On the fifth day of the Harvest Bloom, King Edric of Glenhollow stood in the center of the market square, his velvet cloak drawn tight against the morning chill. He gestured broadly to a worn patch of cobbles near the baker’s stall, and the royal architects nodded solemnly, sketching furiously on scrolls that fluttered in the breeze.

“A fountain,” the king declared, voice rich and certain. “A grand one. With carved stags and lilies. Flowing water, day and night, for all my people to see and hear as they pass.”

Master Arlen, head architect and a man of many diagrams, pursed his lips. “Very good, Your Majesty. We’ll draw up the elevations.”

But then came Rulf.

He trudged down from the barley path, his boots caked in mud, tunic a shade too faded to be anything but work-worn. A curl of straw stuck out from behind his ear. He squinted at the scrolls.

“Can’t do it,” he said flatly, scratching at his beard.

Edric turned. “Can’t?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Rulf looked around, as if surprised no one else had spoken up already. “That spot floods every spring. Water runs down from the baker’s roof and pools there. Last year, near drowned old Meg’s goose.”

Master Arlen cleared his throat. “We can engineer a drainage system to redirect runoff. Perhaps—”

“Nope,” Rulf interrupted again. “’Tain’t just the water. That patch’s marked for stalls on high market days. Need the space when the fishmongers come in from the coast. Smells bad enough without ‘em all jammed together.”

Edric frowned. “But it’s the heart of the city.”

Rulf shrugged. “Aye. And hearts need room to beat proper. Can’t have folk trippin’ over marble deer just to buy turnips.”

The king pressed his lips together. His breath puffed in the air as he looked around the square. Already the potter was unpacking her wares, her youngest playing with a ball of clay by her feet. The tanner’s boy was chasing a dog, and someone was singing an old hymn about harvests and blessings near the well.

Arlen coughed gently. “There is another location, sire. The lavender fields. Just beyond the square’s edge.”

Edric blinked. “The lavender? But that’s—”

“On royal land,” Arlen said smoothly. “Unclaimed by any vendor. The soil’s level, and the scent would mingle well with the sound of flowing water.”

Rulf nodded. “And folk go there anyhow. Sit and talk. Sweet spot for thinkin’.”

The king said nothing for a long moment. A breeze moved through the square, carrying with it the faintest trace of lavender from the fields beyond. He glanced toward them—just past the old stone gate, where the low purple haze rolled like a soft sea across the hillside.

He could see it now.

The fountain rising from among the blooms, water spilling from carved lilies into a basin veined with vines. Bees humming lazily through the petals. The sun catching the spray just so. A place where lovers might stroll and old men might sit and remember.

“Yes,” Edric said at last, lifting his chin. “Of course. That’s where it belongs.”

Rulf blinked. “Where what belongs?”

“The fountain,” the king said, already warming to it. “A vision came to me just now. In the lavender. It will be a gift to the senses—sight, scent, and sound in harmony. A place for reflection. I shall call it the King’s Bloom.”

Master Arlen wisely said nothing.

Rulf scratched his ear. “Aye. That’ll do nicely.”

And so the plans were redrawn. The market kept its bustle, its muddy boots and morning calls, while the fountain found its home among the lavender. Folks still talked about it, of course—how it all came about. Some said it was the king’s idea from the start. Others remembered Rulf mumbling something about goose-floods and fishmongers. But in the end, no one much minded. The fountain was lovely, the flowers were happy, and the king visited often—always with a small, satisfied smile, as if everything had gone exactly according to plan.