The morning after our council, the air felt different. Not lighter—never that—but settled, like the weight of decision had turned into direction.
We weren't just hiding anymore. We were preparing.
I woke before the sun, as I often did. Habit from years as a soldier. Old scars throbbed in the chill, joints stiff as I pushed myself upright. The fire had gone out in the night, but smoke still curled from the embers.
Borgu was already awake, because of course he was. The orc sat cross-legged with a hunk of dried meat in his hand, gnawing like a wolf. His tusks glinted as he grinned at me.
"Finally," he rumbled. "Man sleeps like rock. Orc ready to build empire."
"Empire?" I muttered, rubbing my face.
He slapped his chest with one thick hand. "Empire of spikes."
I sighed. "Let's start with a stockade that doesn't fall over in the wind."
Sylvara emerged from her hut not long after, her hair braided neatly back, her bow slung across her shoulder even though we weren't leaving camp. Lorian followed a moment later, yawning, his hair sticking up wildly.
"We've work to do," I said. "Best we start before the sun's high."
We divided as planned.
Borgu and I took the wall. The stockade had been rushed when we first raised it—logs uneven, gaps wide enough for a wolf to slip through. It wouldn't hold against a determined attack, not for long.
"Bigger logs," Borgu declared, hauling one massive trunk onto his shoulder as though it weighed nothing. "Thicker wall. Orc makes it strong."
"We don't need a fortress," I countered, setting a post with my shovel. "We need something practical. High enough to discourage climbing. Tight enough to keep them out."
"Bigger," Borgu insisted.
"Stronger," I corrected.
He grinned, tusks flashing. "Same thing."
We worked in rhythm, though. He dug like a machine, muscles rolling as he set logs into place, while I measured and reinforced. When one of his posts leaned crooked, I corrected it; when I struggled to lever a beam upright, he lifted it like it was straw.
By midmorning, sweat slicked our backs, and the new line of wall stood straighter, firmer.
Borgu leaned on his axe, grinning. "See? Empire begins."
I shook my head but couldn't deny it looked better.
On the other side of camp, Sylvara knelt in the dirt, hands delicate but sure as she pressed seeds into the earth. Lorian crouched beside her, brow furrowed in concentration.
"These," she said, holding up a small pouch, "are feverfew. They ease pain and fight fever when brewed. Recognize the leaves—serrated edges, pale green."
Lorian nodded quickly, repeating the words under his breath. "Feverfew. Serrated edges."
"And these," she continued, opening another pouch, "are tansy. Good for keeping insects away. But too much will sicken. Always measure carefully."
He swallowed, but nodded again. "Measure carefully. Got it."
Watching them from across the clearing, I felt a quiet warmth. Sylvara had been sharp with him at first, impatient with his fumbling. Now, though, her tone carried patience—stern, yes, but not unkind. The boy listened as though her words were gold.
By the time the sun crested noon, they had marked out neat rows in the garden, dark soil rich with promise.
Sylvara wiped dirt from her hands and sat back on her heels. "It's a start," she said softly.
Lorian beamed, pride bright in his young face. "Feels… good. Like we're really making something."
"You are," she said. Her lips curved in the faintest smile.
Afternoon was for traps.
Borgu loved this part. He threw himself into it with gusto, carving sharpened stakes as long as my arm, digging pits deeper than necessary.
"Pit big enough for wolf," he muttered. Then, after a pause, "Big enough for two wolves. Or man. Or elf."
Sylvara raised a brow as she passed with her basket of herbs. "How considerate."
Borgu grinned at her.
We strung noise lines too—simple ropes hung with bones and bits of metal, stretched around the perimeter. Not foolproof, but enough to give warning if something crept too close.
Lorian helped with the digging, sweat pouring down his face, but he didn't complain. Not once. His arms trembled with effort, but his jaw was set, and when he finally collapsed beside one finished pit, he looked proud rather than defeated.
"You'll sleep well tonight," I told him.
He grinned, breathless. "Feels better than just… waiting. Doing something."
"Aye," I said. "That's the work that keeps men alive."
As the sun dipped low, painting the treetops gold, we gathered again at the fire.
The walls stood higher. The garden was sown. Traps ringed the clearing like a silent watch.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't safe, not truly. But it was something more than fear. It was a foundation.
Borgu dropped onto a log with a satisfied grunt, tearing into roasted rabbit. "Good day. Orc worked harder than three men."
"Orc ate like three men, too," Sylvara murmured, sipping her tea.
Lorian laughed, tired but genuine, and for once Borgu only grinned instead of growling.
I looked around at them—an elf with dirt still under her nails, a boy whose hands blistered from his first real labor, an orc whose laughter shook the trees.
And I felt something settle in my chest.
For the first time since I walked away from the battlefield, this didn't feel like running.
It felt like building.
That night, when I lay in my hut listening to the night sounds—the distant hoot of an owl, the creak of the forest, the faint rattle of bones strung on our lines—I realized something.
We had built more than traps and walls.
We had built trust.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to face what was coming.