Nanotechnology: The Last Prince Of Wales

Early in the morning, the soft mist still clinging to the edges of the land, Trefor stood with Pwyll in the stonemason's area. They were waiting, as the sun had yet to burn away the chill in the air, and their breath rose in white puffs. Trefor, a skeptical stonemason with large, weathered hands and a bulky figure, grunted as he looked over the raw materials they had gathered. A pile of limestone, clay, and a heap of rough-cut timber stood in front of them.

Trefor eyed the materials, scratching his unshaven chin. "Limestone," he muttered, tapping his foot impatiently. "Clay... Wood. I still don't understand what this young lord has in mind."

Pwyll, the steward, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing over at Trefor. "Maybe he wants us to build something, after all. Perhaps a new structure or something for the town's needs," he suggested, trying to stay optimistic.

Trefor grunted in response, his skepticism showing no signs of wavering. "Could be. But what does a young lad like him know? He's no older than my own son,"

Before Pwyll could respond, the sound of boots crunching across gravel broke the stillness. Ethan arrived alone, his cloak slightly rustling in the breeze, his face bright despite the early hour. His smile was quick and warm as he greeted the two men. "Gentlemen."

Trefor gave Ethan a long, appraising look, his eyes narrowing slightly. He took in the young man's attire, the sharpness of his gaze, the air of someone who, despite his youth, seemed confident. Trefor's internal thoughts, however, remained dismissive.

Ethan smiled at Trefor's gaze. "Well let us begin, today we'll be making cement," he said, the words spoken plainly but with an edge of excitement.

Trefor blinked, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "Cement?" he echoed.

Ethan's smile widened, though there was no humor in it. "It's much sturdier than mortar," he said, "and it'll change the way we build—make structures stronger."

Trefor crossed his arms over his chest, his bulky figure blocking the morning sun. "And how do we make this... cement?" he asked, his voice heavy with doubt.

Ethan glanced over at the pile of limestone and clay, his eyes sharp as he began to explain. "First, we will break down the limestone into smaller chunks. The clay will be added, crushed as well. Then we mix them thoroughly—ensuring an even distribution of the materials."

As the workers began their task, following Ethan's directions, Trefor eyed the process with a skeptical gaze. The men broke the limestone, crushed the clay, and stirred them together. Yet, there was something about the precision in Ethan's voice, the calm confidence, that made Trefor pause. He had seen men command a crew with authority, but this felt different. Ethan wasn't simply telling them what to do—he was guiding them, teaching them something new.

Once the mixture was prepared, Ethan led them to the next stage. "Now," he said, his tone firm, "we build the kiln."

The kiln, though a simple design using local bricks, was more intricate than Trefor had expected. It featured a combustion chamber, a space to burn wood or charcoal, and a second chamber to hold the limestone mixture. The men worked together, stacking bricks and creating the structure under Ethan's watchful eye. The stonemason's hands were rough and quick, but even he couldn't help but notice the careful precision in Ethan's instructions.

Once the kiln was completed, the next step began. They loaded the limestone-clay mix into the chamber, placing logs of wood beneath the structure. Ethan stood back, watching as the workers set the fire. He motioned for Trefor and Pwyll to join him as the flames roared to life.

"We need to heat the limestone throughly," Ethan explained, his eyes fixed on the flames. "This process drives off carbon dioxide from the limestone, leaving behind calcium oxide—quicklime," the men exchanged looks as they shrugged and countinued working.

Trefor watched the fire with a mixture of awe and suspicion. The heat was intense, the flames licking at the sides of the kiln as they consumed the wood. "And after this, what's next?" Trefor asked, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.

Ethan's eyes remained fixed on the kiln as he spoke, his voice calm. "Now, we wait. The quicklime needs time to cool after the process."

Trefor grunted. "How long lord..."

"Hmm it depends," Ethan replied. "It could take a few hours or more. But patience is necessary." He glanced at the two men. "We can't rush it."

Trefor nodded, though he couldn't shake the feeling that he was witnessing something far beyond what he was accustomed to. There was a quiet hum of activity around them as the kiln continued its work. Slowly, the heat settled, and they were left with the product of their labor—quicklime.

Ethan knelt before the cooled quicklime, his hands steady as he began the next step. "We slowly add water to the quicklime," he said, motioning for the workers to watch closely. "You have to add the water gradually to prevent an overly violent reaction."

As the slaked lime began to form, Trefor couldn't help but marvel. The heat that radiated from the mixture was palpable, yet the lime itself began to change form, turning into a thick, pasty substance. His rough hands couldn't resist touching it, feeling its texture, even as he tried to keep his composure.

"My lord where did you learn to make this... cement?" Trefor asked, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity. "I've never seen anything like it."

Ethan turned to face Trefor, his eyes thoughtful. "A book," he said simply, as though the answer should have been obvious.

Pwyll, who had been standing quietly, processed the information in silence. A book, he thought, narrowing his eyes. Which book could it be?

Trefor's workers placed the slaked lime in pits, where it would be left to age. Ethan stood beside Pwyll, watching the workers finish their task. Pwyll, still deep in thought, turned to Ethan and asked, "What are we to build with this cement?"

Ethan smiled, a glint of ambition in his eyes. "We'll construct new roads, bathhouses, walls—many things. This cement will change how we build, Pwyll."

Pwyll sighed, rubbing his temples. "I just hope the treasury can support this...."

As Ethan walked toward the manor, his footsteps firm against the cobbled stones, Pwyll walked by his side, his brow furrowed in concern. "My lord," Pwyll began, his voice laced with a rare edge of worry, "This is a dangerous time. You should have guards accompany you." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with caution.

Ethan, his expression unreadable, glanced briefly at Pwyll before looking ahead. "How is my schedule today?" he asked.

Pwyll hesitated, clearly reluctant to abandon his vigilance, but ultimately answered. "A few matters of the town. Some requests for provisions, reports from the traders. Nothing extraordinary."

Ethan nodded. Managing the town hadn't been as taxing as he initially thought. The population, though not large—about a thousand—had grown more self-sufficient. Pwyll took care of most of the tasks, the burden on Ethan was lighter than expected.

When they arrived at the manor's gates, a scene unfolded before them. A woman with a disfigured face, burnt, was being dragged toward them by the guards. She looked desperate, her eyes wild as she fought to free herself from their grip.

"I need to see Lord Ieuan!" she cried out, her voice breaking as she struggled against the guards.

Ethan's gaze sharpened as he watched the woman, and he could see the deep anguish in her eyes. He stepped forward, "Let her go," he ordered, and the guards, after a moment's hesitation, complied.

As the woman turned toward him, she saw Ethan and hurried toward him, her face contorting in desperation. "My lord!" she cried, falling to her knees in front of him, her hands grabbing at his legs in a frantic attempt to get closer. "Help me, please! You have to help me!"

Ethan knelt down slowly, his hands steady as he lifted her up. "What is it? Tell me what's the matter."

She trembled as she clung to him. "They... they took everything from me. My husband is late, and my brother-in-law... he stole everything from him! He threw me out, and when I tried to stop him... he..." Her voice broke as the tears streamed down her face, the raw pain evident in her eyes.

Ethan exchanged a glance with Pwyll, who was standing nearby. The steward's eyes were unreadable, but there was a quiet understanding that lingered in the air.