The sound of hammers lightly echoed through the morning air. Not hard, but rhythmic, like a heartbeat getting back up to strength. The village was waking up earlier now — no longer terrified of what might be lurking in the dark, but thrilled for what could be created in the light. Lucian stood at the edge of a freshly dug trench, sleeves rolled up, palms thick with calluses. He observed a cluster of teenagers pile up rocks to build a new irrigation line, their laughter spilling amid the gentle rattle of stone. He didn't have to yell, didn't have to oversee; they knew what they were supposed to do, and they knew he believed they would do it.
Serakha came up quietly, her steps soft on the soil. Today, she'd worn a pale green wrap of simple, light weave, made by one of the elder women, fastened about her waist with a belt of braided grass. A satchel hung at her hip, stuffed with herbs, scrolls and half-finished remedies.
"They're getting faster every day," she said.
