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The day had worn on, and Athan could feel the fatigue in his legs, in his shoulders, in the small of his back. Not enough to make him stop.
He turned toward the textile and cordage zone, where Nat was crouched near a line of finished baskets, adjusting their rims and checking the tightness of the weave. She looked up as he approached, wiping her hands on her thigh.
The baskets were larger than the previous ones—tightly woven with thick rope fibers, their shapes more rounded, their sides reinforced to hold heavier loads.
Athan leaned down and inspected one, running his fingers along the inside. The pattern was even, the gaps small.
"Those are great," he said quietly. "They'll hold weight."
Nat gave a small smile, proud but shy. "Made six. Strong now. Rope tighter."
"Thank you," Athan replied. "I'll take four, if that's okay?"
She nodded and gestured toward the row. "Pick any."
Athan crouched and selected four of the strongest, tucking two under each arm before turning with a grateful glance.
"Perfect," he said. "You're doing amazing."
Nat beamed just a little and returned to her work.
Athan brought the baskets to a flat spot near his shelter and lined each one with dried bark paper, pressing the sheets into the bottoms and folding them gently along the sides. The bark would help seal the inside, keeping fine dust from slipping through the rope weave.
Once they were ready, he made his way back toward the kilns.
The air there was still warm, but the fires had long since died down. Kneeling beside the first one, Athan used a curved piece of bark like a scoop, gathering careful portions of lime powder from the base of the kiln—bright, fine, and reactive.
He poured it gently into the baskets, layer by layer, making sure the bark paper caught every grain. It took time, and a steady hand, but eventually, all the usable powder was recovered.
When the baskets were filled, he lifted them one by one—cradled against his chest with care—and walked them to the new house.
Inside, the walls cast soft shadows on the cement floor, and the air felt cooler than outside. Athan chose a dry corner, where sunlight would hit in the morning but not overheat the lime.
He stacked the baskets neatly, tucking them just far enough from the walls to let air flow, but close enough to be easy to find when needed.
Once the last basket was in place, he wiped his hands together and stepped back.
The powder was now secure.
Walking out of the house, he drifted toward the cooking area, where smoke curled lazily above the firepit and the smell of fresh blood hung sharp in the air.
As he rounded the corner near the stone table, he paused.
Lara and Kali were both crouched at the edge of the table, sleeves rolled up, hands stained a deep, glistening red. Between them lay the carcass of an unfamiliar animal—lean, long-limbed, its hide a light brown dappled with white along the flanks. The two short, velvety horns rising from its skull caught Athan's attention immediately.
Athan blinked.
It was the first time he'd seen one of these up close.
A deer, or something like it. Smaller than he remembered from his past life, but unmistakable.
Kali looked up and grinned when she saw him. "Come. Look!"
Lara straightened slightly, brushing hair from her cheek with the back of her wrist. "They brought this back an hour ago. First time anyone caught one."
Athan stepped closer.
The carcass had already been bled, a neat incision just behind the neck confirming that the hunters had done their part. Blood still clung to the inner hide, sticky and dark. He noticed five wounds: three small punctures—likely from arrows—and two deeper, torn gashes, probably made by spears.
"It must've been young," he murmured, brushing a hand lightly over the shoulder. "The antlers aren't grown out yet."
Kali nodded. "Fast, too. They said it ran a long time."
Lara tilted her head. "We tried to start. See?" She pointed to the partially peeled hide near the back leg. "But we don't know the rest."
Athan didn't answer right away. He walked a slow circle around the table, inspecting the body. The girls had been careful—starting from the limbs, working to preserve the skin. That meant they intended to tan it, likely planing to give it to Medi. Smart.
"I can take it from here," he said at last, rolling up his sleeves. "It needs to be done quickly before the organs spoil the meat."
He unsheathed his stone knife, its edge still sharp from the last time he had sharpen it, and made a shallow incision along the belly, from the base of the pelvis up to the sternum. The meat gave easily. As the cut opened, the inner cavity released a heavy, damp heat—rich with the smell of blood, bile, and muscle.
Kali wrinkled her nose and stepped back.
Athan worked quickly and precisely, removing the organs in sequence. The liver, heart, and kidneys were gently placed on clean leaves to one side. Stomach, intestines, and soft tissue were removed with care and placed in another pile—one that would be buried well outside the village.
"We'll lose the meat if this stays inside too long," he explained. "The warmth starts to break it down."
Once the animal was cleaned, he continued removing the hide, cutting along the legs and around the shoulders, peeling it back in long, smooth sheets. The hide was thick but supple, still warm from the body. He handed it to Kali, who nodded and ran off in the direction of Medi's shelter without a word.
Athan turned his attention to the main cuts of meat.
With slow, steady strokes, he began separating muscle from bone—cutting along the ribs, through the thighs, around the spine. He followed natural seams where he could, but had to snap a few joints and even crack one femur with his stone hatchet to free a larger cut.
Lara helped, her movements quiet and efficient. She handed him tools, adjusted the carcass when needed, and placed each usable piece of meat on wide leaves to keep them off the dirt.
The sun dipped lower as they worked, turning the light golden and soft around them. The fire nearby popped and hissed as damp wood sizzled in the coals.
When the last of the meat had been separated, Athan stepped back and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. The bones—mostly picked clean—lay to one side. The air was thick with the smell of iron, fat, and smoke.
"For today we should use the rest of the smoked bird from the days before," he said, finally. "We'll smoke most of the deer anyway, with this quantity of meat we're gonna have some for a while."
Lara nodded. "Kali already prepared the rack. It's ready."
Together, they began threading longer cuts onto spits and laying smaller pieces across a wide frame of wood, suspended just high enough above a new pile of coals. Smoke began curling up around the meat almost immediately, and the scent started to shift—from raw and heavy to rich and savory.
The thicker pieces would smoke into the night and into the next day, maybe longer.
It was messy work.
But it was a victory, too.
The deer had given them food. And with it, a new type of hunt—and a future possibility.
Athan glanced toward the fire, his hands still stained red, and let himself breathe out slowly.
Once the last pieces of meat were set on the smoking rack, Athan stepped back, flexing his hands to shake off the stiffness. His arms and tunic were streaked with dark patches, the scent of blood still clinging to him.
He glanced toward the nearest water jug, sitting just beside the firepit. Empty.
"I'll go fill it," he said, already reaching for it.
Lara, wiping her hands with a damp cloth, gave a nod. "I come. Need check fish."
She slung the small fish pouch over her shoulder, and together they headed down the well-worn trail toward the river.
The air grew cooler as they approached the water, the sound of the cascading fall and the gentle rush of the river's flow greeting them before the clearing even opened.
Once at the edge, neither spoke.
They simply moved—removing their outer layers, kneeling by the water, and splashing it over their arms, necks, and faces. The cold bit at their skin, but it was refreshing—washing away the sweat and the thick smell of blood and smoke.
Lara dipped her hands again and scrubbed at a spot on her forearm, then reached for the trap anchored just past the stones.
She pulled it up with both hands, water spilling out from the woven reed frame. Inside, one large fish flopped heavily, scales flashing in the light. Around it, several smaller ones wriggled weakly, pressed together in the wet basket.
Lara clicked her tongue softly. "Too small."
With care, she opened the trap and released the smaller fish back into the current, letting them slip between her fingers and vanish into the deeper water. Then she took the single large fish, slipped it into the pouch, and stood.
"I bring to smoke," she said.
Athan nodded, crouching to fill the clay jug with the cool, clear river water. Once full, he set it upright and began the walk back to the firepit. It took a few trips back and forth—the jug was heavy, and the path uneven—but by the time he returned from his last run, the cooking pot was full and bubbling softly from the hot stones Lara had dropped in the water.
Smoke from the nearby rack drifted lazily into the air, curling around the edges of the clearing. The scent of meat and herbs now mingled with the sharper tang of fish.
Lara had return first, and the gutted fish was now on a corner of the rack, its silver skin already beginning to dull from the heat.
They didn't say much—didn't need to.
Just worked side by side, in the fading light of the day, preparing for the meal to come and for the days that would follow.
Just as Athan finished pouring the last jug of water into the cooking pot, he heard light footsteps approaching through the grass.
Kali returned, cheeks flushed and hair slightly tousled from the walk. A bundle of fresh dandelion leaves and roots poked out of her pouch, the green still vibrant, the roots dusty and knotted.
She set it down on the table and gave Athan a quick smile. "You cut root stuff," she said, already grabbing a sharp stone blade. "I do greens."
Athan gave a nod, brushing his hands clean against his tunic before taking a few of the thicker root vegetables—already set aside earlier in the day—and beginning to slice them into thick rounds. He worked efficiently, piling the pieces into a nearby bowl.
Across from him, Kali trimmed the dandelion leaves, separating the tender parts from the stems, tossing the best ones into a second bowl and placing the roots off to the side to be dried later.
Meanwhile, Lara returned quietly, carrying a bundle wrapped in woven cloth. She untied it to reveal several smoked cuts of bird meat from the last hunt—firm, dark, and streaked with char marks from the previous days over the fire. She began cutting the pieces into smaller chunks, placing each one carefully in a wooden bowl beside her.
No one gave orders.
They didn't need to.
Once everything was ready, each of them approached the cooking pot, adding their share.
Kali tossed in the cut dandelion leaves, stem and flower. Athan followed with the cut vegetables. Lara poured in the bird meat last, letting the pieces settle into the bubbling broth.
The heat hissed softly.
Now and then, one of them would use a pair of tongs to add a new glowing stone to the pot, watching as the temperature rose, stirring the stew to keep the bottom from catching.
The scent of smoke, herbs, and meat slowly filled the clearing, spreading like a warm blanket through the village.
A quiet kind of peace settled over them.
The kind that comes when hands are busy, bellies are empty, and the smell of food is a promise in the air.
The sun had dipped below the treetops, casting long shadows across the clearing. The air was still warm, but the breeze had cooled, carrying with it the rich scent of the stew that now bubbled steadily in the cooking pot.
Kali stirred it one last time, lifting the thickened broth with a carved ladle and nodding with satisfaction. "Ready," she said simply.
Lara stepped back and raised her voice. "Time to eat!"
The call rippled through the camp. One by one, villagers emerged from their tasks—from the weaving workplace, the processing place, the target range near the edge of the wall—and gathered near the fire.
They formed a line as they always did. Bowl in hand, each waited their turn.
Athan stood behind the table, helping Lara and Kali serve the hot stew. The first few bowls went to the pregnant woman, then to the builders, then to the rest. The meat from the deer and smoked bird was rich with flavor, and the blend of roots and dandelion gave it an earthy depth.
Once everyone had been served and found a place near the fire, a quiet hum of contentment settled over the group.
Then Ok stood up.He cleared his throat—firm and loud enough to draw attention—and with a simple tilt of his chin, he directed everyone's gaze to Athan.
"He has something to say."
Caught mid-bite, Athan blinked, set his bowl down, and rose slowly to his feet. He brushed his hands against his tunic and stepped forward, toward the fire where its glow could touch his face. Shadows danced across his features, and for a moment, the only sound was the gentle crackle of the flames.
He took a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle before speaking.
"The house is finished," he said, his voice clear and steady. "The door isn't ready yet, but the rest… it's done."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the gathered villagers, soft and uncertain.
"I've asked three families to move in first," he continued. "Gal, Fi, and Shala. They're either expecting or already raising young children. They need the space and protection, more than the rest of us, who could wait for a bit longer."
From her place near the fire, Wade and Ok gave a small nod, and others followed suit, offering quiet gestures of approval.
"I've also asked my mother to begin making something new—mattresses. Long cloth sacks filled with dried grass or leaves. Like the pillow I made for her, but large enough to sleep on. That way, no one has to lie directly on the cold hard floor anymore. But please make sur you do not soak them, they would be hard to dry."
Some villagers exchanged surprised glances, a few nodding thoughtfully as they pictured it.
"Once those three families are settled, we'll begin moving in, little by little, one group at a time. And when that happens, we won't have to fear the rain anymore. Or the wind. Or the cold nights."
He paused, allowing his words to linger in the air, carried by the firelight and the hush that followed.
Then, someone clapped. Another joined in. Soon, the entire clearing filled with a soft, swelling applause—quiet but genuine, bowls still in hand, the scent of stew curling into the night air.
Athan remained standing, watching the glow on their faces. In their eyes, he saw pride, relief, and something deeper—hope. This house was more than shelter. It was the beginning of something new.
But he wasn't finished.
He lifted his voice again—not louder, just enough to carry.
"There's something else."
A few heads turned back toward him, curiosity flickering.
"I want to speak about the hunters."
He turned to the edge of the circle where Ulf, Thad, Nuk, and Def sat, their bows resting behind them, their bodies still marked by the long day's labor.
"Today, they brought back something different—not birds or rabbits, but a deer."
A quiet gasp escaped from someone at the back. Eyes turned again, this time toward the hunters.
"A fast animal. Difficult to track. Even harder to bring down. And they did it."
He nodded toward them with quiet respect.
"Well done."
The applause rose once more, warmer and fuller. A few cheers broke free from the children, and even some whistles echoed among the crowd. Ulf scratched his beard and gave a sheepish grin. Thad laughed and dipped his head. Nuk nudged Def, who simply smirked and nodded once, accepting the praise with silent pride.
They hadn't asked for recognition. But in that moment, the whole village had given it freely.
The scent of venison smoking near the stew lingered in the air—another sign of change, of progress.
As the cheers faded, Athan stepped forward once more, his voice calm, measured, and full of warmth.
"And… thank you," he said, his eyes moving slowly across the gathered faces. "To all of you."
The clearing fell still again—not with discomfort, but with attention, with meaning.
"It's your hands… your strength… your time, that made this possible," he said, motioning gently toward the house, the fire, the walls at the village's edge. "A roof over our heads. Food on our tables. Protection against the cold."
He let that settle, then continued—his tone honest, with no trace of pride.
"I might bring the ideas. But they're just that—ideas. They mean nothing without you."
He paused again, his expression softening into a quiet smile.
"I hope you'll keep helping. Not just today, but for everything that comes after. For the world we're building—together. For your children. And theirs."
He turned once more to face them all, the firelight mirrored in his eyes like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
"Together, we have the power to shape a world better than the one that raised us. To forge a new way of living—safer, stronger, kinder. I carry no doubts in my heart—this is our path, and this is what we do."
He took a breath, the silence around him holding steady.
"There will come a time when we no longer need to fear the shadows. When the children will grow without dread, and you—each of you—will live not just longer lives, but fuller ones. Lives with warmth, with joy, with purpose."
His voice softened, but it carried deeper.
"We will protect one another—not only from beasts that stalk us, but from the hunger that steals strength, from the sickness that steals time, from the cold that steals sleep. What we build here will stand for all of us—and for those who have yet to arrive. We are not just surviving anymore. We are becoming something more."
There was no applause this time—only stillness. But it wasn't empty. It was full. Heavy with meaning. A silence that spoke of understanding, of a future being shaped, right here, by their own hands.
Rael lowered her head in quiet reverence, her fingers brushing over the edge of her skirt. Shala pulled her child gently against her chest, eyes glistening in the firelight. Around the circle, others exchanged glances—solemn, thoughtful. Some reached for a shoulder or a hand nearby, a silent bond forged in shared purpose. Others turned their gaze to the house, to the smoke rising from the stew, to the tools resting by the flames—simple objects that now held new weight.
They were no longer just surviving. They were becoming something more. Something lasting.