The forest had grown quieter since the Thornback Boar and the spined hares, as though it too was giving them space to breathe. In that stillness, their small clearing began to change.
Kael stood at the edge of the new frames, arms crossed, surveying the work like a commander inspecting a fresh camp. "We need proper storage," he said at last. "Something dry, raised off the ground. If we keep piling food and tools inside our sleeping huts, we'll lose half to mold or pests before winter."
Borgu tilted his head, chewing on a strip of roasted meat. "Storage hut. Easy. Big box with roof."
"Not just a box," Kael countered. "We'll need a smokehouse beside it. Meat won't last otherwise."
Borgu's eyes lit up. "Smokehouse! Yes! Orcs build them big, big enough for three cows at once! Whole village comes to eat!"
Sylvara, crouched nearby with her hands in the soil, snorted. "And how many cows do you see here, orc?"
Borgu paused, scanning the trees, then shrugged. "None. Yet."
Lorian nearly choked on his water, trying to stifle a laugh. Sylvara didn't bother hiding hers, though she shook her head as though regretting it immediately.
Kael only sighed, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Small smokehouse. For rabbits, fish, maybe boar if we're lucky. Build big later if we need."
Borgu grumbled, but nodded.
While Kael and Borgu began measuring logs, Sylvara continued her quiet work with the earth. She'd chosen a patch near the riverbank where sunlight filtered through the canopy, rich soil dark and damp beneath her fingers.
Lorian limped over, carrying a small basket of seeds Kael had scavenged from old supply packs. "These?" he asked.
Sylvara glanced up, brushed her hair from her face, and nodded. "Yes. Barley, peas… crude, but it will grow. Better than nothing."
He knelt carefully beside her, ribs protesting the movement. "What about the wild plants you gathered?"
"They'll be mixed here. Herbs for medicine, others for flavor. If we're lucky, some will sprout quickly." Her hands moved gracefully, tracing shallow furrows in the earth. "It won't be the grand gardens of my people. But it will feed us."
There was a softness to her voice Lorian hadn't heard before—like memory wrapped in longing.
He hesitated, then said, "It looks… peaceful."
Sylvara's eyes flicked to him, sharp at first, then easing. "Peaceful is rare. We should hold onto it."
For a while, they planted in silence, the steady rhythm of hands in soil punctuated by the sound of Borgu's hammering in the distance and Kael's occasional sharp instructions.
By midday, sweat shone on their brows and the scent of cut wood hung heavy in the air. Borgu had already managed to break two beams with his enthusiasm, one snapping clean in half when he swung it into place too hard.
"Too strong," he declared proudly, tossing the splintered log aside. "Wood weak!"
"Wood wasn't weak," Kael replied dryly. "Your brain was."
Borgu laughed, unoffended. "Ha! Maybe. But look—" He flexed, his muscles gleaming. "Still good for work."
Sylvara rolled her eyes. "A beast, not a builder."
"Better beast than twig," Borgu shot back with a grin.
Kael's patience thinned visibly, but he pressed on, guiding the frame of the smokehouse into place with precise movements. His old soldier's habits made him meticulous—every log aligned, every rope taut.
By contrast, Lorian had been tasked with carrying smaller branches and stones. At first he'd bristled, feeling useless. But as the frame of the smokehouse rose and the garden furrows deepened, he saw how even his small contributions mattered. His pride grew with each load, even if his body ached by the end of the day.
When the sun dipped low, the clearing looked transformed.
Two half-finished huts now stood beside their own, their skeletons sturdy and upright. A rectangle of logs marked the smokehouse, smoke-stained stones already gathered for its pit. And near the river, dark rows of soil bore the first seeds of a garden, Sylvara's touch evident in the neatness of the lines.
For the first time, it looked less like a camp—and more like the beginnings of a settlement.
That night, they celebrated in the only way they could: by cooking too much meat.
Borgu had insisted on roasting the last of the boar haunch over the open fire, Sylvara seasoned it with herbs that gave the air a sharp, savory fragrance, and Kael mixed in boiled roots until it resembled something between stew and feast.
They ate under the stars, bowls warm in their hands, laughter echoing into the trees.
"Not bad," Borgu said around a mouthful. "Almost feels like home."
Sylvara arched a brow. "Your home must have smelled like smoke and overcooked meat."
"Exactly!" Borgu grinned.
Lorian chuckled, then winced as the motion pulled at his side. But even through the pain, he couldn't stop smiling. "Feels more like a village than I ever thought it would."
Kael, gazing at the half-built huts silhouetted against the firelight, nodded. His voice was quiet, but firm. "It is a village. Small, fragile, but ours."
The others fell silent for a moment, letting the words settle. The fire crackled, the forest whispered, and for that brief, golden evening, the world beyond their clearing didn't exist.
They weren't soldiers, or outcasts, or wanderers.
They were builders. Companions. A family in the making.
And with each stake driven into the ground, each seed pressed into soil, that truth grew stronger.