The diplomatic transport was a stark contrast to the land it traversed. Inside, there were air conditioners and cushioned seats insulating its occupants from the rugged, rolling hills of the Alpine heartland. Ambassador Varr stared out the reinforced window, her expression unreadable. She had agreed to this excursion, more out of professional curiosity at Owen's bizarre gambit than any real expectation of being impressed. A tour of a plow factory felt like a provincial desperation play, but just on the ride to the destination her mind had already started to change as the new technology like air conditioning and these luxury plush seats showed that maybe Owen did have something to offer.
"Your countryside is… rustic, Earl Owen," she commented, the word hanging in the air with the same deliberate weight as her previous pronouncements.
"It is honest," Owen replied simply. He hadn't spoken much on the journey, letting the landscape speak for him. Beside him, Perin Korbin remained silent, his gaze fixed forward, though his posture radiated a quiet tension. He, too, was unsure of his lord's strategy. This was not a battlefield he understood.
Their destination was not a sprawling industrial complex, but the bustling, thriving heart of Silver Creek, Kensigh. The transport settled in a cleared field near the edge of the town, and as the brakes hissed to a stop, the delegation was met not by a formal receiving line, but by the sounds of a community at work: the lowing of oxen, the distant ringing of a hammer on steel, and the murmur of dozens of conversations.
Kael was waiting for them. He was not dressed for a diplomatic reception. His forearms were slick with sweat and streaked with soot, and he wiped a hand on his leather apron before offering a brisk, respectful nod. "Prime Minister Owen. General. Ma'am."
"Foreman Kael," Owen said, his tone one of genuine respect. "This is Ambassador Varr of the Akeshian Trade Federation, part of the Akeshian Marchdom. I promised her a tour of our most vital manufacturing center."
A flicker of amusement crossed Kael's face, but he smothered it quickly. "Of course, Prime Minister. If you'll follow me."
He led them not to a building, but to a field at the edge of town where a team was working. The soil, dark and rich, was being turned in deep, even furrows. Ambassador Varr's eyes narrowed. The work was progressing at a speed that seemed impossible for the simple, ox-drawn plows they were using. As they drew closer, she saw the discrepancy. The wooden frames of the plows were old, weathered, and familiar. But the blades slicing through the earth were not the typical dull iron. They were gleaming, sharpened steel, cutting through rocks and roots with an efficiency that defied the tool's humble appearance.
"An interesting modification," Varr stated, her voice losing a fraction of its placid certainty.
"The frames are light, suited for the oxen and the terrain," Kael explained, his voice the easy, practical tone of an expert. "The blades are from the capital. High-grade steel. Too heavy to make a whole plow, and the machines they were attached to were useless up here. But steel is steel. We just put it where it does the most good." He gestured toward the town's forge, which glowed with a fierce, constant heat. "That's the heart of the operation."
Owen watched the Ambassador's face. He saw the moment she connected the repurposed steel to the useless tillers, the failed top-down solution now fueling a successful bottom-up innovation.
"This is your factory?" she asked, turning to face Owen, her eyes sharp with recalculation.
"It is one of them," Owen confirmed. "Our people are the factory. The landscape is the assembly line. These plows," he gestured to the field, "are why Silver Creek's harvest is thirty percent above the projection of 220 tons of wheat for the year. That surplus is why our granaries are full. That abundance is what allows us to divert 500 hectares to vineyards and 500 hectares to grazing pastures for cheese production. The wine and cheese I offered you are not a hopeful projection, Ambassador. They are the end result of this."
He let the silence stretch, thick with the smell of turned earth and forge smoke. He had not shown her a weapon. He had shown her a system, an ecosystem of resilience. He had shown her that his nation's greatest resource was not its gold or platinum reserves, but the ingenuity of a foreman who knew his land better than any administrator.
Varr was silent for a long moment, her gaze sweeping from the forge to the fields, to the new granary being constructed in the distance—the very project Eva had decreed for the raiders. She saw not weakness or mercy, but a cycle of pragmatic reconstruction. Every piece was connected.
Finally, she turned back to Owen, and the thin, sharp smile was gone. In its place was the clear, appraising look of a true negotiator who has just had the board reset.
"You are not selling plows, Earl Owen," she said, her voice now stripped of its earlier condescension.
"No?" Owen prompted.
"Then will you allow me to purchase these products produced from these plows, then maybe in the future I will gain your trust to purchase these innovations."
She looked at Kael, then back at Owen. "Let us discuss the price and quantity for a shipment of your goods. It seems Akeshia has much to learn about Alpine quality."
Owen's smile was a slow, deliberate bloom, mirroring the nascent hope that had begun to unfurl within him. "I believe that can be arranged, Ambassador Varr. Perhaps over a glass of that very Alpine quality wine you mentioned?" He gestured towards the distant granary, a symbol not just of their present bounty, but of a future they were actively building. "We can finalize the details back at Silver Creek. There are ledgers and figures that will undoubtedly interest a meticulous negotiator such as yourself."
Varr's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, a flicker of something akin to respect in her eyes. The transformation was complete: the dismissive diplomat had been replaced by a shrewd counterpart, eager to engage on equal footing. "Lead the way, Earl Owen," she conceded, the slightest inclination of her head a concession in itself. "Akeshia appreciates efficiency, and I sense you are a man who understands its value."
Kael, who had remained a silent observer throughout their exchange, finally stirred, a faint smile playing on his lips. The tension that had held him rigid seemed to dissipate, replaced by a quiet satisfaction. He caught Owen's eye, a silent acknowledgment passing between them—a victory, small but significant, had been secured.