The morning arrived slowly, with a soft breeze brushing through the leaves above and the first golden light creeping along the edges of the shelter.

Athan stirred beneath the shared bedding, his body warm beneath the layers of woven cloth and dried leaves. His muscles were a bit sore from the previous day, but his mind was calm.

He remembered the night clearly—not just the music, or the cheers after Rael's announcement, but the way Lara and Kali had whispered to each other excitedly as they returned to their shelter. The two girls had been glowing, laughing under their breath, sharing dreams and wondering aloud what it might be like when children would grow up in this new world they were helping to shape.

He hadn't said much—just listened, smiling in the dark.

Then they'd entered the shelter.

And seen them.

The pillows, neatly arranged beneath the fur.

There had been a brief silence, then two gasps—soft, surprised, and full of joy. Lara had reached down first, running her hand along the fabric, then lifted it to her face with a breathless smile.

"You made these?" she had asked, already knowing the answer.

Athan had only nodded.

Kali had hugged hers to her chest like a treasure. "So soft," she'd whispered.

They hadn't stopped thanking him, even as they lay down and curled in close. For the first time, their heads rested not on leaves, but on something shaped—something made for comfort, not just survival.

They had fallen asleep that way, all three of them tangled under the fur, each with a pillow tucked beneath their heads, warm and quiet and still grinning in the dark.

Now, as Athan blinked awake, the memory of it made him smile all over again.

The trio rose together, still wrapped in a shared warmth and the lingering comfort of the night before. None of them said much at first—just quiet smiles, soft stretches, and fingers lingering on their new pillows before slipping out from under the bedding.

The air outside was cool, crisp with early mist, but not biting. Just enough to feel fresh against their skin.

By the firepit, Rael was already at work, crouched beside the coals. The wooden pot sat on the table burning rock had been put in it with the grounded root, faint tendrils of steam curling from the water surface. Near her, several villagers had already gathered—some seated, others standing with half-lidded eyes and loose hair, bowls in hand.

As Athan, Lara, and Kali approached, Rael glanced up and offered a faint nod, then handed them each a bowl of the bitter root brew.

The trio sat down close together near the edge of the fire, sipping in silence.

Kali grimaced after her first mouthful. "Still dirt," she muttered.

Lara chuckled. "Still warm."

Athan took a longer sip, letting the heat wake him slowly.

All around, the village stirred—the low murmur of voices, the sound of tools being moved, soft footsteps in the grass.

Then the atmosphere shifted.

Heads turned toward the southern edge of the clearing, near the wall.

Ulf and the hunters had gathered—bows strung, packs light. But this time, they didn't head toward the village gate.

Instead, they walked calmly toward the newly built bridge, their shoes brushing dew from the grass as they passed the edge of the houses and shelters.

They didn't speak loudly.

They didn't need to.

The direction alone told the story.

They were going across.

To the other side of the river.

To map, to explore, to discover.

A small murmur followed them—respect, curiosity, a hint of quiet tension.

Athan stood without thinking, stepping slightly forward as he watched them go.

The first of them stepped onto the wooden logs, testing them with practiced feet, and crossed one by one.

The bridge held.

No hesitation.

Lara stood beside Athan now, her eyes on the last of the hunters as he disappeared into the distant tree line.

"They'll find something," she said softly.

Athan nodded with a sigh. "Let's hope it's not trouble."

As the hunters vanished into the forest beyond the river, the village slowly returned to motion.

Wade finished his bowl of coffee and stood with a quiet grunt, brushing his hands on his trousers. He gave Athan a short nod, then turned and made his way toward the construction site.

Yun and Ok were already there, preparing the last beams for installation. The frame of the house was nearly complete—the final wall just waiting to be set into place. With Wade's help, they would finish it before nightfall.

A few steps away, Lara and Kali had already veered off toward the brick shelters. Their task this morning was clear: turning the freshly made bricks so they would dry evenly under the angled roof. Athan saw them chatting lightly as they walked, sleeves already pushed up in anticipation of clay-stained hands.

As for him—

He made his way toward the kilns.

The fires had died the day before, just as planned, and cool down during the night. A thin line of smoke still curled from one of the channels, some coal that were not yet consume, but the stones had cooled enough to handle.

He crouched beside the first dome, placing one hand lightly on the outer wall. Working slowly, lifting each stone with care. The outer wall of the kiln came down first—stone by stone, each one still warm to the touch. He set the usable ones aside in a neat pile, forming a ring nearby where they could cool completely before reuse. The cracked or crumbling ones, he left to the side for disposal.

Once most of the dome was open, he began peering inside.

The interior was darkened with soot, but the results were clear.

Most of the bricks had fired well—their color deep and even, the edges hardened and solid. He began removing them one at a time, stacking them gently into a wooden tray set nearby.

But not all of them had made it.

He found six cracked bricks in the first kiln—some split down the center, others flaked at the edges, likely from uneven heat or a flaw in the clay mix, again. He did not know how to determine the one which would brake before the firing, if he could know he would make sure to solved the problem before trouble arose.

Further in, he located the bowls and pipes he had set in carefully two days before.

One of the bowls had survived intact, but two were cracked, one along the rim, the other one broken clean in half.

With a sigh, Athan set them aside.

Then came the pipes. Long and fragile, they clearly were the riskiest.

Only one survived untouched.

Four had fractured, one of them completely collapsed under its own weight—reduced to a jagged spiral of half-fused clay.

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He frowned slightly but didn't linger on the disappointment. It was expected. Losses were part of the process.

After fully clearing the first kiln, he moved to the second.

The structure was slightly more intact, and the fire had clearly burned stronger in this one.

He repeated the process—stone, mud, ash—until he reached the inner chamber.

Most of the bricks here were also well-fired, but he still found eight with cracks or having crumble on themself, making them unsuitable for building. He placed them in a separate stack—they could still be used for weight or filler, just not for walls.

One of the bowls was warped beyond use.

The others were usable, if slightly rough.

By the time both kilns had been fully dismantled and cleared, Athan had a good sense of what had been gained… and what had been lost.

The success was undeniable: a total of 146 bricks had survived the firing process—firm, evenly dried, and solid to the touch. Their color was rich, their edges sharp, and they gave off that familiar, almost satisfying sound when tapped together—proof they were ready for use.

He stacked them with care, setting them aside for future construction. Just seeing that many finished pieces lined up in the sun was enough to fill his chest with quiet pride.

Of course, not all of them made it.

Still, the ratio was good.

Among the ceramic pieces, the results were mixed.

Of the bowls, four were perfectly usable, while two had fractured. He placed the broken ones on the side carefully, trying not to lose the shape in case they could be repurposed somehow.

The pipes, as expected, had suffered the most. Their length and hollow shape made them fragile, even with careful placement. Only one came out whole. The others were cracked or crumbled, reduced to irregular spirals of wasted clay.

It was disappointing—but not surprising.

Athan crouched near the remaining pieces and reached carefully for the single pipe that had survived.

It was now cool to the touch, but intact—smooth, even, no cracks along the sides, no signs that it would brake now. He turned it gently in his hands, inspecting the edges, the color, the weight.

It would do.

Not perfect, he thought, but more than enough to seal one of the baths.

He'd need to make more soon—maybe another batch tomorrow or the next day, depending on how much clay and time he could spare.

But then again… why wait?

The fire was done, the day still young, and he had time.

Athan stood, brushing ash from his knees, and carefully set the surviving pipe near the base of the baths, tucking it under a flat stone to keep it safe. Then he turned and made his way toward the clay deposit.

The wheelbarrow had already made a few trips here recently, but there was still enough good material near the edge of the pit.

He crouched and began gathering a fresh batch—kneading it gently, checking for pebbles, twigs, or anything that might cause cracking later. Once satisfied, he loaded what he needed into a big leaf of a nearby tree and carried it back toward the work area.

Near the edge of the path, just past the drying racks, he spotted a small pile of branches they had stripped weeks ago—clean and dry, their bark long gone, the surface smooth from sun and handling.

Exactly what he needed.

He picked out a few of the straighter ones, roughly the length of his forearm, and brought them over.

One by one, he began shaping the clay.

He rolled the clay into long, even cylinders, then flattened them slightly before wrapping each one around a branch leaving them inside. It would help the pipes hold their form during drying, preventing them from sagging or warping too early. His fingers moved with practiced care, pressing and smoothing the clay until it hugged the shape tightly, the seam sealed with a gentle pinch and blend.

He repeated the process patiently, adjusting for thickness and making sure each one stayed smooth and even.

Ten pipes in total—not perfect, but good enough for now.

Athan sat back and looked at them, lined up beside him on the ground. With any luck, these would replace what had been lost… and maybe even prepare them for what was coming next.

He stood and gently lifted each pipe—still soft, but firm enough to move—and brought them to the drying shelter, placing them carefully on one of the lower racks beside the newest batch of bricks. The branches kept them steady, lined in neat rows.

Satisfied, he stepped back and wiped his hands.

With the new pipes left to dry, Athan turned his attention to the first bath—the one waiting for its final connection.

He retrieved the wheelbarrow from beside the drying racks and headed toward the riverbank, where the sand was clean and loose. The path was familiar by now, his shoes leaving shallow impressions in the damp earth. He worked quickly, shoveling the fine grains into the cart until he judged the amount to be enough.

The wheelbarrow groaned slightly under the weight, but rolled smoothly as he brought it back to the bath site.

Once there, he paused beside the cooled, kiln remains, and collected a small amount of ash—carefully scooping it from where the fires had burned strongest. He added it to the mix he was preparing, then reached for the mount of lime powder which still sat in the kilns where it had been fired.

With practiced hands, Athan blended the sand, ash, and lime powder on the ground of the bath. The texture had to be right—not too thick, not too wet. He added water little by little, working the mix with a flat piece of wood until it reached a smooth, dense consistency that clung to the sides.

Having retrieved his cement tools, he crouched beside the first bath, where the outlet had been waiting—a small, circular hole left in the wall. He took the single surviving clay pipe, tested its fit, then slid it into place.

It fit snugly.

Using the fresh cement, he packed the space around it, pressing carefully to seal every gap between pipe and stone. He smoothed the surface with his trowel, working the paste into a firm, tight band around the base.

Once satisfied, he began spreading the rest of the mixture across the interior of the bath—a final, smooth layer of cement across every surface.

He moved slowly, methodically, making sure every corner and curve was covered.

This last coat would harden over the next few days, and once dry, it would create a fully sealed, water-resistant basin—strong enough to hold heat, pressure, and time.

When the last stroke was done, Athan leaned back slightly on his heels and let out a quiet breath.

It's ready.

Not to use yet—but close.

Very close.

He gathered his tools and made his way toward the waterfall.

The air was cooler there, and the sound of rushing water echoed softly between the trees. Athan crouched near a shallow pool just beneath the fall's edge and began cleaning each tool with care—keeping his fingers well away from the cemented surfaces, mindful of the sting he'd felt the last time lime had touched his skin.

The water ran clear and cold.

He dipped the scraper, wiped it clean. Then the wooden board. The trowel. One by one, he rinsed them all and set them on a dry patch of grass to drip dry.

Just as he was rinsing his hands—wrist-deep in the stream—footsteps approached from behind.

He turned slightly.

Ok was there, arms crossed, a not so rare grin tugging at his face.

The man didn't speak right away. He simply looked down at Athan, then to the tools, then back again.

Then he nodded, slow and sure.

"It's done," he said.

Athan blinked. "The house?"

Ok nodded again. "All walls. Roof. Solid. We finish last beam just now."

There was pride in his voice—quiet, but full.

Athan stood, wiping his hands on a patch of grass. A smile began to rise on his lips.

"Good work," he said.

Ok clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "No—we good work."

Athan gave one last glance to his tools—laid out on a flat patch of sun-warmed grass, drying peacefully beneath the morning light. The sound of the waterfall still echoed softly behind him, but his mind was already elsewhere.

He turned and followed Ok, who walked ahead with easy steps, arms swinging loosely at his sides.

They didn't speak on the way back.

They didn't need to.

As they reached the clearing near the center of the village, the house came into view—fully built now, standing proud and solid against the backdrop of trees and sky.

It wasn't extra large, and it wasn't fancy. But it was the first real house the clan had ever known.

The outer walls were smooth and tightly sealed. The roof, made from overlapping wooden planks, sloped just enough to shed rain. Beams supported every corner, wedged and locked together just like Athan had taught them. The frame stood strong, and the shadows it cast stretched long and straight in the sun.

The doorway still lacked a finished door—that was Ok's next project, Athan knew—but the opening framed the dark interior like a quiet invitation.

Athan stepped closer.

The scent of fresh wood and dry earth met him as he approached. Inside, the light filtered through small gaps in the walls, casting long lines across the floor. It was cool, sheltered, solid. A place that wouldn't leak when it rained. A place they could sleep in, live in, grow in.

Ok stood just behind him, watching his reaction.

Athan turned to him slowly and nodded once.

"It's good," he said.

Ok gave a grunt of satisfaction. "Better than good. First of many."

Athan stood in the doorway for a moment longer, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. The cool air inside the house felt different—protected. Safe.

He turned slightly toward Ok, who was watching him in silence, arms crossed.

"Now that it's done," Athan said, his voice quiet but certain, "you should go tell your family. And Nuk's. And Shala too."

Ok tilted his head, listening.

"The house should go to the ones who need it most first," Athan continued. "Families with young children. The pregnant women. They get first choice of space. After that, the others can come and find spots around them."

Ok blinked once, then nodded slowly. "Good choice."

Athan shrugged lightly. "It's just what makes sense."

There was no pride in his tone—just practicality.

Ok placed a hand briefly on Athan's shoulder before turning and heading off toward the shelters, already calling softly for those he'd need to gather.

Athan stayed behind a moment longer, looking once more around the empty house.

It wouldn't stay empty for long.

Soon, it would hold laughter, breath, warmth, and protect them in their sleep.

Athan left the house behind, letting the sounds of movement grow behind him as Ok began relaying his instructions. He stepped away from the center of the village, walking at a quiet pace through the familiar paths between shelters and workspaces.

Near the weaving area, Rael was seated cross-legged, a few strands of twisted cord stretched between her hands and knees. She was focused, her fingers deftly pulling threads through one another, shaping the beginnings of what looked like a shirt or wrap.

She looked up as Athan approached, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "You look tired," she said gently.

"A little," he admitted, crouching beside her. "But I needed to talk to you."

Rael set her weaving aside, giving him her full attention.

"I want to start something new," he said. "Now that the house is done… the women and child moving in—Shala, Mir, Gal and Fi—they'll be sleeping on the stone. And it's not soft."

Rael's brow furrowed slightly, already understanding.

"So," Athan continued, "I need you to start making basic mattresses."

She tilted her head. "What's that?"

"Like the pillow I made you," he explained, "but bigger. Long enough for someone to lie on. A sack of cloth, stuffed with dry grass or leaves. We can use the same stitch style. It doesn't have to be thick, just enough to stop the cold from the cement."

Rael gave a small nod, thoughtful. "We can do that. We have cloth. Not much, but enough for a few."

"Make the first ones for them," Athan said, quietly insistent. "The women who are pregnant. They need to rest more than anyone."

Rael smiled faintly. "You're thinking ahead again."

He looked away, rubbing his arm. "Just trying to make it better. A little bit at a time."

Rael reached out and gently touched his cheek. "You're doing more than a little, you know."

Athan didn't answer.

But he stayed there a moment longer, just listening to the quiet rustle of thread and fabric in her hands.

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