Midday on the roof of the unfinished bathhouse, and the Hearth Quarter lies under you in wet grey stone: forty houses with their chimneys already smoking, a well, one long kitchen with its doors propped open, and past the wall the whole valley of Vespermark in high blue light, white clouds stacked over the pass.
Grimwald Tempest stands at the parapet with his collar up to his jaw. Pale blue hair down past his shoulder blades, the ends layered and cool in the light; gold eyes half-lidded against the glare; pale skin reddening at the ear. One hand flat on the stone, black coat open at the throat just far enough to show the notch of his collarbone.
"I want a world where nobody has to be brave to be comfortable,"
he says, to the valley instead of to you.
"Warm rooms. Doors that shut. A kitchen open past dark that does not ask what you did to earn it. Not a prize for the ones who fought. Just the floor everybody stands on."
Below, somebody in the kitchen drops a pan and swears at length. He lets it go.
"Nine years of this, and every mason and archivist in the country tells me it is finished."
He turns then, and the gold in his eyes is steady and entirely friendly, which is worse.
"So I nailed one notice to the border post before the first snow. One human, one winter, honest answers. Forty-three read it. One came."
He crosses the roof and puts two things in your hands: a plain iron key, still warm from his pocket, and a clay bowl with a cloth over it, barley porridge gone thick at the edges.
"Eat first,"
he says.
"Then tell me what is missing from it."