2nd Week of June, 1460
“So how exactly do you envision this cement production taking place?”
It was Iohannes who asked the question on everyone’s mind, playing the part of the oblivious noble, even though he already knew what Theodorus had in mind.
“Currently, quicklime production is a seasonal affair,” Theodorus began, folding his hands before him as he addressed the gathered landowners. “That is owed in large part to the labour pool available to us. Peasants cannot simply be pulled away from their fields during spring planting in March, haymaking in late June, or the harvest in late September. Those are the months that decide whether a village eats or starves.”
Several men gave reluctant nods. No landholder in the room needed to be taught the inconvenience of the agricultural calendar.
“In winter, it is scarcely better,” Theodorus continued. “Bad weather makes open labour harsher and slower, while transportation becomes a nightmare. Our roads are mostly dirt tracks so even a little rain turns them into mud-filled potholes. Although the distances to travel in our Principality are short, the roads pass through mountains, hills, and narrow valleys so a hard season can make moving stone, lime, or timber costly. All of this forces production and exportation into narrow windows.”
“Moreover, as mentioned, the methods themselves only produce a crude sort of quicklime,” Zeno picked up the thread smoothly. “Passable for common fortress work, but inferior in almost every meaningful measure to the Roman version.”
He moved through the noble landowners with the easy confidence of a predator drifting through tall grass.
“And the methods are crude because the system is crude. The mixing is overseen by some local kilnmaker who spends half the year tending crops, and when the town needs cement in a hurry, he works from memory and habit. No written recipe, standard measurements, or proper oversight. Without accountability men thin batches, cut corners, or skim coin from the top.”
He set one hand upon Joakimides’s shoulder with warm familiarity.
“How many times have you wished to expand a storehouse or a manor only to see the work crack apart after a few hard winters?” Zeno asked, his tone pitched with exquisite care toward the frustrations of men accustomed to spending silver on extravagant projects and lamenting every hiccup and stall. “How many wells and cisterns have you had to line again because the water starts turning brown and foul?”
Theodorus saw heads nodding and couldn’t help but appreciate Zeno’s particular gift for putting noblemen at ease.
“Cement is the sort of product that will not merely make us coin,” Theodorus said, stepping back into the conversation. “It is useful to you now, and it will remain so ten years from now. This is about more than the wealth we can make; it is a weapon we can use.”
“But we cannot market it outward with the present quality of our quicklime. Selling to the Crown will be our proving ground. If we can show that the material is consistent, durable, and worth trusting in public works, then other markets may follow.”
Theodorus looked meaningfully toward the Genoese merchant seated at the far table. Ironically enough, while the Genoese held the valuable coastal strip of the Crimean peninsula, there were two resources in which Theodoro was richer than they were: wine and limestone.
Between the two-pronged pressure of Theodorus and Zeno, the nobles could not help but relent. The arguments were sound and interest, at the very least, had taken root.
“What would the process entail exactly?” Joakimides asked, once more taking it upon himself to speak for the landowners. “I myself hold two of the northern kilns in my possession, and although the profits are decidedly modest, they work well enough so far.”
Joakimides was one of the larger Pronoia holders in the northern region, his estates roughly the same size as the Sideris lands, only less profitable because the Sideris household possessed the lone northern wine plantation outside of Nomikos control.
Theodorus had identified a dozen known quicklime operations in the northern domain from the texts dug out of Suyren’s dusty library, and, with Theophylact’s help, had managed to cross-reference them against tax ledgers and old estate inventories to identify the production scope and limestone yield of each.
They varied wildly in size. Some were little more than seasonal pits with a low stone kiln beside them, worked when a nearby village needed mortar for repairs. Others were larger operations tied to estates, border forts, or Suyren itself, though even those seemed modest by any reasonable standard. There were likely a few more scattered elsewhere, too small or recent to have found their way into proper records.
In a way, the sheer abundance of limestone in the Theodoran heartland had been what allowed such a decentralized, unoptimized system to function at all. There was so much of the stuff underfoot that one could dig a small quarry, stack a kiln nearby, and make something useful without much thought beyond immediate need. It was crude, wasteful, and inconsistent, but it worked just well enough to keep anyone from asking whether it could work better.
That, more than anything, made it untapped potential.
“The first part of the process would be a survey of the present kilns and quarry conditions,” Theodorus said, turning his attention back to the gathered nobles. “We need to assess the deficiencies I mentioned earlier, as well as the state of the tools, the skill of the men employed there, the availability of fuel, and the roads by which the lime can actually be moved. From there, we would contract local craftsmen to produce the tools and repairs required.”
“Why local craftsmen?” one noble asked.
“Because the people in the surrounding villages need to feel the benefits of the new administration,” Theodorus answered promptly, as if. “They need to see tangible improvements with their own eyes. Coin spent locally gives smiths, carpenters, haulers, and labourers a reason to care whether this succeeds.”
He could hear the enthusiasm in his own voice. This was what he wanted power for. Not merely to win arguments in councils, or to manoeuvre around men who thought in estates and privileges, but to make a meaningful difference in people’s lives. To take knowledge from another time and turn it into something tangibly good.
The nobles, however, looked at him with polite bewilderment.
“It is cheaper due to transportation costs of carrying the tools,” Zeno supplied smoothly, shooting Theodorus a look that made the proper lesson painfully clear.
That was the language these men required. Several nobles nodded at once, satisfied now that the matter had been translated into something they could understand.
“After bringing a few select quarries up to standard,” Theodorus continued, trying to readjust, “we shall construct a mixing facility here in Suyren. All lime from the chosen kilns will be brought here and mixed with ceramic and locally quarried rubble to make cement, which can then be shipped southward in a more reliable form.”
Several objections rose almost immediately, voices overlapping as the landowners caught the implication.
“Why can it not be mixed locally as it always has been?” Joakimides asked, predictably the most vocal among them.
Theodorus could hardly blame them. The proposal could easily be read as a measure to centralize production, and thus place a potential key industry under Crown influence while using the landowners’ own money to build it. Which was, in essence, true. But that truth did not make the other reasons any less important.
“The first and most important factor for improving efficiency across all the products we have discussed is the availability of labour,” Zeno began, his tone deliberately pacifying. “Do your villages truly have enough serfs to man the kilns, quarry the stone, and mix it reliably all at the same time? Have you not had to split the same men between the three tasks, leaving each done at a lesser capacity?”
The nobles could not deny it, though a few looked as though they badly wanted to.
“If the mixing is handled by a separate group,” Zeno continued, “your men can focus on quarrying and burning lime. That allows greater specialization, fewer processes for half-trained workers to remember, and a higher total output of quicklime from the same estates.”
“There is also the matter of materials,” Theodorus added. “Clay and ceramics are most abundant around large settlements, and Suyren is the main gateway between Mangup and Eski Kirim. Both provide the initial material we require at the lowest cost.”
The broken pottery, tile fragments, and old remnants from those cave cities would serve them well at the beginning. Eski Kirim especially, being massive ruins, offered the sort of debris they would need in large quantities.
“Suyren is the only town here with a road network reliable enough for the scale of transport we will eventually require into the capital,” Theodorus went on, “and once the supply of old ceramics runs dry, we will need to manufacture clay ourselves.” He gestured toward the window, beyond which the Belbek River lay far below, catching the daylight in a pale ribbon between the slopes. “Something Suyren is particularly prepared to do.”
The riverbanks represented the most accessible clay deposits in Theodoro, and Suyren sat almost perfectly atop one.
“The fact is Suyren holds the largest ready labour pool in the region that is not constrained by agricultural demands.” Zeno said, resuming the argument with practiced ease, “And being close to us means better oversight, leading to consistent mixing and proper quality assessment.”
“And think, friends,” Theodorus said, borrowing a page from Zeno’s book as he laid a companionable hand upon the shoulder of one of the nearer nobles. “We must keep the secret of the recipe firmly within our control. If word spreads too quickly, then our miraculous Roman cement ceases to be ours in any meaningful sense. Every ambitious mason, kilnkeeper, and lord with limestone under his feet will begin copying it, and our profits will shrink.”
Theodorus could practically see the gleam entering the nobles’ eyes.
“While we cannot hope to keep the secret forever, this gives enough time to establish ourselves as the name attached to the product.” he continued. When men think of Roman cement, they should think of the north, not whichever village kiln happened to copy half a method from a loose-tongued worker.”
The nobles exchanged looks with one another. It seemed their new lords had thought of enough to make dismissal difficult.
“And how much of an investment would all of this require?” Iohannes asked, cutting toward the most pertinent question raised so far.
“From the calculations we have conducted,” Theodorus said, “the initial survey, replacement of tools, repair work, and upgrade of any subpar kiln would total roughly 40 to 50 hyperpera per kiln, assuming we pick better-equipped ones to start with. We believe at least three kilns should be brought up to standard first, so that leaves us around 120 to 150 hyperpera. With the necessary storage facilities added, think closer to 200.”
It was still a rough estimation, stitched together from old accounts, local prices, and far too many assumptions, but Theodorus had tried to run the numbers as honestly as the available information allowed.
“The central mixing yard would total close to another 100,” he continued. “And there is another matter we have not yet discussed. The clay and ceramic must be ground finely for the mixture to work properly, which means we will need a grinding yard. We can begin with a small hand-powered one, which would cost roughly another 100 hyperpera by itself. Once storage and miscellaneous costs for the whole enterprise are included, it will likely sit closer to 200 or 250 hyperpera.”
“This is quite preposterous,” one nobleman said flatly. “That is over 500 hyperpera, which could rise to 600 once small setbacks inevitably occur, and that nothing disastrous does, which at this point I find myself having to take a substantial leap of faith in order to believe.”
“Spread between all of us here,” Zeno said, gesturing toward the dozen gathered pronoia holders, “it would be close to forty-one hyperpera each.”
“An unreal figure in and of itself,” the nobleman replied. “And not one I think all of us here can afford for a project that might yield profit in a few years’ time.”
“While it is true that the operations would only reach full production in a year or two,” Theodorus countered, “there is still plenty we can do with only the kiln assessments, repairs, and the mixing yard. Without the grinding station, the cost falls closer to 350 hyperpera, and production could begin as soon as August. That gives us one month before the harvest. The grinding process will be several times slower, but it can be done.”
What he did not say was that the first month would be modest at best. There would be test firings, bad batches, broken tools, confused workers, and all the mishaps that came when a process moved from theory to practice. But he needed to win them here and now. “That makes twenty-five hyperpera each for the first possible profit in a month and a half’s time,” he said.
Even then, resistance remained. These were small pronoia holders, and twenty-five hyperpera was no minor investment for a man who controlled one or two villages, perhaps a few hamlets between them, and little spare coin after obligations, repairs, and military dues had taken their bites.
Besides the coin fundraising, the cooperation of the owners of these small kilns was essential in Theodorus’s mind. While he could reap a tidier profit if they only applied these changes in Crown-owned kilns, he needed the smaller landowners to see the benefit of pooling resources and watching the payoff arrive with their own eyes in their own lands. The more they bought into the system, the more willing they would be to invest in the next one.
“I am not sure if you gentlemen are aware,” Zeno said, his voice mild enough to make the words more alarming rather than less, “but there is presently a potential famine on our hands.”
Theodorus looked at him with slightly widened eyes, while the room fell into a silence so complete that even the scrape of a chair leg seemed too loud.
“Excuse me?” Joakimides asked.
“The northern rebellion was devastating,” Zeno said. “To supply a rebel army of that size, the reserves built up in Suyren were severely eaten into, and the countryside was stripped clean of whatever surplus the peasants might have hidden away. After years of extortion, there is nothing left now.”
The noblemen exchanged worried glances. They had bankrolled the extraordinary tithe when the Nomikos levied it, but their own holdings had been treated with a softer hand. Adanis had not wished to alienate the pronoia holders and push them toward the Crown, and as a result, the estates of the men in this room had been left relatively intact compared to the Nomikos countryside.
That made the news more alarming, not less. Hunger did not respect estate boundaries once men became desperate enough.
“We risk having won one rebellion only to earn the honour of facing another, this time led by peasants with empty bellies and nothing left to lose,” Zeno continued. “Banditry is already increasing. Despite our best efforts to impose some order on the villages, the damage was done before we arrived.”
He let the words settle over them like smoke. Theodorus watched the faces around the room tighten and wondered, not for the first time, whether fear was truly the right tool to use here. The nobles looked shaken, and even the Genoese merchant seated near the far table had a furrow in his brow now. Suddenly, their investment in this endeavour did not seem quite so profitable if the entire region might sink into hunger, theft, and disorder before the first respectable batch of cement could even be sold.
“Many of those who survived the southern battle were peasants,” Zeno said, pressing the point despite all of this. “Some have returned to their villages. Others have taken to banditry.”His gaze passed over the assembled landowners.“Simply put, there is not enough food to feed every peasant until harvest.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Joakimides demanded, alarm sharpening his voice.
“Because these people must be fed if we wish to keep them content,” Zeno answered. “And the only way to do that without simply handing out grain until our stores are empty is to provide food relief through work. Employ them. Feed them for that work. Give them something to do besides starve.”
He leaned forward then, eyes intent.
“This is not merely a profit-oriented venture. It is a means of saving the north. Of saving your livelihoods. If rebellion erupts here again, where do you think hungry men will go first for food? To the empty cottages of other peasants, or to the full storehouses of men like you?”
The noblemen reacted as though struck, shifting in their seats. The coin being asked of them was no longer being pitched as an investment in some clever Crown scheme, but a levy for their own survival.
Theodorus looked to Iohannes. They needed a final push, something that turned reluctant understanding into action.
“I believe this entire proposal holds merit,” Iohannes said after a measured pause. “And I will pledge twenty-five hyperpera of my own behind this endeavour, or the equivalent in supplies and food.”
The phrasing mattered. He understood that if payment could be made in kind, then the actual coin burden might decrease proportionally. Grain, tools, timber, mules, carts, stored lime, even labour obligations could all be counted against the contribution. Murmurs passed through the gathered crowd, cautious at first, then livelier as men began weighing not only the cost but how exactly they might go about doing so.
Theodorus glanced toward Zeno and saw the faint curve of satisfaction at the edge of the man’s mouth.
They had done it.
“The only question that remains,” Joakimides said, his suspicion not gone but now forced to share space with practical concern, “is how exactly we will pay the workers in food. You yourself said there is no food.”
“Oh, that you do not have to worry about,” Theodorus said. “We have already made arrangements to finalize a relief package with the capital. But it is entirely contingent on our cement project going through.”
With the stores built up in Kalamita and Mangup for eventual sieges, and with the coin presently on hand, the Crown could provide enough food to keep the worst at bay. But it would be a significant concession, given the need to feed Mangup’s own population, and it would mean belt-tightening across the Theodoran populace.
Which meant they would have to give up something to make it worth it to the crown.
Nothing was free, especially not salvation.
…
As the nobles filed out of the meeting room in small, murmuring clusters, Zeno watched them go with his hands folded behind his back. Only when the last of them had passed beyond easy hearing did he lean closer to Theodorus and speak in a low, hushed tone.
“Will we really have to give up our portion of the profits from this endeavour to the Crown?” Zeno asked, looking distinctly sour about the prospect.
In practice, it meant the Crown would be purchasing cement at an especially low price, since Suyren would deduct its own share of the profits from the final cost. The nobles would still receive their portion and the workers would still be fed, but Suyren itself would be shouldering the headache of making the entire scheme work while surrendering its reward.
“Yes,” Theodorus said. “The Doux’s latest correspondence suggested as much. The Prince is wary of giving away food while the wider situation of the Principality remains so tenuous, especially when Mangup’s reserves would be severely diminished because of it.”
Theodorus was not exactly pleased either. He had no great love for charity that arrived disguised as accounting, and this arrangement carried all the irritation of both. They would organize the kilns, placate the landowners, secure the labour, arrange the transport, and manage the inevitable disasters that would arise, and in return, Suyren would see none of the profit.
Still, it was the only way to prevent the north from sliding toward outright revolt. His goal was not to make Suyren rich for its own sake, but to strengthen the Principality at any cost. Cheap cement for reconstruction, steady work for hungry peasants, and eventual supplementary income for the Crown would all serve Theodoro in the long run, even if it cost Suyren and him by extension.
“They really could not have given us a shining, peaceful state to turn into a moneymaking paradise, could they?” Zeno sighed, his expression turning wistful as though he could see, just beyond the walls, the golden vineyards of Makris land stretching beneath the sun.
“Where would be the fun in something with no challenge?” Theodorus joked, allowing himself the faintest smile.
The two men stared at one another for a beat, as if measuring how cavalier they could be with one another. Were they rivals meant to keep one another in check, or allies meant to work together? It was too nebulous for now, and it made each man uneasy around the other.
Then Zeno huffed, Theodorus chuckled, and the shared amusement passed between them like a small candle cupped against the wind.
There was still much work to do. Might as well do it together.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that night
Cassandra chose the night to make her move.
The door to her room opened with the faintest squeak, the sound thin and treacherous in the quiet. She froze with one hand still on the wood, listening for the heavy footsteps of guards.
Nothing came. Only the distant wind slipping through narrow passages, and somewhere far below, the muffled clatter of servant still cleaning after the noble’s feast.
She slipped into the corridor and moved quickly, glancing both ways with as much care as she could manage without looking like a thief. There were no predictable guard routines, at least none she had been able to discern. The castle was not some romantic fortress from a courtly tale, with watchmen pacing in neat patterns.
Her only luck was that the military presence in the castle had been greatly diminished compared to only a few days before after the levies left, and that was enough to make it through most of the castle undetected, at least she hoped.
This was no masterful escape planned over months with hidden maps and bribed guards. It was a sudden need sharpened into action. She would not end like Madame Zeta, trapped inside these cold walls.
She would go to her family.
Cassandra made it some distance through the castle before she turned a corner and found two armoured guards standing beneath a wall lamp, their mail dull in the weak flame.
“Are you about some business?” one of them asked, his tone probing rather than openly hostile.
The castle had no strict curfew for servants, but wandering after hours still invited questions, especially with the strict schedules enforced under the new administration.
“Just some indigestion,” Cassandra said, keeping her voice low and letting a trace of pain edge through it. She hunched slightly for emphasis, pressing one hand against her stomach.
The guards exchanged a glance, then waved her on with little interest. This was why she had not picked the latest hour of the night to make her escape. This way, she had a ready excuse to give.
She made her way toward the privy, a newly installed outbuilding the lords had mandated all servants use for their business. Cassandra could hardly complain this time. The wretched little structure gave her a perfect excuse to leave the main keep and cross into the courtyard.
She stepped inside long enough to make the lie believable, then waited, counting breaths in the stale dark until she was certain no one had followed. When she emerged, she kept her head lowered, turned as though returning the way she had come, and then slipped sideways into the shadows when no one was looking.
She chose an old path for her escape, one tucked behind a narrow storage alcove where cracked jars, torn rush mats, and moth-eaten hangings had been left to rot. It was the only weapon she had left, her knowledge of her home, and she planned to use it to the fullest.
The passage was cramped, full of half-choked bushes, and the night air cold enough to raise bumps along her arms, or maybe that was just her nervousness made manifest. It led toward an old section of the wall that had not been properly maintained in years. She knew the far side held loose stones and enough uneven breaks that a strong man might climb down with care, and a trained thief might call it manageable.
Cassandra was neither. It was a foolhardy plan, born of desperation rather than confidence, but it was the best chance she had.
The hidden way forced her through the old loggia and her steps slowed despite her urgency as she emerged beneath the shadowed arches. The clouded night softened everything, leaving the garden below washed in dim silver and deep blue. For a moment, the castle seemed less a prison than a painting of old memories she treasured dearly.
Her father had built this place to honour her mother. The loggia, the garden, the carefully chosen flowers, all of it had been proof that love could leave a mark gentler than a tomb.
She had also spent so much time here with the Captain, and that memory struck harder than she wanted it to.
Then she noticed the flowers. The blooms the captain had planted for her on that last cruel date had bloomed with the spring, and it was a sight that took her breath away. She had only been back here once since, the memories too painful for her to face. But something was calling her here, drawing her almost against her will.
She ran her fingers softly through the delicate petals. Someone had tended this place recently.
Had the Captain done this?
The thought made something twist inside her, sharp and unwelcome. She hated him for it if he had. Hated him for knowing her grief well enough to touch it with care after helping build the cage around her. Hated him more because some buried, treacherous part of her still wanted his love to have been true.
Something caught Cassandra’s eye in the distance, and she went still.
Her mother.
Slowly, almost carefully, she made her way toward the old tree in the out-of-the-way garden. Its branches reached over the beds like crooked arms, the bark dark and rough beneath the damp night air. When she laid her hand against it, a torrent of emotions rushed through her so violently that she had to close her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Cassandra whispered. “But I have to leave you. I cannot stay here any longer.”
The tears came unbidden, hot and humiliating, slipping down her cheeks before she could master herself.
“I’m sorry for everything. In the end, I could not protect our House.”
Pulling herself away from that small garden, from the place of picnics with the Captain and quiet afternoons with her mother, was one of the hardest things Cassandra had ever done. But she could not afford to linger. Someone might notice her absence. Someone might come looking-
“I can’t let you leave.”
The voice startled her into turning.
Out of the darkness of the loggia, a shape seemed to separate from the stone arch itself, resolving into the one-armed boy tasked with watching over her.
Cassandra’s hopes were dashed in a single moment. Her jailor had come to stop her.
“I will not say anything about Theodorus or the deal he struck,” Cassandra tried, her heart hammering so violently she felt each beat in her throat. She couldn’t give up yet. “I only want to be with my brother.”
Stefanos did not answer. He simply took another step forward, and as the moon broke through the cloud cover, she saw his face clearly. It was implacable, almost painfully calm.
“Please let me leave,” she whispered, desperate.
He kept coming. Cassandra stepped back, her hand closing around the blade hidden in her pocket.
There was no way out. She did not want to do this, but they would not leave her alone. They would keep her here, watched and managed and dressed up in whatever mercy made them feel clean.
“AAAHH!” Cassandra cried, striking out with the knife.
Stefanos caught her wrist before she had even finished her windup. He did not flinch. He did not even look surprised.
“No!” Cassandra struggled, shoving at him with her free hand, trying to wrench herself away from the one-armed servant who somehow still held her fast.
“Keep your voice down,” Stefanos hissed, urgency breaking through his calm. If they were found here, then the whole scheme of keeping her in the castle would unravel.
“You cannot keep me trapped here!” Cassandra yelled, no longer caring how much noise she made. Let them come. Let them come and kill her. She would at least have vengeance on her captors.
Stefanos drove her deeper into the garden, using his body and the inevitability of his advance to force her to the far side of the tree, hidden from view. His strength startled her. Cassandra had heard he had recovered from a wound that should have killed him, had seen the stiffness in his gait, and expected weakness.
“Trapped? You finally understand how the rest of us live,” Stefanos said, corralling her between the flowerbeds and the old tree. “You are not the only one trapped. We all are, by birth, by coin, by fate.” Each word was spat with dark viciousness - like an accuser stating his claim against God. “Do not think yourself special because the walls have closed around you now.”
Cassandra felt rough bark press against her back. For one desperate instant, she imagined the tree might shield her, that her mother’s memory might reach through root and branch and hide her.
“I want nothing to do with any of this!” she cried, ducking around the trunk.
Stefanos’s arm shot around the tree and caught her wrist with almost casual precision. She stumbled, lost her footing on the damp earth, and fell among the roots, Stefanos crowded over her, using his body to flatten them both out of view, concealed amidst the roots.
“Keep quiet,” Stefanos clamped his hand over her mouth, trapping her against the tree. Outside the garden, heavy footsteps trudged through the grass from confused guards investigating the area, drawn by the shout. For one mad moment, Cassandra hoped they would save her.
That it passed when the guards passed beyond the garden, their attention drifting elsewhere, and Stefanos finally let her breathe, heaving a sigh of relief.
“Why do you hate me so much?” Cassandra murmured, her voice broken by tiny, little sobs.
Stefanos looked away, his gaze catching somewhere among the dark flowerbeds - as if he were ashamed of what he had done to her. It was the first true emotion Cassandra had seen break through. Not anger or duty, but guilt, raw and poorly hidden.
“I do not hate you,” Stefanos whispered, eyes finding her again, “I...” He swallowed as if unable to find the next words. He turned, face dropping into the shadows, hiding himself once more.
“Dreams and wishes belong in fairy tales,” He said instead, bitterness roughening his voice. “Most things we dream of do not come true. We live trapped, by circumstance, by unwanted feelings, by bodies that betray us, by duties we never asked for.” Cassandra saw that his hand was clenched. “No one is truly free. We only pretend otherwise so it hurts less.”
Cassandra stared at him, breathing hard. There was hurt in his face, a shape of pain not unlike her own, though carved by a different knife.
“In the end, dreams are just dreams,” Stefanos said. “And sooner or later, we wake from them.”
He rose and stepped back. In the thin moonlight, he looked like a broken boy forcing himself to stand straight.
“There is nothing for you out there,” he said, and there was no cruelness in it, only fact. “Your family is gone. The life you had is gone. You have to accept that, or you will never survive what comes after it.”
Cassandra folded forward, the last of her strength leaving her in a rush. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” she sobbed, hating the weakness in her own voice but unable to summon anything else.
“You are not supposed to know,” Stefanos answered. “But you can learn. Make something of yourself despite the odds. I know you hate Theodorus. I did too.”
Cassandra looked up, startled despite her tears. Stefanos had always seemed like the Captain’s most ardent supporter.
“But he will not hurt you,” Stefanos said. “And that is more than the rest of the world can offer. It offers you a place to grow strong enough to withstand it.”
Cassandra wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the claim. Was he telling Cassandra to gather strength until she could escape? Had he not made it his mission to keep her locked here? But it was spoken with such conviction that the sound died before it could leave her.
“Running away does nothing,” Stefanos said, turning his gaze toward the half-veiled moon, sharp and jagged. “Death always finds you in the end.”
He left her there in the garden, his steps fading back beneath the loggia arches until the night swallowed him back. Cassandra remained at the foot of the old tree, trembling, dirty, and hollowed out.
She turned her face toward the trunk and pressed one shaking hand to the bark.
“What do I do, Mother?” she whispered, desperate for guidance.
The only answer was the whispering wind and the cold, rough grain of old wood from a sweeter time.
Author's notes: while it might seem contradictory given the last chapter's notes, I wanted to go into depth over all the rationale behind the cement production and the nitty gritty of how exactly it could take place.
I've gotten the distinct impression from previous feedback requests that you guys appreciate understanding these deals at the granular level. I try to put a lot of thought into every major decision, and to explain my rationale so you can feel immersed in the world, and don't think that I am making money appear out of thin air.
I decided to start with cement because I felt it was an elegant solution that played to one of the few strengths of the Principality, that being its knowledge of engineering (although they are specifically touted as expert stonemasons and fortress builders, let's not generalize), and the high prevalence of limestone in the region. Let me know if you liked all the details I put in or if it was too much, and if you want a similar level of detail in the future.
Also, apologies if this or future author's notes make for clunky reading. Between my day job and editing chapters, I find it tough to edit my author's notes as well, but I wanted to share a bit of my perspective with you guys and to check in on you from time to time.
If you're from a lower tier and reading this a few weeks from now, comment away as well. I usually read all the comments, although I might not put a like on every single one.