The sun slid low behind the ridge, painting the mountainside in copper and gold. Shadows stretched across the stone houses of the recently built settlement, soft and long, while the last warmth of the day clung to the terrace where Gadrik Strongstaff sat.

  He puffed slowly on his pipe. The smoke rose in thin curls, catching the light before it drifted away on the evening wind.

  Below him, his children filled the courtyard with noise and laughter. They swung wooden hammers at bits of scrap wood and broken cart wheels, shouting commands to one another as though building some grand fortress. A boy no taller than Gadrik’s knee declared himself “Stone King” and ordered the others to defend the gate from invisible foes.

  Gadrik watched them and felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. The sound of their play pleased him. For a while, he let himself get lost in it.

  But his gaze wandered eventually, as it always did, to the horizon.

  There, spanning the valley like the spine of some sleeping beast, rose the new aqueduct. Its arches climbed smooth and perfect over the hills, catching the last of the sunlight. From here, it looked like a work of art. From here, you could almost forget what it meant.

  Almost.

  Gadrik’s eyes traced the line of stone, each curve and joint seamless. He had walked that structure up close weeks ago, alongside the Guildmasters. He remembered running his hand over the blocks, trying to find a fault. He had found none.

  It should have impressed him. It had impressed everyone else. The Guildmasters had been beaming, clapping each other on the back, talking about progress and efficiency. “Marvelous,” one of them had said, and Gadrik had echoed the word aloud, though even then it had felt strange on his tongue.

  Marvelous. Perfect. Flawless.

  And lifeless.

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  The stones had not been laid by callused hands or tested by voices singing work songs in the tunnels. They had been cut and set by golems. Tireless, precise, uncomplaining golems. They did not need food or rest or laughter to break the tedium of labor. They simply worked until the task was done, and when they were finished, they stood still as statues until called again.

  Gadrik shifted on the bench. His back, once a constant ache from decades underground, barely hurt these days. He ought to have been grateful. He had more time with his children. He had more time to draw. He told himself this every morning.

  Still, his fingers brushed against his palms, feeling the skin there. Softer now. Not soft. No, he was no merchant’s son, but not the hard, ridged surface they had once been.

  He remembered the first time he had held a chisel as a boy. His father’s hand had guided his, showing him the right angle, the right pressure. “Listen to the stone,” his father had said. “It will tell you what it wants to be.”

  Now the stones listened to nothing but orders whispered into a golem’s ear.

  A little laugh slipped from his mouth, quiet and low. “Lazy old man,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He wanted to believe that was all this was—nostalgia. A craftsman missing the sound of his own hammer.

  But then, like a spark flaring too fast to catch, the truth flickered in him: I miss it.

  He missed the rhythm of ten hammers striking in unison. He missed walking past a wall and thinking, I set that stone. It stands because of me.

  He shut his eyes a moment, breathing deep, then let the thought pass like smoke. What good was holding to something the world had already moved past?

  A sharp cry of triumph from below startled him. His youngest daughter stood with arms raised as a little tower of sticks balanced perfectly atop a wagon wheel. The other children cheered.

  Gadrik grinned, a real grin this time, and leaned over the terrace. “A fine foundation!” he called.

  They looked up, beaming. “It leans a bit,” one of them shouted back.

  “Then it’s got character!”

  They laughed and returned to their game, rearranging sticks, hammering with their little wooden tools.

  Gadrik’s smile lingered as he sat back, his eyes flicking once more to the aqueduct on the horizon. It caught the last rays of the sun, smooth and unyielding. Many called it beautiful. Perhaps it was.

  But he let his gaze drift back to the wobbling tower in the courtyard instead. It leaned. It would probably fall in another minute.

  And that, he thought, made it better. It was theirs.