.

  She didn’t look at him. “Do you ever think about what this place might be… in ten years?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And?”

  “I think we might build something here that no army can tear down.”

  She smiled faintly. “Even without a wife?”

  He didn’t answer. But his hand brushed hers, briefly, lightly, like the first drop of rain on dry soil.