"Is everything alright?" Clive asked Lord Thornwald.

  Lord Thornwald looked distraught. "Everything's gone. My fish market, which I worked so hard on. Destroyed by the storm." He gestured at a wreckage of splintered wood. "Years of planning and construction. Investment from a dozen merchants. All of it... gone in minutes."

  Clive walked through the rubble. The market had been an open-air structure, designed to maximize airflow and keep the fish fresh. That same openness had made it catastrophically vulnerable to Bernadette's winds.

  Wooden support beams had snapped like kindling. Canvas awnings had been shredded or torn away entirely. The metal hooks and chains for hanging fish had become projectiles, embedding themselves in walls hundreds of feet away. Vendor stalls had been reduced to scattered planks alongside rotting fish.

  "The design was sound for normal conditions," Clive said, picking up a splintered beam. "Good ventilation, easy access, efficient layout. But it was built for commerce, not combat."

  "Combat? It was a fish market, Clive. Who builds a fish market for combat?"

  "People who live in a world where mages summon hurricanes," Clive replied quietly. He pulled out his sketchbook. "Show me the original plans. What did it look like before?"

  Lord Thornwald described it—the covered central pavilion where the day's catch was displayed on ice, the surrounding vendor stalls, the loading docks that connected directly to the harbor, the drainage system that kept everything clean and sanitary.

  Clive began sketching. "The fundamental problem is wind load. Bernadette's storm created pressure differentials that your structure couldn't handle. The wind hit the walls, had nowhere to go, and tore everything apart."

  "So build thicker walls?" Lord Thornwald asked.

  "No. You need airflow, not resistance." Clive drew quickly. "Look at this. Instead of solid walls, you use a lattice structure. Stone pillars as your main supports, but with gaps between them. The wind flows through instead of against."

  He sketched a covered market with thick stone columns supporting a low-pitched roof. Between the columns, he drew decorative stonework with large openings that allowed air to pass while still providing some shelter from rain.

  "The roof is the critical part," Clive continued. "It needs to be heavy enough not to blow away, but the pitch has to be shallow. High winds create lift over steep roofs. A low pitch with clay tiles, properly anchored..." He added details showing how the tiles would interlock and how metal straps could secure them to the underlying structure.

  "What about the ice storage?" Lord Thornwald pressed. "We need to keep the fish fresh."

  "Underground," Clive said. "Not just for temperature control but for protection. Dig cellars beneath the main pavilion. Stone-lined, with drainage. The fish go below ground during storms, and the cool earth keeps them fresh anyway."

  He sketched a cross-section showing underground storage chambers, access stairs, and a pulley system for moving heavy loads.

  Lord Thornwald studied the drawings with a hesitant look. “How deep are we talking about here?”

  "Ten feet minimum," Clive said. "Fifteen is better. Deep enough that even if the building above collapses, the storage remains intact. And make sure there are multiple access points. If one gets blocked by rubble, you need alternatives."

  "This would cost more. Significantly more."

  "It would also last longer," Clive countered. "Your old market is gone. Completely. Every gold you invested is now scattered across Marblehaven. This design might cost twice as much to build, but it won't need to be rebuilt after every storm."

  "He's right," Bran had joined them, peering over Clive's shoulder. "And there's another consideration, my lord. If Vandiel ever lays siege to Marblehaven, the ports will be the only way to get food into the city. We need infrastructure that survives. A fish market might seem unimportant compared to walls and barracks, but what good is an army if the city starves?"

  Lord Thornwald nodded slowly. "Food security. Of course."

  "Everything connects," Clive said. " Your fish market feeds the city. The city supports the garrison. The garrison holds the line. If any link breaks—"

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  "The whole chain fails," Lord Thornwald finished.

  Clive looked out at the sea beyond the cliffs. "You're building on a cliff above the ocean, in a city that's already been attacked by storm, earth and fire. Every structure needs to assume the worst will happen."

  Lord Thornwald carefully rolled up the sketches. "Then that's what we'll build." He extended his hand. "Thank you, Clive. You've given me something more valuable than gold. You've given me a plan."

  Clive shook his hand. "If you really want to thank me, commission some artwork from our art guild. I could think of a few decorative statues that would go well with the market."

  Clive flipped to a fresh page in his sketchbook. "The market serves fishermen, right? Let it celebrate them." He sketched a stylized tuna and a boat. "The fish that feed the city. The boats that brave the waves. Beautiful and meaningful."

  Lord Thornwald's laughed. "A tuna monument it is, then. Perhaps a school of them swimming across the main archway. My merchants will love it. My fishermen will love it.” His smile turned wry. "And my accountant will curse the expense, but some things are worth the silver."

  A few days later, Bran appeared at the Art Guild. Clive was demonstrating shading techniques to a cluster of students when he noticed Bran hovering near the doorway.

  Clive set down his charcoal. "Take a break, everyone. Practice what we've covered. I want to see depth and shadow when I return."

  The students dispersed to their workstations, and Clive approached Bran. Up close, he could see the dark circles under the scholar's eyes.

  "Bran," Clive said quietly. "What's wrong?"

  "Everything." Bran took out a ledger. "I’ve worked out the cost for your restoration plans." He removed his spectacles, rubbing his eyes. "I've been conservative in my estimates, using local materials where possible, phasing the work over years, and I'm still looking at costs that would bankrupt the city twice over."

  Clive frowned. "Show me."

  Bran opened the ledger, pointing to columns of figures. "Stone alone—just the stone for your proposed water towers and fire-resistant construction—would cost forty thousand gold. Skilled labor to implement your designs, another thirty thousand. Clay tiles, timber, metalwork for pipes and fixtures..." His finger traced down the page. "We're approaching one hundred thousand gold for the full reconstruction. Trying to convince the city council to approve this spending will be nearly impossible."

  "Then we need to convince the council that this isn't optional spending," Clive said. "This is an investment in survival."

  "The council..." Bran's expression grew more troubled. "Master Clive, the council meets tomorrow to discuss reconstruction. Lord Thornwald will no doubt support your plans, but the others..." He shook his head. "Merchant Lord Cassian controls the grain trade. He's been pushing for quick, cheap rebuilds to get commerce flowing again. Lady Margrave owns half the residential properties in the fire-damaged district. She wants traditional construction because it's what her builders know. And Guildmaster Fenton represents the craftsmen, who are terrified that your foreign designs will make their skills obsolete."

  "So they'll reject the plans."

  "Almost certainly. Unless..." Bran looked at Clive. "Unless you come with me. Present the designs yourself. Make them understand what's at stake."

  Clive felt a knot form in his stomach. More politics. Give him a canvas or a sketchbook and he could communicate perfectly. But speeches? Arguments? These were far outside his comfort zone.

  "I'm not good at this kind of thing," he admitted.

  "You convinced Lord Thornwald," Bran pointed out. "And you've been teaching workers all day. I've watched you explain complex concepts until they understand. You can do this, Clive. The question is whether you will."

  "What time is the meeting?"

  "Noon tomorrow. In the council chambers at the Lord's Hall." Bran managed a weak smile. "I'll prepare the formal presentation tonight. Numbers, projections, phased timelines. But they need to hear from you. The Pictomancer who saved Marblehaven. The man who sees what they cannot."

  "No pressure," Clive muttered.

  "None at all," Bran agreed. "Just the future of Marblehaven resting on your ability to convince stubborn, penny-pinching council members to spend money they don't have on designs they don't trust."

  Clive spent the rest of the day preparing. He created diagrams showing how fire spreads through densely-packed buildings versus properly-spaced ones.

  Bran worked alongside him, translating Clive's visual arguments into economic terms. "If we spend one hundred thousand gold now," he calculated, "but prevent eighty percent of future disaster damage... assuming major events every five years..." His quill scratched rapidly. "The investment pays for itself in fifteen years. And that's not counting the lives saved, which have economic value in terms of labor and tax revenue..."

  "You're going to tell the council that people's lives have economic value?" Clive asked dubiously.

  "I'm going to remind them that dead citizens don't pay taxes or buy goods," Bran said pragmatically. "Councilors understand gold. Morality is optional, but profit is universal."

  The next day, Bran met him outside the Lord's Hall. "Ready?"

  "No, not really."

  "Good. Overconfidence would be worse." Bran adjusted his spectacles. "Remember, let me handle the numbers and timelines. You focus on making them see. That's your strength."

  The council chamber was impressive. It was a circular room with high windows and a large oval table at the center. Five chairs were occupied by the council members.

  Lord Thornwald sat at the leftmost seat. To his right was Merchant Lord Cassian, a heavy-set man with calculating eyes and rings on every finger. Lady Margrave occupied the next seat, an older woman with silver hair. Guildmaster Fenton was younger than Clive expected, perhaps forty, with callused hands of someone who'd worked his way up from apprentice. And finally, Magistrate Chen, a thin man with scholarly robes.

  "Master Weston," Lord Thornwald said formally. "We're honored by your presence. The council has gathered today to consider the reconstruction plans of Marblehaven. Please, present your reconstruction proposals."

  Clive stepped forward.