Chapter 11: The Builder's Burden
The complaint came on the fifth day of construction.
Three original settlers—men who'd been here since the claiming—stood before me with arms crossed and grievances ready.
"We built this place," said Corwin, their spokesman. A carpenter from Bree who'd fled debts. Good with his hands, less good with his temper. "We raised these walls. We buried our friends. Now you're giving the new shelters to people who just showed up?"
"To families with children exposed to weather," I said. "Regardless of arrival date."
"My tent leaks. Been leaking for weeks. You want me to wait while some stranger from Archet gets a real roof?"
"If that stranger has a six-year-old daughter sleeping in the mud? Yes."
Corwin's face reddened. "That's not fair."
"You're right. It's not." I met his eyes without flinching. "Nothing about this is fair. We're building a settlement in orc territory with too few resources and too many mouths. Fair died the moment you walked through those gates."
Silence from the three men. Behind them, I was aware of the camp watching—settlers and refugees alike, all paying attention to how their lord handled dissent.
"Here's what I can offer," I continued. "Labor priority. Anyone who contributes to construction moves up the housing list. You're a carpenter, Corwin. Build two shelters, and the third is yours. Prove your value, and I'll recognize it."
"And if we don't like those terms?"
The question hung in the air. I let it hang.
"Then you're free to leave. Take your skills elsewhere. Find somewhere that treats you better." I gestured at the gate. "But I'll tell you what you won't find—a lord who works beside you. A settlement where everyone eats the same rations. A place that's actually trying to be something more than survival."
Corwin's jaw worked. His companions shifted uncomfortably.
"Fine," he said finally. "Labor priority. But I'm holding you to that."
"I'd expect nothing less."
They walked away, grumbling but not leaving. I watched them go, then turned to find Halbarad at my shoulder.
"Well handled."
"Was it?" The confrontation had left me drained, though I tried not to show it. "They're not wrong to be angry. They did build this place."
"And they'll build it further, now that you've given them something to earn." The old Ranger's eyes tracked the departing settlers. "Leadership isn't about making everyone happy. It's about making everyone useful."
Leadership.
Two months ago, I'd been Oliver Smith—a dying accountant with no particular skills beyond spreadsheets. Now I was making decisions that affected eighty lives, handling political tensions, building something from ruins.
The System called me Chieftain. The people called me lord. Neither title fit comfortably.
But they fit better than they had before.
[AMON HEN-DÎR — CONSTRUCTION SITE — EVENING]
The hammer felt good in my hands.
I'd been working since noon, joining the construction crews for the new shelter frames. Timber cutting. Joint fitting. The physical labor that built things brick by brick, stake by stake.
My arms burned. My back ached. Sweat soaked through my shirt despite the cool air.
Good.
A refugee woman—Mira, the mother from the broken column—brought water to the workers. When she reached me, she paused.
"Thank you, lord."
"I'm not a lord."
"You're the closest thing we have." She held out the water skin. "My daughter talks about you. The man who promised her the fire can't hurt her here."
Little Mira. The girl with the burned doll.
"How is she doing?"
"Better. She sleeps through the night now, most nights. Still clutches that doll like her life depends on it, but..." Mira's voice softened. "She's healing. We all are."
I took the water and drank deep. Cool, clean, precious.
"I haven't forgotten the promise," I said. "About keeping her safe."
"I know." Her eyes held something I couldn't quite name. "That's why we're still here."
She moved on to the other workers. I watched her go, then returned to the hammer and the wood and the simple satisfaction of building something that would last.
That night, I overheard them.
Two original settlers—not Corwin, but others I recognized—sitting near a dying cookfire, voices low but not low enough.
"He cares more about the newcomers than us."
"Always the refugees first. What about us? We bled for this place."
"Just another lord. They're all the same in the end."
I stood in the shadows, close enough to hear, far enough to remain unseen. The words cut deeper than I expected.
They're not wrong to feel passed over. They did bleed for this place.
Farren's face flashed through my memory. The first volunteer. The man who'd stepped forward when everyone else was afraid. He'd died defending these walls, and now his widow lived in a tent that leaked while newcomers got priority for new shelters.
But Brina has no children under six. The rotation system is fair. It has to be fair, or it means nothing.
"You heard them."
Halbarad's voice came from beside me, as quiet as mine would have been.
"Yes."
"Does it change anything?"
I thought about it. Really thought.
"No. The system is the system. Children first, labor priority, no exceptions." I turned away from the complaining voices. "But I need to do better. Show them I haven't forgotten what they sacrificed."
"How?"
"By remembering. By saying their names when we talk about what we've built." I touched the spot where Farren's grave lay beyond the walls. "By keeping my promises to the ones we lost."
The old Ranger nodded slowly.
"Your father would be proud."
The words hit like a punch.
Which father? The one whose sword I carry, or the one who raised Oliver Smith to believe that numbers and spreadsheets were the measure of a life?
Both, maybe. In different ways.
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