The afternoon sun began its slow descent behind the granite ridges of the southern hills, casting long amber streams across the clearing. The crisp valley air was filled with the honest, grounded scents of wet lime mortar, turned earth, and freshly hewn oak. Away from the towering spires of the citadel and its endless cycles of diplomatic negotiations, time moved with a calm, natural rhythm.
I stood near the edge of the foundation, reviewing a set of architectural floor plans spread across a flat timber workbench. The structural layout was modest—designed not for defense or political posture, but for longevity, warmth, and sanctuary. The lower foundation walls were already fully set, their straight granite edges sitting flush against the dark, fertile soil.
A short distance away, Damon w
