It was early morning, and the sky had yet to fully brighten.
When Louis opened his eyes, he saw a rough wooden ceiling. The timber had no ornamentation, merely stripped bark and a simple polish, and the beams were still slightly crooked.
He stared blankly at one slanted beam for a few seconds, then sighed softly.
This was his residence in the Wheatwave Fief.
It was not exactly shabby, but it certainly was not comfortable.
The craftsmen had built the house from timber. Its walls blocked drafts and noise, while old wool and geothermal pipes lay beneath the floorboards.
Of course, compared with the carved ebony bed in his Tulou castle in the Red Tide Fief, large enough for four people to lie on, it felt like stepping into a different age.
But he did not mind. These were unusual times. How could he possibly build walls and towers here?
Besides, rough as this bedroom was, it was already the best room the Wheatwave Fief had to offer.
He turned his head and found one arm draped over his chest, while the other sprawled out toward the edge of the blanket.
It was Sif. Her hair had grown a little longer, and her lashes were still long and curled, casting faint shadows over her face like tiny fans.
She was sound asleep, her limbs spread wide, her breathing so steady it was almost inaudible.
Louis gave her a helpless look, then slowly rose, moving so gently that even the bedboards did not creak.
He had been in the Wheatwave Fief for almost two months.
In all that time, he had scarcely set foot outside the valley.
From preparations at the start of spring and the division of field boundaries to building shelters and opening the first irrigation channels, he had