Zayan sat across from the elder in the modest wooden house. The room was silent except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath the elder’s pacing steps. The tension left behind by the earlier protest lingered, thick and suffocating, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.
The elder had just returned from the unrest outside. His expression remained calm but carried the weight of deep thought. Finally, he broke the silence, his tone steady and resolute.
“Pay no mind to them,” he said, his sharp eyes settling on Zayan. “The villagers may grumble, but they are loyal to the village. Their trust, however, is hard to earn. If you wish to remain here, you must prove your worth. Focus on the tasks at hand for now.”
Zayan’s unease was evident, but he forced himself to nod. His voice, quieter than usual, betrayed his nervousness. “What should I do first? I—I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
The elder regarded him for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he unrolled a map across the table. “Our most pressing issue is food. No matter how much we gather and store during the harvest, it never lasts through the winter. Pests and spoilage take their toll. Every year, people starve because of this. Despite our efforts, little progress has been made.”
Zayan frowned as he absorbed the elder’s words. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of knowledge from his former world. After a moment, he leaned forward, his voice tentative. “How do you store food now?”
The elder gestured out the window toward a weathered barn. “We dry and salt as much as we can. Meats are preserved with ash or herbs. But it’s never enough. The pests always find their way in, and much of it spoils.”
Zayan nodded, his thoughts aligning with memories of old practices he had read about. Hesitating, he ventured, “I… I think I might know a way to help.”
The elder’s sharp gaze bore into him. “Speak.”
“In my world, we used sealed containers to keep air and pests out,” Zayan explained, his voice gaining confidence. “For meats, we smoked them—exposing them to wood smoke for days. It preserved them for much longer.” He paused, adjusting his words to suit this world. “We could use clay pots, sealed with wax, to store grains. And we could build smokehouses to treat meat with smoke over several days.”
The elder’s brow furrowed as he considered the suggestion. “Sealed containers… and smokehouses. Do you believe these methods would work here?”
Zayan hesitated but nodded. “They worked in my world. I think they’ll work here too. But I’d need materials to test it—pots, wax, firewood.”
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The elder straightened and nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll bring this to the administration. If they agree, you’ll have what you need.”
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The administration meeting was fraught with tension the moment Zayan entered the room. The short man from the protest sat at the far end, his arms crossed and his glare fixed on Zayan with the intensity of a blade poised to strike. Though silenced during the protest, his defiance remained unyielding.
The elder introduced Zayan to the seven members present and outlined his ideas. He explained the benefits of sealed storage and smoking meats before gesturing for Zayan to elaborate.
Zayan froze, the weight of their stares making his chest tighten. “Um…” He began haltingly, his voice uncertain. “In my world, we sealed food in airtight jars to keep pests out. And we smoked meats to preserve them. It… it might help here too.”
The short man scoffed loudly, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. “And why should we trust his ideas? He knows nothing of our land, our ways. What if his methods waste our supplies?”
Murmurs rippled through the room.
“That could happen. Terul is right.”
“Yes, it’s risky.”
“But it’s worth trying, isn’t it?”
The elder raised a hand, silencing the room. “Enough. A small-scale trial will not harm us. If it succeeds, we expand. Alaric and Miles will oversee the process alongside Zayan to ensure nothing is wasted.”
The short man muttered under his breath but offered no further challenge. The decision was made.
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Over the next two weeks, Zayan worked tirelessly under the watchful eyes of Alaric, Miles, and a small group of villagers. Though skeptical at first, Alaric and Miles gradually warmed to him, their conversations during breaks revealing a genuine curiosity about his origins.
Together, they crafted makeshift smokehouses and sealed pots of grain with melted wax. Every step was met with scrutiny from the villagers, but Zayan persevered, leaning on Alaric and Miles for support. They became his first allies in this strange world, while the elder remained a steady mentor.
The first signs of success were undeniable. The smoked meats retained their color and aroma, and the sealed pots showed no signs of pests even after several days.
One afternoon, the elder visited the storage barn to inspect their progress. He ran his fingers over the sealed pots and examined the rows of smoked meat. A rare smile flickered across his face.
“This is promising,” he said, patting Zayan on the back, though the difference in their heights made the gesture slightly awkward. “You’ve done well. These methods could save many lives.”
Word of the success spread quickly through the village. At the next administration meeting, the results were presented. Even Terul could not argue with the evidence, though his scowl deepened as the room agreed to give Zayan authority over food storage for the winter—albeit under constant supervision.
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As news of the decision spread, Zayan felt a flicker of pride. But it was quickly overshadowed by the stares of the villagers. Some looked on with respect, others with curiosity. Yet a few, like Terul, glared with open hostility.
Standing at the edge of the barn, Terul clenched his fists as he watched the villagers whisper about Zayan’s success. His lips curled into a sneer, his voice low and venomous.
“All these years,” he muttered. “All these years of toil and loyalty, and I’m brushed aside. But this outsider, this brat, earns their praise?”
Resentment burned within him, its fire feeding on every word of approval spoken about Zayan.
“This isn’t over,” Terul whispered to himself, his eyes fixed on the tall boy standing amidst the villagers. “Not by a long shot.”