Dust lingered above the eastern gates of Tarnshold, a bustling city that stood like a crooked crown atop the hills of the Vaelrun Vale. Its streets were alive with marching boots, clashing drills, and the sharp bark of captains barking commands to their companies. Outside the city walls, soldiers in patchwork armor readied siege carts, while squires carried tall banners bearing the mark of House Enverel—a twin-headed goose beneath a weeping sun.
Kalem and Garrick entered the city through the south gate, boots coated in road-dust and eyes fixed upon the growing stir of war.
"A border quarrel?" Garrick asked, glancing around.
"Over river rights," Kalem replied. "Both sides claim the Orin Flow as theirs. Neither wishes to share."
"And now they prepare to spill blood over water."
Kalem nodded.
As they made their way toward the city's council spire, the whispers began. Faces turned. Children peered from behind shutters. The merchants stiffened. Even before Kalem spoke, his name traveled faster than any messenger.
The Lord of Armaments is here.
By the time they reached the spire, the city guards already stood aside, wide-eyed and pale. Kalem stepped through the hall of banners and made his way into the chamber of the lords without announcement. Garrick followed, quietly pulling out his ink-quill.
Seven noble lords and three merchant heads sat in quarrel, shouting and arguing around a circular table shaped like a waterwheel.
Kalem spoke only once.
"I am Kalem. I demand your attention."
That was enough. Silence fell. Even the brazier flames seemed to still.
"I heard of your war," Kalem said. "The Orin Flow runs through both your lands. You seek to seize it with iron and death. But has none of you thought to share its stream?"
An old lord in a golden robe scoffed. "We suggested it. The Enverel side demanded upstream rights. The Varrin side refused to yield."
"And what of stone?" Kalem asked. "What of carved channels? An irrigation system."
The merchant heads looked among themselves. One of them—grey-bearded, eyes clouded—said, "We brought that to the floor once. They argued for three weeks, then rode out with their banners drawn."
Kalem narrowed his eyes. "You'll slaughter your sons over a river, but you won't build a bridge to share it."
A younger noble sneered. "Even if we tried, how would we trust them not to sabotage the works in the night?"
Another snapped, "We won't hand our water to men who poisoned our cattle last spring."
Soon, the room was full of snarling again, like dogs over bones. Garrick leaned toward Kalem. "They'll never agree. Not without force."
Kalem stepped back from the council table.
Then he raised one hand to the air and said softly, "Bring me Vehlrend."
A rumble echoed through the room. A great axe, broad as a door and etched in primal carvings, shimmered into his grasp. The haft was as long as a spear, and the blade emitted a low, thrumming pulse as if it drank the fury in the air.
"W-what are you doing?" one merchant asked, trembling.
Kalem didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the chamber, Vehlrend upon his shoulder.
Garrick blinked. "Oh no."
The lords and scribes followed after Kalem as he marched through the city, down to the banks of the Orin Flow. Crowds gathered. Soldiers dropped spears in awe. The whisper of his name spread like wind through wheat.
Kalem stopped beside the great river. The current rushed swiftly, swollen with spring melt. He looked left, toward the Enverel highland. Then right, toward the Varrin lowridge. Then, without a word, he planted his feet in the earth.
Vehlrend began to hum.
He raised it high, light dancing across its edge, and brought it down—not upon man or beast—but upon the earth itself.
The shockwave that followed cracked stone and split earth.
From the point where his axe struck, the soil parted as if by divine hand. A colossal trench began to carve itself through the valley, snaking westward and eastward alike, following the contour of his will. Dust erupted into the air. Rocks tumbled. The river surged, diverted by the trench.
Before their eyes, an irrigation channel broad as five wagons opened itself between the lands of both houses. The water flowed evenly, splitting in two branches—one north, one south—feeding into the farmlands of both fuming lords.
When it was done, Kalem stood amid the torn ground, Vehlrend resting on his shoulder once more. His breath was calm. His skin gleamed with sweat. The wind picked up again.
"I've carved the answer for you," he said. "The river now feeds you both. Poison it now, and you poison yourself. Starve the other, and you'll starve in turn. Fight, and you'll only choke the water with corpses."
He looked at the stunned crowd, his voice sharp as stone.
"If none of you want to lead like men, then be ruled by rivers."
That night, the lords signed a pact, scribes sealing the first water peace in thirty years.
Garrick found Kalem by the edge of the channel, staring into the flowing current.
"You really hate councils, don't you?" Garrick asked.
Kalem gave a tired smile. "I don't hate councils. I hate hesitation in the face of need."
"You moved a river."
Kalem shrugged. "I've moved worse."
Garrick sat beside him, pulling out a roll of parchment. "You know, they'll call it the Split Pact. A whole new calendar era might start from today."
Kalem tossed a stone into the stream. "They'll forget my name within a generation."
Garrick looked at him. "Not if I can help it."
Kalem didn't reply. He only watched the waters move, his eyes reflecting the moonlight and the silent passage of something far older than war.