The sun rose higher in the sky, and the air grew thicker with warmth and smoke. Athan stayed close to the kilns, adjusting the fire every so often—feeding fresh wood, checking the pull of the flames, smoothing mud around the stone walls to seal any new cracks. The heat beat gently against his skin, but the fires were holding strong.

Between these tasks, he sat on a flat rock and looked out over the village.

The clearing stretched wide before him, the earth packed and worn by constant footsteps. From where he sat, he could see nearly everything—every moving part of the growing rhythm they'd built together.

The space between the shelters and the wall had become a hive of activity. Near the edge of the clearing, a small team was busy cutting and shaping wood—long beams and flat planks laid out in rows, some stacked on the flank of the cliff, all still drying in the sun. The sound of axes and carving stones rang out with steady rhythm as women moved from log to log, splitting and shaving each piece down.

Closer to the wall, Ok, Yun, and Wade worked on the first house. Its form was now clear—walls taking shape with tightly fit beams, each gap filled with care. From time to time, Wade stepped back, checking alignment while Ok and Yun hammered or adjusted wedges. Their coordination had grown smooth, practiced. They barely needed words.

Near the firepit, Lara and Kali worked side by side. The cooking pot bubbled softly next to the table, and the smell of roasting roots and herbs drifted gently on the breeze. Lara stirred, focused. Kali crouched beside the fire, sorting bowls and adding ingredients with care, humming now and then between quiet remarks.

A little farther off, near the shelters, the weaving group was busy too. Several women sat in the shade, fingers working over cords and plant fibers. Textiles hung from wooden frames, drying in the sun—rough but usable. Newly made baskets in various shapes sat nearby, ready to be use. Ropes were being twisted, tested, set aside, while clothes and cloth were made.

By the edge of the trees, the hunters had gathered in a loose circle, bows slung casually on their backs. Ulf stood in the middle, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. The others listened, some nodding, some offering quiet suggestions. The bark paper Athan had spoken of was rolled up under Ulf's arm. They hadn't wasted time to start, it was a good thing.

Athan let the moment settle over him.

The village was moving—alive with purpose. Every person had their task. Every task had its rhythm. And all of it, somehow, was tied back to the fire that crackled behind him.

He stood, checked the fire once more, and added a few thick branches. The glow deepened, pulsing with heat.

After another round of feeding both kilns and checking the fire channels, Athan stood up and wiped his hands on his tunic. The flames were steady. The smoke rose cleanly. Nothing more needed for the moment.

But still, he didn't want to sit idle.

Turning toward the cart path, he spotted the empty wheelbarrow near the edge of the field—just where Lara and Kali left it earlier in the day. Without hesitation, he grabbed the handles and set off, the weightless frame rolling smoothly over the dry dirt as he made his way toward the river.

The breeze off the water was cooler, welcome against the heat lingering on his skin.

The same bank they had used before still held what he needed, clay. Athan crouched near the damp earth, fingers digging gently through the upper layer of soil. He pressed and turned it between his palms—soft, dense, sticky. Still good.

He set to work immediately, scooping it into the wheelbarrow with both hands, packing it down carefully. Bit by bit, the load grew heavier.

They would need another batch of bricks soon.

He didn't want to wait until the current supply was gone—not with the house and toilet nearing completion, and new projects on the way. Better to have the clay ready, drying, when the time came.

Once the wheelbarrow was nearly half-full, Athan paused and stretched his back. He looked at the river for a moment—calm and steady—and then turned back toward his crafting station, pushing the heavy load with slow, even steps.

He brought the clay straight to the brick shelter, where the drying racks stood in neat rows under their slanted cover. Nearby, the old wooden brick molds rested, cleaned and ready. He unloaded the sticky mass near them, stacking it neatly under the shade to keep it from drying too fast.

Then, without pause, he turned and headed back toward the river.

The kilns still burned in the distance, thin smoke curling up into the afternoon sky, but for now, they were stable.

He made the trip five more times—gathering fresh clay, returning slowly with the wheelbarrow heavy and advancing slowly. With each load, the stockpile near the molds grew larger, thicker, darker. Soon, there would be enough for a full new batch—and then some.

More bricks would be needed.

And not just bricks.

The projects ahead— making the aqueduct, making road, building the true wall, making a brick bridge, new fireproof house, maybe even clay tiles—would demand a steady flow of shaped, fired pieces. Better to be ready.

Once the sixth load was dropped off, Athan paused to catch his breath, then turned once more toward the kilns. He crouched by each one, checking the depth of the fire, adjusting logs where needed, and poking gently at the coals to make sure nothing had settled too low.

The heat licked at his face, but the glow inside was strong.

Still good.

Still burning.

Once the final load of clay was deposited and smoothed out near the shelter, Athan stepped back and gave the pile a long look. It was enough—more than any previous batch. The mound was dark, rich, and perfectly moist.

Satisfied, he grabbed the wooden mold from where it rested near the racks and set it down on a flat stone nearby. He knelt beside the pile and scooped a firm handful of clay, pressing it between his palms for a moment before packing it tightly into the mold's first cavity.

His fingers moved with quiet precision. Push. Press. Smooth the top. Tap the sides. Lift the mold. Slide the fresh brick onto the rack with care.

Then again.

Clay. Pressure. Mold. Release.

Each movement had a rhythm—one he knew by heart now. As the sun slid slowly toward the treetops, Athan worked silently, stacking one brick after another beside him. The soft plop of wet clay hitting wood, the gentle scrape of the mold being lifted, the shift of weight as he leaned forward—all became part of a quiet tempo he had long since made his own.

These bricks would dry under the shelter over the coming days. Once cured, they'd be ready for the next firing.

And after that… ready to build again.

He didn't rush.

Because every brick laid now was one less worry later.

After shaping a small row of bricks, Athan set the mold aside and reached for a flat wooden plank. Carefully, he slid each brick onto it, making sure not to press or deform the fresh clay. With steady steps, he brought the load to one of the shelves inside the shelter.

He crouched and checked the structure first—testing the supports, making sure the wooden frame hadn't shifted or bowed from the last batch. Still solid.

One by one, he slid the bricks into place on the shelf, spacing them out so air could circulate between each piece. Moist clay needed time and space to breathe.

Returning to the pile, Athan continued the cycle. Scoop. Pack. Smooth. Lift. Transfer.

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But he didn't rush. Between each set, he ran his fingers through the clay again, inspecting the texture and consistency. If he felt a stone fragment or a bit of bark, he plucked it out and tossed it aside. No impurities. The bricks had to be clean, smooth, and uniform—anything else would crack under fire.

From time to time, he stood and stretched his back, rolling his shoulders to keep the tightness away. Then he'd walk to the kilns and add another few logs to the fire, checking the color of the glow and the pull of the heat before returning to his work.

The cycle repeated again and again. Bricks on the rack. Wood in the fire. Clay between his hands.

And even as the sun began to dip toward the trees, casting longer shadows across the clearing, Athan didn't slow down.

After a while, Athan let out a long, quiet sigh.

He sat back on his heels, his hands still dusted with traces of clay, and looked around the clearing.

Everywhere he looked, people were moving—working. Ok and Yun still hammered at the house's walls with Wade, beams shifting into place one by one. The group near the edge of the forest continued to split logs into planks, sweat gleaming on their backs. Near the fire, Lara and Kali were stirring pots and preparing the evening meal. Even the weavers, hunched under shade, were focused on rope and fiber, their fingers never still.

Everyone was doing something.

But it wasn't enough.

Athan's gaze swept over the scene again, slower this time. The kilns needed constant tending. More bricks had to be made. The bridge hadn't even been started. And once the house and toilet were done, there was still the wall to extend and improve, tools create or to repair, new house and storage to build, plans to draw.

Too many tasks.

Not enough hands.

He exhaled through his nose, his chest tightening with a familiar pressure—not from fatigue, but from frustration.

Of course, compared to the stories he'd heard about Shala and Kali's old clan, they were growing fast. Building more in weeks than those others had in years, century, even millennia for some. If he compared what they had now to that, it was like watching fire leap across dry wood, everything was changing.

But by his standards?

By what he knew?

It was the speed of a crawling insect. An endless series of half-steps toward a future he could already see in his mind, but couldn't reach fast enough.

He rubbed his forehead and stared at the clay for a moment. The feeling gnawed at his ribs—quiet, sharp.

They needed more people.

More tools.

More time.

But none of those were coming anytime soon. And even if they did… there was nowhere to put them.

The first house—if he could even call it that—was still under construction. Once it was done, everyone would finally have a place to stay that wasn't open to rain and wind. Only then could they truly begin building real homes. Not with half-shaped beams and green wood, but with bricks and mortar. Adding windows, chimneys and furniture.

Stone and fire.

That first building, once replaced, would become something else entirely—a storage shed, for grains, smoked meat, and, hopefully, salted food once they found a way to gather salt consistently. Next to it, he wanted to dig a large hole into the ground and begin work on a primitive cold room—something to hold in the night's chill, reinforced with clay, stone, maybe ash insulation. A fridge in its most basic form.

It was possible. All of it.

But first, they needed bricks.

A lot of bricks.

And even if they made hundreds, they'd still need more. Because homes would come. Then other buildings. Baths. A real workshop. Maybe even a school one day.

He glanced over his shoulder at the clay pile he'd gathered earlier. It was large… but not endless.

The riverbank they'd been using was already showing signs of depletion. Every day, the hole grew wider, the clay thinner, the damp patches harder to find.

Eventually, they'd have to find another deposit.

Another spot with the right texture, the right moisture, and—hopefully—not too far from camp.

He let out another slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as the weight of it all pressed in again.

So much to do.

So little time.

Athan lifted his eyes toward the cliffs rising at the edge of the village, their stony faces catching the last golden light of day. One entire side of the camp was protected by that natural barrier—tall, steep, and silent.

Maybe up there…

The river came from that direction, winding its way down through the slope. If there were more clay, or even other useful materials, they'd likely be found higher up. The water had to pass through something. And water always carried traces of where it came from.

He made a mental note.

One day, he told himself. I'll go. See what's up there.

Not now. His body was still growing and he was at the mercy of about anything in this world.

But later—especially once the hunters had made progress on their map—he could start connecting everything. He could have them mark points of interest, places where they'd found food, plants, water… and now, raw materials too.

If they discovered anything worth collecting or thing they were not sur about, Athan wanted to know, he wanted to see it.

And starting tomorrow, if the bridge could be built across the river, he'd make it a priority. Once the hunters had a clear path across, they could explore farther, map wider. And before they began the second stretch of wall, they'd already know what lay beyond.

It was all connected.

The wall. The map. The materials. The future.

But for now… he turned back to the clay, hands already moving to shape the next brick.

There was work to finish.

---------------

Once the last brick was placed carefully on the upper rack, Athan stepped back and let out a slow, tired sigh.

Every shelf was now full. Rows of fresh bricks rested in neat lines, their surfaces still soft and dark. They'd need several days to dry fully before they could be fired.

He glanced toward the clay pile. Nearly two-thirds of it had been used. Only a third remained—just enough for one more full session.

Tomorrow, he thought, rubbing his wrist. We'll need a second shelter.

If they wanted to keep making bricks at this pace—and they would—they'd need more space to dry them. The current shelter was at its limit. Expanding now would prevent delays later.

He'd have to ask for help.

Tomorrow, he would talk to Ok, Yun, and Wade. If they gave him a bit of time, the new structure would be up quickly. With the right frame and a proper cover, they'd double their drying capacity in no time.

One more task, he thought, already stacking it on top of the rest.

But that was for tomorrow.

Tonight, the fire still needed tending.

And food was probably waiting.

He gave one last look at the racks—lined with the promise of future walls, ovens, road, and more—then turned toward the glow of the kiln fire, his legs heavy but steady.

The sun had dipped low now, casting long shadows across the clearing. Most of the village had slowed, but not here. Not where the fire still burned.

Athan crouched near the first kiln and checked the tunnel again. The fire was still strong, its warmth pushing out through the stones. He moved to the second and did the same, adjusting one log, tapping the edge of another deeper into the channel. The heat had to stay consistent. No part of the dome could cool too fast—not yet.

He sat on a stone nearby and leaned forward slightly, letting the warmth brush against his face. His arms were tired. His back ached. But the fire held.

And like every time he worked a kiln, he didn't have to wait long.

The sound of footsteps came from behind, soft and familiar.

"Still working?" Lara's voice floated to him through the dusk.

"Fire's still going," Athan replied without turning.

"We brought food," Kali added.

He looked over his shoulder just as the two girls stepped into the firelight, each carrying a wooden bowl and sitting down beside him—one to each side. They passed him his portion before digging into theirs.

The warm scent of root stew and roasted herbs rose from the bowl. Athan gave a soft "Thanks," and took a bite.

Kali leaned back on her hands, staring at the kiln. "Still hot."

"Need stay like that?" Lara asked, her voice quiet.

Athan nodded. "Until morning."

They ate in silence for a short while, listening to the fire crackle and the wind rustle the trees above. The smell of smoke wasn't just from the kilns anymore—there was a hint of something meatier in the air.

"The birds?" Athan asked, glancing at them.

Lara smiled. "Yes. Big ones. Ulf give. We cut and clean, Rael help. Now smoking."

"Good for stew," Kali added, nodding. "Next days, easy meal."

Athan gave a small grunt of approval, chewing slowly.

A moment later, Lara reached behind her and pulled something folded from under her arm—a piece of cloth. "Also… Rael give this."

She unfolded the first one and held it up. It was a long strip of rough cloth, soft and sturdy.

"She say it for bed. You say we do pillows, yes?"

Kali leaned forward, eyes bright. "We put feathers. Like you say. Better than leaves."

Athan blinked, then smiled faintly. "You remembered."

Lara nodded. "We ask for three. One each."

"We sew tomorrow," Kali said. "Sleep like bird."

Lara elbowed her gently. "You already look like bird, with that hair."

Kali stuck out her tongue and turned back to her bowl.

Athan chuckled softly and kept eating. The warmth of the kiln was comforting, but not as much as the quiet presence of the girls on either side of him. Tired as he was, the moment was peaceful.

They stayed like that a while longer, eating slowly, shoulders brushing now and then, the firelight dancing over their faces.

Later in the evening, the quiet sound of approaching footsteps reached them again—lighter, more measured.

Athan looked up just as his mother stepped into the firelight, her figure silhouetted against the glowing sky behind her. She carried nothing but a small flask of water and her usual calm presence.

Lara and Kali turned their heads and greeted her with soft smiles.

Rael returned the gesture, then gave her son a nod. "I'll take first watch."

Athan didn't argue. He never did when it came to this.

"Thanks," he said simply, shifting slightly to the side so she could sit closer to the kiln.

She settled beside the fire channel with quiet ease, folding her legs beneath her and adjusting her shawl against the cooling air.

"You eat?" Kali asked.

Rael nodded. "Earlier, with Shala. I saved her some too."

"Good," Lara murmured, already starting to gather their empty bowls.

Rael glanced at the kiln, then at the stacks of bricks nearby. "Fires are strong."

"They've been steady all day," Athan said. "With the wood you should hold till morning if nothing shifts."

Rael gave a soft sound of approval, then reached out to adjust one of the firewood piles, checking the draw with the practiced eye of someone who had done this many times before.

"You go rest," she added. "I'll wake the next when time comes."

Athan hesitated for a moment, then slowly nodded.

Lara stood and stretched. "Come. We sleep. You worked too much today."

Kali yawned without shame and took the bowls from Lara's hands. "He always work too much."

Athan rose to his feet, glancing once more at his mother. "I'll take over at dawn, take care of yourself too mom."

Rael didn't answer—just gave him a knowing look and turned her eyes back to the fire.

They walked away together, the kiln's warmth fading behind them as the night deepened, and stars began to shimmer across the sky.

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