The dawn broke over Esgard in rust-colored streaks, the sky painted the bloodied hue of war not yet fought.
The streets near the southern trench stank of smoke, mule sweat, and the iron tang of churned soil. The wall had begun to rise, stone by stone, and the city moved with a thousand hands toward its uncertain salvation.
Nellan of South rose before first bell, as he always did. His hands were already caked with grime before the sky fully lit, shoulders aching from days of lifting and hauling.
He was not a soldier, not in any noble sense. Just a wall-hauler. A digger. One of many.
"Up, up, up, you gods-forsaken moss-pissers," barked Foreman Darrek, a voice like gravel in a barrel. He limped between sleeping pallets, swinging a rusted iron rod to prod the sluggish.
"Work won't wait for the likes of you. The Sovereign's orders were clear!"
