The sun hadn't even clawed its way over the trees when I stepped out, boots already caked in mud from yesterday's slog. My shoulders ached, and the cut on my palm stung like hell. The blisters burst, raw, primal pain could be felt anytime I decided to touch them. This was what I got for acting like their Lord for once.
They were watching. They were always watching.
"Morning, Baron!" a woman called, waving with the kind of blind cheer that made me sick. Did she think I enjoyed this? Did she think I did this out of some noble obligation?
I forced a smile. "Morning. Let's get the new roofs up before the sun cooks us alive."
Nods, murmurs of agreement. Eager. Hungry for my approval. Pathetic.
The huts were coming together—ugly little boxes, but sturdy. I made sure of that. Wattle and daub, thick enough to block the wind, sloped roofs to shed rain. They'd last, which meant I wouldn't have to hear them whining about leaks.
We worked in teams, though 'we' was a stretch. I directed. I taught. They sweated and scraped, acting like every word out of my mouth was a divine blessing.
"Keep the beams straight. Dig the drainage deeper. Straw on the roof first, then the mud!" My voice cut through the air, crisp and commanding. They loved it. Loved being told what to do.
Another hour passed. Two. A group of kids ran by, laughing, faces smudged with dirt. They darted between the huts, oblivious to the mud and sweat and the stench that still clung to this place.
Idiots. But they'd grow up owing me. Their parents already did.
"Baron, is this wall sturdy enough?" an old man with a bent back and missing teeth called out.
"It'll hold, but pack more mud at the base," I snapped. Then I forced a softer tone. "But it's well done. Strong work."
The old man grinned like a child. Praise from me was gold to them. Stupid.
Another team struggled with thatching. I stepped in, grabbing a bundle of straw, weaving it tight. My hands bled again. Perfect. They saw that—saw me getting my hands dirty, 'one of them.'
"Baron's got the touch!" someone shouted. I fought not to laugh.
By noon, the sun was a molten coin in the sky. Sweat dripped, tempers frayed. A woman argued with a man over who'd lift the next beam. A kid cried because his mother's ragged hands were too tired to lift him.
They were cracking. Good.
"Take a break!" I called. "Drink water, rest your arms. Better to work strong than drop dead."
They slumped, grateful, murmuring thanks. Pathetic. So easy.
I didn't rest. Not where they could see. I paced, checked walls, made a show of fixing minor flaws. To them, it was dedication. To me, it was insurance. The more they saw me sweat, the more they'd believe I cared.
But I didn't care. Not really.
If they built stronger houses, they lived longer. If they lived longer, they worked harder. If they worked harder, I thrived.
And when the time came, when this muddy pit of a village became something worth calling mine… they'd fight for me. They'd bleed for me. Because they'd think I bled for them first.
A woman offered me a cup of water, her eyes warm, grateful. I accepted with a nod, drank it, and handed it back with a smile. I almost gagged.
"Thank you, Baron," she whispered.
"Keep strong. We're building a future."
My future.
By dusk, another hut was done. They cheered. Sang, even. Fools.
"Rest well!" I called, waving them off. "Tomorrow, we push even harder!"
They dispersed, their tired faces alight with hope. And I watched, a smile freezing on my lips.
In the evening, we gathered near the half-built huts. They shared their bark bread and a few roasted roots, offering me a share with those desperate, hopeful eyes. I took a small portion, eating slowly, letting them think I was sharing their struggle. They smiled, laughed, even joked. Fools clinging to scraps.
I think one thing I could do that would make them appreciate me better is to devise a way to capture meat. I need to fatten them for a few months and start my mobilisation ideas.
I waited until they were gone, then wiped the mud off my hands with the edge of my cloak. Filthy. Disgusting. But necessary.
I stepped into the manor, shut the door, and let the mask fall. My smile melted into a grimace.
"Half-wits, all of them," I muttered, rubbing the ache from my hands. "But they're mine."
I slumped into the creaking chair, fingers throbbing. Tomorrow, I'd teach them how to build better chimneys—stop them from burning their homes down like the morons they were.
A few more weeks, and this village would be a fortress. My fortress.
They thought they were learning. They thought they were growing.
But I was the one building.
Building my power.
And they didn't even see it.