The air outside the manor was thick with the scent of mortar, sweat, and resolve.
Roland, donned in a dark half-cape and leather gloves, walked through the construction site flanked by Roan and a few guards. The black-rock wall had reached nearly fifteen feet in height now, strong and defiant—its shimmering surface glinting beneath the late afternoon sun.
Work never ceased.
Carriages pulled stones. Scaffolding groaned under weight. Soldiers stood in half-armor with dirt-streaked faces and blistered hands, still carrying out patrols. They saluted as Roland passed, pride and exhaustion on their faces.
He paused and stood on a raised platform built from crates and stone, overlooking the entire workforce.
Everyone nearby instinctively gathered, drawn by his presence.
Roland swept his gaze over them—soldiers, masons, young laborers, even cooks who'd been roped into ferry water. His voice boomed over the workyard:
"You've worked hard."
A hush spread.
