In Asmora, the soundscape had shifted. The silence of resignation was gone, replaced by the rhythmic ring of hammers and the low, constant rumble of wagons. Men no longer paused mid-swing to glance over their shoulders, as if expecting the river to jump out and bite them again.
Twenty-four new pairs of hands had arrived, hired labor following the scent of coin like moths to a flame. Some were just muscle, but others were specialists: a mason with stone dust etched into his pores and a carter with a team of oxen that looked more patient than the monks in the capital. Behind them came the wagons, loaded with cut blocks that bore merchant marks and the sharp smell of fresh-quarried stone.
But it was the seeds that the villagers watched. Waxed sacks of grain and jars of pulses were guarded like dragon hoards. To a city-dweller, it was just dirt and husks. To Asmora, it was tomorrow.
"It's strange," Dawn whispered as they watched the first kernels disappear into the dark, Illyndor-enriched soil. "They're putting dead things into the dirt and acting like it's a birthday party."
"It isn't dead," Alaric said, his four-year-old voice sounding far too certain. "It's just sleeping."
The stonelaying ceremony happened at the western edge of the village. The ground had been leveled and marked with taut rope lines—decisions made physical. A crowd had gathered, huddling in patched cloaks. Even the old farmer was there, his hat pulled low, his eyes tracking the mason's every move.
When the first foundation block was lowered by thick hemp ropes, the village seemed to hold its breath. It settled with a dull, heavy thud.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was the sound of a thousand fears being buried. The old farmer exhaled a breath he looked like he'd been holding since the flood began.
"Will it keep the goblins out?" someone shouted from the back.
Alaric didn't flinch. "It will keep raiders out, and it will give you time to think," he said, projecting as best he could. "Walls don't solve every problem, but they make it much harder for a problem to swarm you in your sleep."
A few people laughed—a jagged, surprised sound. Asimi's lips curved faintly, and Dawn looked at Alaric with a brightness in her eyes that was more effective than any light spell. Hope wasn't a speech; it was the second stone being laid after the first.
By mid-afternoon, the air grew thin and hard as they reached the hills. The terrain was scarred from the fissure, the very earth looking bruised by the magic that had rearranged it.
Alaric placed his gloved hand against the basalt seal.
You return with an audience, Alanor murmured in the back of his mind. And your moon-bound shadow.
"Open it," Alaric said aloud.
Observe, and remember.
The basalt didn't crumble; it folded. It was like watching heavy silk being tucked away by invisible hands, revealing a passage wide enough for two armored knights to walk abreast. The Knights Theurge—who usually acted like they'd seen everything—actually whispered among themselves.
They descended past the fallen shelves and the silent carvings of the upper levels until they reached the treasure chamber. But it wasn't the gold that mattered today. A Knight Theurge paused, his hand tracing a faint seam in the far wall.
"This wasn't here last time," the knight said.
"It was disguised," Gina replied, her hand already on her dagger. "Craft, not magic."
That door was not meant for you alone, Alanor's voice slipped into Alaric's thoughts, dry and instructive. It was meant for eyes trained to see workmanship.
Alaric stepped forward. He didn't use force; he just aligned his mana with the tower's 'will.' There was a subtle click—a physical sound of a lock recognizing its master—and the stone wall exhaled as it slid back.
The room beyond wasn't elven. It hit the senses like a hammer—sturdy, dark, and practical. Racks of weapons and armor lined the walls, treated with oils that had kept the rust away for centuries. This wasn't "poetry" in metal; it was war.
"This isn't elven weight," a Knight Gallant said, lifting a blade. "It's... for us. Humans."
"Dwarves make things for people who fight in the dirt," the stonemason whispered, his voice full of reverence.
"Why is it here?" Dawn asked, her eyes wide as she touched a rack of shields.
Alliances existed before your empires learned to name themselves, Alanor murmured.
Asimi moved through the room like a wolf counting sheep. She didn't touch anything, but her eyes were calculating the exact value of every helmet. "This could equip a platoon of guards," she said softly.
"Or a group of insurgents," Gina added, her voice tight with suspicion.
"Only if we let it," Alaric said.
He looked at the dark iron and the sturdy wood. He thought of his brothers in the capital, playing their games of cruelty, and he thought of the walls being built in the mud outside. A wall was a defense, yes. But a wall without men was just a very long tombstone.
"Walls are one kind of defense," Alaric said, his fingers curling into a fist beneath his glove. "But I think it's time we started building the other kind."
Gina's eyes sharpened. "And what kind is that, My Lord?"
"The kind that wears armor and doesn't ask the Palace for permission to breathe," Alaric replied.
He didn't say it aloud, but the vow settled in his chest like the first stone in a trench. He wasn't just rebuilding a village. He was building an army. And this time, he was the one holding the keys.