Kingdom of Verdwryn

A year had passed since the goblin raid, and Dawnfield had settled into a wary peace. While the villagers returned to their routines, the specter of that bloody night lingered. Spiked fences were constantly inspected, traps maintained, and watch shifts assigned at dusk. The goblins had vanished as mysteriously as they had come, but for Michael, the reprieve felt like the eye of a storm.

Now nearly eight years old, Michael often ventured into the forest, his makeshift bow slung over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows at his side. He moved with the precision of a predator, every step deliberate and soundless. Each excursion served a dual purpose: hunting game and scouting for threats. Despite the calm, Michael's sharp mind remained vigilant, refusing to let his guard slip.

Spring arrived, painting the fields in vibrant hues of green and gold. The villagers threw themselves into the planting season with renewed fervor, yet Michael's influence was evident in every step.

The year before, Michael had shared the concept of irrigation, sketching crude diagrams on bark in Gareth's workshop. He explained how the river cutting through the village could be channeled to water the fields.

"It's simple," he had said, his small hands tracing lines. "We dig shallow trenches to direct water to where it's needed. Less time carrying buckets, more time tending crops."

Skepticism gave way to determination as Gareth and the villagers began digging. Under Michael's guidance, they constructed a network of trenches lined with clay to prevent erosion, diverting the river's flow to the fields. The irrigation system transformed their farming, ensuring consistent water even during dry spells.

Michael didn't stop there. He introduced crop rotation, explaining how alternating crops like wheat, beans, and turnips could rejuvenate the soil. He taught them about composting, encouraging the villagers to collect animal waste, vegetable scraps, and ash to create a rich fertilizer.

"Healthy soil means stronger plants," Michael explained during a village meeting. "And stronger plants mean more food."

The results were undeniable. Crops grew taller and healthier than ever before, their yields doubling. For the first time in years, the village could think beyond survival.

Michael's most ambitious project came when he proposed harnessing the river for mechanical power. Drawing on fragmented memories of his past life, he designed a crude waterwheel to power a grain mill.

It took weeks of trial and error, with Gareth and a handful of craftsmen working tirelessly. They shaped wooden planks, reinforced them with iron bands, and assembled the wheel. When they finally lowered it into the river and saw it spin, the villagers erupted in cheers.

The millstone, powered by the waterwheel, ground grain into flour far faster than hand tools ever could. Michael expanded on this success by suggesting other applications. Using simple wooden gears and levers, they constructed a device to separate grain from husks, saving hours of manual labor. He also sketched plans for raised wooden silos, protected from rodents and moisture, to store surplus grain for the winter.

Michael turned his attention to the village's livestock. He built better shelters for the animals, teaching the villagers how to insulate barns with straw and mud bricks to keep the animals warm during harsh winters. He also introduced rotational grazing.

"Move the animals between pastures," he explained. "It gives the grass time to grow back and prevents overgrazing."

The results spoke for themselves. The animals grew healthier, producing more milk, wool, and meat.

Michael's influence wasn't limited to agriculture. He worked with the villagers to fortify the village itself. They replaced their spiked fences with sturdier palisades and added watchtowers at key points, giving sentries a clear view of the forest. He also taught them basic combat drills, ensuring everyone could defend themselves if another attack came.

Around the village square, Michael proposed communal workshops and toolsheds, where people could share resources and skills. Together, they built a smithy, where broken tools could be repaired and new ones forged.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting golden light over the village, Michael stood by the river. The waterwheel spun lazily, its rhythmic creaks blending with the hum of village life. Behind him, laughter and conversation filled the air as families worked together to prepare for the coming harvest.

For the first time in a year, Michael allowed himself a moment of peace. His plans had borne fruit, and Dawnfield was stronger than ever. Yet, even as he watched the wheel turn, his mind remained sharp, already forming strategies for what lay ahead.

"Peace is fragile," he murmured to himself.

Mae's voice broke his thoughts. "The villagers say you're a gift from the gods," she teased gently.

Michael smiled, her words carrying a weight she couldn't understand. "Not a gift," he said softly. "Just a boy who remembers."

As night fell over Dawnfield, Michael returned to his family's home, his heart heavy with the knowledge that the world beyond the forest was vast and dangerous. When the time came to defend this peace, he would be ready.