That night, Suren could hardly sleep. He twisted and turned on his bedding, his thoughts swirling around the Chief's promise to help build the tower. Excitement and anxiety gnawed at his mind in equal measure. It wasn't until deep into the night that exhaustion finally pulled him under. Even then, his dreams were a haze—disjointed, ungraspable. He awoke early, like the rest of the Igin, the dream already forgotten.
The camp was already alive when the summons came.
"Suren," a young runner called from the yurt's entrance. "The Chief wants to see you."
Hastily gathering himself, Suren went through the waking camp toward In'ang's tent. When he arrived, the flap was already open. Inside, the Chief sat cross-legged on a low mat, speaking with another man—tall and wiry, his limbs thin but knotted with sinew. His face was sharp, his hair bound in tight braids laced with wooden beads.
"Suren, come," In'ang said, motioning him forward. "This is Za'tan, craftsman of our tribe. He's responsible for shaping our campgrounds—constructing yurts, carving storage pits, and managing the flow of our daily needs. He'll be working with you on the tower."
Za'tan gave Suren a nod, his gaze appraising but not unkind. His hands, Suren noticed, were calloused and stained with resin, ink, and powdered stone.
"I work with earth, bone, and timber," Za'tan said in a rough but steady voice. "I've never built a tower before, but I've shaped clan altars and windcatchers. Show me your drawings, and we'll see how the bones of your idea can stand."
In'ang rose, already shifting his attention to other tribal matters. "You two sort the rest," he said. "The tribe will help where needed—but this is your burden to carry, Suren."
And with that, he left the tent, the flap falling shut behind him.
"Alright, let me see your design," Za'tan said, holding out a calloused hand.
Suren unrolled the scrolls and passed them over. Za'tan took them with care, his sharp eyes scanning every detail. He moved through the rolls slowly, muttering to himself, occasionally pausing to trace lines with a finger or tilt the parchment to catch the light.
"Mhm…" he hummed thoughtfully. "Okay… This won't be easy—but I think I can make it work."
He rolled the designs back up and stood. Suren followed him out of the tent.
Outside, Tinkwick—who had been hovering nearby with ears wide open—rushed over the moment he saw them emerge.
"So? Is it possible?" the gnome demanded, grabbing Suren's arm and shaking it with barely restrained excitement.
Suren pulled his arm free with a small sigh. "Tinkwick, meet Za'tan. He's the one helping us build the tower."
Za'tan gave a curt nod in greeting.
"This is one of my companions," Suren added. "Tinkwick Mechanin."
At his name, Tinkwick clicked his heels together with an enthusiastic grin. "An honor! I dabble in metallurgy!"
Za'tan raised a brow, clearly unsure slightly impressed.
"So…" Suren asked, turning back to the craftsman, "how are we actually going to build this thing?"
Za'tan didn't hesitate. "We'll use the Greste and as much manpower as we can gather."
"The Greste?" Suren echoed, brow furrowing.
Za'tan nodded, already whistling for a group of nearby youths. "They may not move mountains, but their strength and instincts with stone are unmatched. We'll have them shape the larger stones. Once they're fitted, they will seal them in place. The woodwork, though—that'll be on us."
As he finished speaking, three boys returned, each leading a Greste by rope. The beasts moved slowly, their heavy feet thudding softly against the earth. Their thick grey hides rippled with muscle, and their eyes—deep, intelligent—watched the humans with mild curiosity.
"These three are trained for basic shaping," Za'tan explained, placing a hand on one of the Greste's horned snouts. "We'll start small. Have them do the basic shapes. Once they understand they will be capable of doing the rest."
Suren blinked, amazed. "You… train them to build?"
"Not in the way you or I build," Za'tan said. "But they understand forms—how to mold, push, pack. And with the right guidance… they'll make your tower rise."
Tinkwick rubbed his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. "This is going to be incredible."
"Okay, let's work!" Za'tan said, clapping his hands.
He and Suren walked the camp's outer edge, following the stream until they reached a broad clearing open to the sky. They consulted the nomads' star charts—used for night navigation—to select a position that would receive uninterrupted starlight. The tower, Suren had explained, had to be aligned with specific constellations to channel Ethos correctly.
Rickon, wielding a crude but heavy stone axe, began chopping down trees with brute strength and steady rhythm. The crash of falling timber echoed across the clearing.
Suren took out his design scroll and closed his eyes. His Mark glowed faintly. Lines of light traced from his chest to his hands, then from his hands to the blueprint.
Design Synchronization Activated.
Tower of Astrum Ruin
Skills will be gained once the design is built.
With the connection active, Suren used a long stick to mark the earth with uncanny accuracy, mapping the tower's exact proportions and alignment. His movements were purposeful, driven glowing outline of the tower only he could see.
The Greste handlers soon arrived with three of the tribe's beasts. Their heavy steps sank into the soil as they were guided to the construction site.
"They'll carve the foundation first," Za'tan explained. "Then we bring the stone."
The Greste began shaping the earth, pressing their limbs into the ground to compact and hollow out the space for the base. Others were sent to haul boulders from a nearby ridge. Suren marked each one with charcoal—indicating cut angles, placement notches, and load points.
The trained Greste pressed their horned foreheads and ridged limbs against the rock, softening or cracking it with practiced motions. Some used their club-like tails to hammer surfaces flat. Stones were shaped to interlock with surprising precision, requiring little mortar.
Tinkwick scavenged what metal he could and forged binding stakes and resin-based compounds to reinforce load-bearing joints.
By midday, a rhythm formed.
Members of the Grest tribe began gathering—some to help, others simply to watch. A few skeptical voices muttered in the background, but others, particularly the youth, joined the effort. Leather-bundled water pouches were passed around. Singing rose from the young ones, turning labor into celebration.
Inside the Chief's Yurt
"This is unacceptable," growled a tall Igin man, dressed almost as ornately as Chief In'ang himself. Bone charms clinked softly with every movement. "We've already given them food and clothing—now our sacred Greste are being used as beasts of burden by outlanders? The ancestors would never have allowed this!"
He was Kru'an, commander of the Second Greste Squad—and In'ang's uncle.
Several murmurs of agreement rippled through the tent, but the council remained quiet.
"One of the Greste stumbled hauling a boulder!" Kru'an continued, voice rising. "They were sweating—our sacred beasts, made to suffer for strangers!"
"Does your Greste not sweat?" Ou'ang quipped from across the circle, his tone dry. "I'd love to learn that trick."
Chuckles rippled around the tent.
"They sweat for us," Kru'an snapped. "Not for the descendants of those who slaughtered our kind."
At that, one of the elders—a gray-bearded man with clouded eyes—raised a calm hand. "Were the Greste harmed?"
Kru'an clenched his fists. "That's not the point. They're using us. And we're letting them."
The tension hung thick until In'ang rose to his feet.
"This tower will benefit our tribe," he said firmly. "I've seen the layout myself. What it may do in the future could change everything for us."
Kru'an scowled. "And if they're lying? What if it draws demons here instead?"
In'ang's voice dropped, low and resolute. "Then I will take full responsibility. And carry the blame of every ancestor."
The room went silent. One by one, the council members nodded and departed, acknowledging the chief with quiet bows.
Only In'ang, Ou'ang, and the elder remained.
"Do you think Kru'an will try to sabotage the tower?" Ou'ang asked quietly.
"I wouldn't put it past him," said the elder, rising slowly. "Kru'an is a great warrior—but he's blind to the bigger picture. That's why you were chosen as chief, In'ang—not him."
In'ang nodded. "Have our warriors train near the tower site."
Ou'ang raised a brow. "That'll only make Kru'an more suspicious. He'll claim you're turning the warriors into the outlanders' personal guard."
"Then tell him it's a precaution," In'ang said. "He's the one warning it might attract demons."
A slow grin spread across Ou'ang's face. He reached for a mug of fermented milk and drank deeply.
"Smart," he said with a satisfied nod, then stepped out into the night.
In'ang turned to the elder. "Let me walk you back to your tent."
The old man waved him off with a grunt. "I'm not that old yet, boy."
With that, he stood and shuffled out under his own power, leaving In'ang alone with the crackle of the fire.
Tower Site – Late Evening
The team worked late into the night, preparing the site and laying the tower's foundation. The rhythmic sound of stone striking earth and laughter filled the clearing as they labored under the rising stars. They only stopped when members of the tribe came to call them for dinner.
Tired but beaming, they made their way back to camp—sweaty, dusty, and singing. Many of the older nomads watched their return with quiet smiles, warmed by the sight of youthful faces shining with purpose. Even those who had scoffed that morning handed them water at dusk.