"Paul, how's the water distiller coming along? I've come to check your progress," Sean asked immediately upon entering the mill.
Carpenter Paul preened, "Honest as ever, My Lord—I finished it yesterday evening."
"Then why didn't you inform me last night?" Sean's tone sharpened.
Paul panicked, "I tried, but the castle servants said you'd retired for the night, so—"
"Never mind. Show me the distiller," Sean interrupted, not wanting to dwell on trivialities.
Paul led him to a workstation where a large iron cauldron sat beneath a wooden steam barrel. "I repurposed old oak water buckets for the steam chamber," he explained, pointing to the barrel pieced together from cleaned bucket planks. "Bamboo tubes and a wine barrel make the condenser—should work as you described."
Sean inspected the contraption. The oak interior was smooth and waterproof, typical of Yorn's carpentry. The condenser was simple: a wine barrel filled with water, a bamboo tube running through it. "Rough but functional. Henry, give him two gold coins."
"Thank you, My Lord!" Paul bowed, beaming.
Shoemaker Jamie muttered jealously, "Maybe I should've become a carpenter—looks easy enough."
Paul shot him a glare. Sean laughed, "Jamie, focus on your work. Your reward will be even bigger when those shoes are done. Paul, refine this design—more rewards to come."
Both craftsmen nodded eagerly.The Distillation BeginsWith the still ready, Sean wanted to brew alcohol in private. The mill had small side rooms, perfect for secrecy. He told Tom, the slum kids' leader, "Take some boys and move this to the next room—carefully, don't damage it."
As they carried the equipment, Sean asked Tom, "Why did Jamie scold you earlier?"
Tom flinched, nearly dropping the cauldron. "My leather work wasn't up to his standards, My Lord. He said we're worse than his apprentices." His voice was thick with self-blame.
Sean had an idea. "Perhaps shoemaking isn't your calling. I can guide you toward better opportunities—higher pay than Jamie's, even. Interested?"
"Absolutely!" the five boys chorused.
"None of you can read, right?" They shook their heads. "Tonight, I'll give each of you a piece of paper. Practice writing letters in the dirt with sticks. The best writers will attend the territory's school and could become administrative officers one day. It's up to you to work hard."
The world's language used a simple 29-letter alphabet, similar to Old Spanish—easy to mimic. Sean needed scribes to copy Lodin's novels before inventing printing presses, and parchment was too costly for beginners.
"Officers?" The boys' eyes lit up. For slum children, becoming a craftsman was the highest dream; governance was unimaginable.
"Practice at night, but work diligently for the craftsmen during the day. No slacking—understood?"
"Yes, My Lord! We'll try our best!" Energized by visions of a better future, they carried the equipment faster.
Soon, the distiller was set up in the side room. Sean ordered the hearth lit and poured ale from a wine barrel into the cauldron. A rich, malty aroma filled the air.
Butler Henry hovered, worried. "My Lord, you're using a water distiller for dwarven alcohol? Will it work?"
"You'll see," Sean said, stoking the fire.The Science of DistillationAs steam began rising into the barrel, Sean explained the process to Henry in a low voice: "Alcohol boils at a lower temperature than water. The steam carries it into the bamboo tube, where the cold water in the barrel condenses it back into liquid—stronger than regular ale."
Henry nodded, still skeptical. "And you're sure this is what the Light showed you?"
"Of course," Sean lied smoothly. "The Light emphasized efficiency—turning cheap ale into valuable spirits. Dwarves will trade iron for this by the barrel."
The boys watched, fascinated, as clear liquid began dripping from the bamboo tube into a waiting jug. Jamie peeked in, curiosity overcoming jealousy.
"Is that… alcohol?" he asked, sniffing the air.
"Strong enough to set your beard on fire," Sean joked. "Once we perfect this, the nobles in Yorn will pay a fortune for a single sip."
Jamie whistled. "Divine or not, that's clever."
…
By midday, the first batch was ready—a golden liquid, pungent and sharp. Sean took a cautious sip, forcing down the burn. "Perfect. Now, let's see if it impresses a dwarf."
He glanced at the Dwarven Marksman, Borin, who'd joined them. The old dwarf took a swig, eyes lighting up. "By Moradin's beard! This'll warm a dwarf's bones better than dragonfire. You'll make a fortune, My Lord."
Sean grinned. Step one complete. Now, to turn dung into fertilizer and shoes into status symbols.
In Riverside, even a mill's dusty side room could birth revolutions—one Distillation drop at a time.