Greyrest stirred before the sun crested the hills. The scent of wet earth and ash lingered from last night's campfires as the townsfolk roused themselves with weary diligence. Hammers rang faintly from the blacksmith's early forge, and carts creaked under loads of morning harvests and bundled cloth. Yet amid the ordinary, a pulse of purpose had settled over the town like a heartbeat gathering strength.
Ethan stood at the edge of the old granary, sleeves rolled and collar open to the breeze. He'd barely slept. After yesterday's negotiations with Elyra, the image of walls, real, formidable walls, had taken hold of him like an anchor in a storm. He watched the first team of scouts and masons return from a survey of the town's perimeter.
The land would cooperate, he thought. It had to.
Behind him, a group of workers, some from Greyrest, others refugees with trades to offer, waited for his direction. Among them stood Jorah, a grizzled mason from Alrow Hollow with a twisted scar curling up the side of his bald scalp. His arms were thick and calloused, but his eyes held quiet calculation.
"We'll start with the west ridge," Ethan said, unrolling a length of rough parchment across a makeshift table. The blueprint he'd drafted the night before showed clean lines, defensive curves, and overlapping towers with sloped interiors designed for structural strength and quick repair. "This slope here will provide natural elevation. We reinforce it with stone buttresses and install a trench before the wall's outer layer."
Jorah studied it with a grunt. "Ambitious," he said. "But smart. Wind'll break on it, and the clay under that ridge packs tight in rain. Good choice."
Ethan nodded. "I'll need help refining the base measurements and setting a proper foundation. We don't build fast, we build right."
Jorah cracked a crooked grin. "You build like a man who's seen a city fall."
Ethan looked past him, to the gathered refugees who were still adjusting to the safety of Greyrest. Among them, he saw faces lined with soot and fear: a wiry glassmaker named Elen from the Ashdawn boroughs, a young pair of siblings with rudimentary carpentry skills from Deepholt, and a towering man with burn-scars down his jaw who called himself Brennar. Silent, but strong. Each one a remnant of someplace lost.
"Yes," Ethan said quietly. "I have."
As the group broke into teams, marking terrain with flags and carrying stones to the layout sites, Elyra approached from the direction of the barracks. She wore a dark green riding cloak over her armor, finely etched silver filigree across the breastplate that glinted like starlight in motion. Despite her noble bearing, she looked no less road-worn than the soldiers she commanded.
"You weren't at breakfast," she said, walking beside him as he paced toward the north line.
"I couldn't sit still," he replied, gesturing to the blueprint he carried. "Too much to plan."
Elyra glanced at the sketches. "It's good work. You've got the eye for it."
"I have the training. I used to design for aesthetics. Towers that caught sunsets. Now I'm trying to build something that might stop the things we haven't even seen yet."
She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "You're not alone in that."
He held her gaze for a moment. "No. But sometimes it feels like everything's waiting on me to figure it out."
She studied him, as if trying to read something beneath the surface. "You're carrying too much, Ethan."
"Maybe. But if it helps carry this place through the storm, I'll shoulder more."
Jorah interrupted then, calling them to see the first trench line. As they walked toward it, Ethan took in the view. The ridge curved around Greyrest like an arm waiting to cradle something precious. It was a natural line of defense, yes, but it also felt symbolic. A place trying to become more than what the world allowed.
Later that afternoon, as sun spilled golden over the fields, Ethan stood with charcoal in hand and drew lines over a newer parchment, refining tower heights, adjusting slant angles, sketching a multi-level gatehouse with pressure-weighted doors and archer balconies.
A quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You draw like a man who dreams too big."
It was Elen, the glassmaker, her arms folded and smudged with soot. She had sharp cheekbones and keen, silver eyes. Her expression was wary, but not unfriendly.
"Big dreams are all that keep me up some nights," Ethan replied.
She knelt beside the design. "You know, in Ashdawn, we had an old cathedral built like this. Domes, reinforced arches. It survived two storms, even when everything else crumbled."
Ethan blinked. "You worked on it?"
"My father did. I used to bring him water while he etched the glass windows. But I watched. I remember."
He handed her the charcoal. "Want to show me what you remember?"
She hesitated, then took it. Her lines were confident, precise, and soon they were trading ideas in shorthand. By dusk, the blueprint had evolved again.
Ethan stood, wiping sweat from his brow. The hum of industry buzzed behind him, carts rolling, hammers striking, voices shouting measurements. For the first time in days, he felt something new.
Momentum.
He looked to the horizon. The sky was darkening, but not in fear. In preparation.
And something in him whispered: Good. Let it come.