It was near dusk when Levi finally pulled himself away from the fire pit. The work crew had long since retired for the evening—some back to the struggling village, others to makeshift tents set near the build site. A light drizzle fell from the darkening sky, barely enough to soak, just enough to cool the sweat on his back.
He stood there a moment, arms crossed, watching the roof of the half-finished house catch the grayish light. Rain dripped down the fresh shingles like tears.
"Three months," he muttered.
Three months since he woke in Mae's cottage, confused and broken, with no purpose but the next meal. Since then, he had discovered a cheat engine he barely understood, nearly died falling into a ruin, met the Starks of all people—and somehow started building a home.
Not just a house. A real place.
Levi let out a long breath, fogging in the chill air. "And I almost wasted it all lying around."
The ache in his muscles felt like validation. His fingertips were rough now, his legs stronger. Still lazy at heart maybe, but even he couldn't deny the difference.
That thought lingered as he walked toward the tent where he kept his records. The papyrus was thick now, bound with twine and stored in a dry box Mae gave him. He flipped through a few pages by candlelight—notes on labor, names of villagers, supplies spent, weather notations. It looked like the work of someone serious. Someone with plans.
He had one now. Or at least the start of one.
But plans needed more than effort. They needed people. Purpose. Sustainability.
What happens when this house is built? When the food runs dry again?
He would need to think bigger. Not just feed them—but teach them, hire them, give them dignity. Maybe start a school. Maybe trade goods with the traveling merchants. But that came later.
For now, he needed more stone. More wood. More tools. Maybe more beds.
And more people who believed this place could be more than a swamp village.
Tomorrow, he'd talk to Old Bran about expanding the layout. Maybe split the home into two wings—living quarters and a central storage hall. And he'd ask Mae if she knew anyone else handy with nails and rope.
He smiled faintly, despite himself.
At the edge of his thoughts, he heard footsteps. It was Jory, carrying two steaming bowls of stew. "Mae says you skipped dinner again."
Levi took the bowl with a small laugh. "Guess I did."
They sat under the half-roof, sheltering from the drizzle, slurping the warm stew.
"Think it'll be finished soon?" Jory asked, mouth half-full.
"Not soon," Levi said. "But someday. And when it is, it won't be the end of it. Just the start."
Jory blinked, then grinned. "Sounds like something important."
"Maybe it is," Levi replied.
And he meant it.
For once, he wasn't just surviving.
He was building a life.
The next morning came with clouds and wind, and the smell of wet earth still heavy in the air. As Levi gathered his notes and prepared to check on the lumber delivery, a shout rose from one of the boys stationed near the path.
Two figures emerged from the tree line—gaunt, dirt-covered, and cautious. An older man with gray in his beard, and a boy perhaps ten or eleven.
"Travelers?" Jory asked, standing beside Levi.
The older man raised a hand. "We come from a hamlet west o' the bog. Heard you was building. We've got nothing left—winter's biting harder each day."
Levi studied them a moment. Neither held a weapon, only an empty sack. "What is it you want?"
"Work," the man said. "Or food, if there's any spare. I can swing a hammer still. And the boy… he learns fast."
Levi's eyes narrowed slightly, then softened. "You'll eat. But you'll earn it. No handouts here."
The man bowed his head, grateful. "Fair enough."
Jory showed them to the tool pile while Levi made a note to adjust the food rations. It wasn't much, but each pair of hands made a difference.
By noon, the new arrivals had been set to clearing debris near the back ridge. Others took up stone stacking. Jory, meanwhile, practiced smoothing down the floor planks, watched closely by the carpenter's son.
Levi stood back, observing it all—the thud of tools, the scent of bread from the cookfire, the laughter of tired men and children.