He banked the fire, tucked the notebook away, and stepped into the cool night air, where the compound's fires flickered against an indigo sky. Ninety colonists slept beneath roofs he had helped construct on land that had once belonged to someone else entirely — and somewhere beyond the tree line, in the patient dark, the rest of that forgotten city awaited discovery.
Blackstone had spent forty years studying stone as others might study faces, and it was this fluency, more than any unacknowledged suspicion, that halted him on the twenty-fourth morning. He stood three courses into the colony's first true perimeter wall, his chisel poised against an untouched block.
The wall was primarily his creation, built alongside the six-man crew John had assigned him after the long-house and second well had granted the colony a reprieve from mere survival, allowing them to consider defense. For eight days, they had laid stone, crafting a line from the platform's northern edge toward the river, utilizing the dressed rubble Locke had identified in the foundation trenches weeks prior, augmented by fresh-quarried stone from an outcrop John had pinpointed with unsettling accuracy, known for its ideal grain for clean splitting.
It was commendable work. Blackstone felt a swell of pride as he stepped back from the morning's third course, checking the level by eye before trusting his tool. The satisfaction of watching a wall rise true under his hands after eight days of diligent labor was profound. Yet, it was not his own work that arrested him. It was the twelve meters of standing wall just north of his crew's start — remnants of an older foundation Locke had first noted weeks ago, now revealed as the crew cleared brush and leveled the ground along the wall's intended path.
He had passed that section a dozen times in the past week, too preoccupied with his crew's immediate tasks to examine it closely. This morning, as he awaited the mortar mix to finish its second turn, he finally crossed the twenty meters of cleared ground to inspect it properly.
The joint pattern captivated him before he could absorb anything else.
Crouching at the base of the ancient wall, he ran his palm along the seam where two large blocks met. Under his fingers, he felt the same interlocking key-cut he had first glimpsed from the deck of the Providence three and a half weeks ago — a detail he had initially dismissed as a trick of distance or a captain's imprecise sketch. But it was neither. Up close, with his hands on the stone, the joint revealed a technique his forty years of training had no category for: each block was not merely flush against its neighbor, as any competent wall would be, but physically interlocked, a shallow tongue on one block's edge fitting into a matching groove on the next, extending the full length of every joint he examined.
He had never built walls this way in four decades of practice across three provinces. No mason he had trained under, no journeyman he had worked beside, had ever described such a technique, not even as a theory or a half-remembered legend of vanished old-world methods.
And yet, here it stood, supporting a wall through countless years, decades, or centuries of exposure long before John Arden had ever set foot on this coastline.
Without fully deciding, he called Locke over, his voice carrying an urgency he hadn't intended. He watched as the surveyor jogged across the cleared ground.
"You need to see this," Blackstone urged, stepping back to allow Locke to crouch where he had been.
Locke's eyes widened as he examined the joint. "This is remarkable," he said, tracing the interlock with deliberate precision. "It's not just craftsmanship; it's a lost art."
Blackstone nodded, his heart racing. "I've never seen anything like it. It's as if the stones were meant to fit together, not just sit side by side."
Locke straightened, his brow furrowed. "Whoever built this knew their craft intimately. This isn't mere masonry; it's a legacy."
"Exactly," Blackstone replied, a mix of awe and concern in his voice. "And it raises questions we need to answer."
Locke met his gaze, understanding the weight of their discovery. "We must document this. It could change everything we know about the land and its history."
"Agreed," Blackstone said, determination settling in. "Let's get to work."
Locke traced the interlocking joint with meticulous care, his fingers gliding over the stone as Blackstone observed, recognizing the dawning realization that had just struck him — a fact that defied their understanding, compelling them to construct a new framework to accommodate it.
"This isn't the foundation stone we unearthed beneath the platform," Locke remarked after a thoughtful pause. "That was ancient, buried, shaped by the earth's embrace rather than the elements above. This is different — exposed stone, a standing wall, yet the same joint technique."
"Same craftsmanship," Blackstone replied. "Or at least the same tradition. The artisans who carved the buried foundation and those who erected this wall employed the same methods, whether separated by generations or contemporaries, I can't say. But it's no coincidence. Such a joint isn't invented twice by chance."
Locke rose, brushing dirt from his knees, and gazed north along the wall's exposed stretch, his eyes following it to where it crumbled into rubble about sixty meters away — the ruin he had surveyed in detail during the second week, corroborating John's findings from his solitary month: worked stone, drainage channels, no remains, a structure abandoned, not destroyed.
"The temple," Locke said, recalling the structure that had collapsed on him — the one where he discovered the sphere. "Is it the same construction?"
"I haven't personally examined that site," Blackstone replied. "But if the joint work aligns, we have three distinct structures — the buried foundation, this standing wall, and whatever remains of that temple — all crafted by the same hand or school of hands, predating any records available to us."
They stood together in the mid-morning light, the old stone warm under the sun, momentarily forgetting the strangeness of their situation — that ninety colonists and one boy were erecting a new perimeter alongside the remnants of an older one, built by artisans beyond the comprehension of Blackstone's forty years or Locke's surveying tools.
"Are you going to inform him?" Locke asked, his tone inquisitive.
"He already knows," Blackstone replied. "He hinted at it before our arrival — he practically told me during the first week when I inquired about the buried foundation stone. What I want to uncover is how much more he's withholding."
They found John at midday near the well site, engrossed in his notebook with Voss, both crouched over a rough sketch of the irrigation lines for the rapidly growing grain plot. Blackstone waited patiently, having learned over four weeks that interrupting John mid-task rarely yielded comprehensive answers, until Voss concluded their discussion.
"The old wall section," Blackstone began once John straightened and turned his attention. "North of where my crew is working. I need to discuss the joint work."
John's expression shifted — not surprise, but the subtle recalibration of someone who had anticipated this conversation and was now confirming its arrival.
"The interlocking cut," John stated. "You examined it closely."
"I did," Blackstone confirmed. "Locke agrees it matches the buried foundation stone beneath the platform. I want to know if it corresponds with the temple ruin as well, and I need to understand what you know about the builders of all three, because 'unclear' won't suffice against three specialists independently reaching the same conclusion."
John paused, and Blackstone recognized the moment as akin to what Thorncroft had described by the fireside weeks prior — not evasion, but the careful consideration of how much revealing an answer would cost versus the price of withholding it.
"It matches," John finally admitted. "I verified that during my solo month — the temple's construction, what little remains after the collapse, utilized the same joint technique as the wall section you're examining. I don't know who built any of it or when. What I do know is that the technique is ancient enough that the mortar in some areas has completely decomposed, and sophisticated enough that I haven't encountered any tools or methods from the beastfolk that suggest they constructed it."
"Successor culture," Locke suggested. "Or unrelated. You mentioned that weeks ago when Voss discovered the old field patterns."
"I still can't determine which," John replied. "It's the most significant gap in my understanding of this place, and I've been cautious about making public guesses, as a wrong assumption can spread faster than careful uncertainty."
Blackstone contemplated this, weighing it against his forty years of experience not just with stone but with the people who worked it — the subtle signs of craftsmen guarding a trade secret versus the quieter signs of men genuinely troubled by uncertainty.
"You're not concealing the answer," Blackstone said slowly. "You're concealing your lack of one."
John met his gaze directly, a sign Blackstone had noted over the past month — the boy was more forthright when confronted with something real rather than when deflecting.
"Yes," John acknowledged. "That's closer to the truth than most assumptions about me. I know more than I've disclosed about certain matters. Regarding this — about who built the wall your crew is working next to — I know almost nothing beyond what the stone reveals: it's ancient, it's skilled, and it predates every human presence on this coastline, including my own, by a margin we cannot currently measure."
Blackstone strolled along the ancient wall that evening, the sun dipping low and casting a warm golden hue across the weathered stones. His crew had finished for the day, leaving him to trace the exposed sections where his freshly cut stone met the intricate interlocking joints. The fading light revealed textures he had overlooked in the harsh midday sun—subtle tool marks etched into the stone, whispering tales of the mason's skilled hand from generations past.
He paused at the point where the standing wall crumbled into rubble, crouching to inspect a fallen block. The fracture was old, its surface weathered nearly as much as the original dressed stone, indicating that the collapse had occurred long ago. Forces of nature had worked on the exposed break for decades, eroding it just as they had with everything else.
Locke's question echoed in his mind as he walked back toward the compound: successor culture or unrelated? He lacked the expertise to answer, just as John did. Yet, as he pondered the old joint technique, a third possibility emerged—one that unsettled him more than either of the first two.
Not successor. Not unrelated.
Simply gone. A civilization that had crafted with a skill surpassing anything Blackstone had learned in his forty years, now vanished for reasons the stones could not reveal, leaving behind only dust where their mortar once held firm.
He disliked this third possibility. As he approached the compound's cook fires, the silhouette of the old wall faded into the encroaching darkness, and he felt a growing unease. It raised a question that lingered unspoken: whatever fate had befallen the builders—decline, disaster, departure—should the colony consider it before constructing its future atop their remnants?
Days later, the rumor began to circulate among the colony, as rumors often do—not through a single announcement but through the cumulative weight of countless conversations, each small and plausible, merging into a larger narrative.
Rothwell first heard it from Petrel, a young laborer from Blackstone's crew, who casually remarked during dinner that the old wall was haunted. His tone was half-serious, reflecting a belief that hovered between skepticism and acceptance. Three days later, Cobb framed it differently, warning of "old bones" buried beneath the stonework, insisting that a wall built over a grave never felt right, regardless of the mason's skill.
Carrick, attuned to the colony's undercurrents since their earlier discussions, approached John one evening as they walked the cleared ground after a long day.
"They're calling them the old owners," Carrick said, his voice low. "Not an official term—just what's started to stick. Some believe the builders of the wall and temple are still watching us, that we're trespassing on land they've withdrawn from rather than abandoned. Others think of them as restless spirits, unhappy with our new stonework."
"None of that is true," John replied, though Carrick caught a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "As far as I know, there's nothing watching us except the beastfolk on the trail, and I have no evidence they built any of this."
"I didn't expect it to be literally true," Carrick said. "But rumors don't trade in facts; they thrive on unease. Ninety people building homes atop someone else's ruins, with no clear answers about who they were or what happened to them—that's fertile ground for stories, true or not."
John fell silent, contemplating the weight of Carrick's words.
"I think it's time to share what I know," John finally said, his voice steady. "Not everything—there are details I want to hold back for reasons related to the beastfolk situation. But I can explain the wall, the temple, the buried foundation. I believe addressing it publicly will do more good than letting Petrel's and Cobb's versions fill the void."
"I agree," Carrick replied. "I've seen enough rumors outpace the truth to know that silence only breeds worse stories."
Three evenings later, nearly the entire colony gathered near the long-house, drawn by John's call. Blackstone observed as the crowd settled onto logs and crates, the moment carrying a weight that smaller conversations lacked.
Standing by the central fire, John held his notebook, though he barely glanced at it as he spoke, the details evidently etched in his memory.
"I want to discuss the old stonework," John began, and the murmurs quieted instantly. "Some of you have referred to the builders as the old owners. I don't have a name for them, nor most of the answers you seek. What I can share is what the stone reveals, and you deserve to hear it directly rather than through secondhand accounts."
He laid out the facts clearly: the buried foundation stone discovered in the first week; the temple ruin from his solo month, its collapse leading to the sphere and Brontis; the standing wall section Blackstone and Locke had examined, all sharing the same joint technique, suggesting a common origin.
"What I don't know," John continued, "is who they were, when they built this, or what happened to them. The mortar has decomposed in places, indicating its age—old enough that any number I might give would be a guess, and I'd rather you know my honest ignorance than a false confidence."
A voice from the crowd, likely Dane, broke the silence. "Do you think it's the beastfolk? The ones on the trail?"
"I don't think so," John replied. "I haven't seen anything in their movements or tools that suggests a masonry tradition this sophisticated. That doesn't rule it out—cultures evolve, skills are lost. But if I had to guess, I'd say we're looking at remnants of something that predates the beastfolk we've observed. Whether they were an earlier stage of the same people or something entirely different, I can't say."
Voss chimed in, quieter, "What about the old field patterns I found? Same builders?"
"Probably," John said. "I don't have proof, but the timeline fits—worked stone and soil, both old and abandoned long enough for nature to reclaim them. If I'm right, whoever they were didn't just build; they farmed and lived here in a way that resembles what we're trying to create now."
The clearing fell silent, the fire crackling softly as the crowd absorbed the weight of John's words, which resolved little definitively but replaced a dozen competing rumors with a single, incomplete account.
Finally, Cobb's voice rose above the quiet. "You're building your wall right alongside theirs. Doesn't that trouble you? Building a home on another people's grave?"
John considered the question, his expression thoughtful. "It troubles me," he admitted. "I've thought about it more than I've said until now. But I don't believe the answer is to avoid building here. This platform is the best ground we've found for the same reasons whoever came before us valued it: the water, the defensible high ground, access to both river and sea. Avoiding it because someone else valued it first doesn't change what happened to them. It just means we build somewhere worse, for reasons that don't honor anyone. Instead, I intend to build carefully, pay attention, and if we learn more about who they were, ensure what we create here is something they wouldn't be ashamed to see on their old ground."
No one responded directly, but Blackstone sensed a shift in the crowd's posture—a collective relief that came from addressing the uncertainty openly rather than letting it fester in whispers.
The next morning, Blackstone returned to the old wall before his crew arrived, standing at the junction where his fresh stone met the ancient joints. He ran his palm along the seam, reflecting on the gathering and John's admission. Whatever else John might be withholding, that particular admission felt genuine, a weight earned rather than performed.
He thought about his own craft, the responsibility a mason bears when laying the first stone of something meant to endure. He was building a wall alongside the work of builders who had vanished so completely that even their mortar had returned to dust. He wondered if, four hundred years from now, another mason would stand at the junction of his work and whatever came next, tracing the same questions through stone that had outlasted every voice capable of answering them. He hoped that, if that day came, the answer waiting in the joints would be kinder than the silence he was tracing now.
Locke, for his part, approached the question differently—less through touch and more through the ordered columns of his survey notes. Over the following week, he began annotating a second layer of observations, not just elevation and distance but every fragment of old construction his instruments encountered during the colony's expansion.
He discovered a second buried course while surveying the site for the planned grain store, and a third fragment while helping Thorncroft extend the eastern watch line. Each new find was logged in his notebook, creating a private record of every point where the old builders' work surfaced within the colony's expanding footprint.
By the end of the second week, a pattern began to emerge: not a single wall or temple, but something larger and more deliberate—a network of construction whose full extent none of them, not even John, seemed to grasp yet.
Locke brought the sketch to John one quiet evening, and watched as John studied it with the same unhurried attention he applied to every significant detail.
"This is more than I've mapped," John admitted, tracing a finger along the pattern Locke had outlined. "I knew about the wall and the temple, but not these two."
He tapped the newer fragments Locke had found. "If this holds—if there's more out there—we're not looking at isolated ruins. We're on the edge of something much larger."
"A city," Locke whispered, giving voice to the unspoken thought.
"Maybe," John replied. "Or something that functioned like one. I don't have the answers, but I think you're right to keep mapping it carefully. Whatever we learn about who they were, we'll want a record of where their work reaches, and right now, you're the only one doing it properly."
Locke folded the sketch away, satisfied in the quiet way a surveyor feels when a private suspicion is finally taken seriously. He gazed out past the warehouse toward the darkening tree line, where more of the old builders' work lay in wait, patient and half-buried, for the next person to look closely enough to find it.
John sat alone in the warehouse office long after Locke had left, the implications of the sketch weighing on his mind. He opened his notebook to a fresh page and began transcribing Locke's points into his own record, merging their observations into a single working map.
Four confirmed points, not counting the temple: buried foundation under the platform, standing wall section north of the perimeter, buried course near the planned grain store, single fragment near the eastern watch line. Pattern suggests larger structure, extent unknown. Priority: expand survey deliberately—task Locke with a dedicated pass rather than relying on incidental discovery.
He paused, pencil hovering over the page, reflecting on Blackstone's admission—troubles me more than I've said out loud until tonight. That honesty had cost him less than expected and gained him more. The colony's unease hadn't vanished, but its shape had changed, softened at the edges, as fears often do when brought into the light.
He thought about the ancient-ruins events from Kaiserfront—those scripted encounters that surfaced deep into a campaign, remnants of a civilization scattered through a province already half-settled, forcing a choice between building over the past or around it. He had always chosen to build around it, out of respect for a vanished people.
Now, sitting in the dark with Locke's sketch folded in his notebook, he realized the choice before him carried a weight the game had never conveyed. Whatever he decided to do with the old builders' remains—study them, protect them, or build alongside them with the same careful respect Blackstone brought to every stone—would matter to real people who could be disappointed in him.
He banked the fire, tucked the notebook away, and stepped into the cool night air, where the compound's fires burned low against an indigo sky. Ninety colonists slept under roofs he had helped build on ground that had once belonged to someone else entirely—and somewhere beyond the tree line, in the patient dark, the rest of that someone else's city awaited discovery.
"I want to discuss the old stonework," John announced, and the murmur that had filled the clearing faded into silence. "Some of you have started referring to its builders as the old owners. I don't have a name for them, nor do I possess most of the answers you seek. What I can share is what the stone reveals, and you deserve to hear it directly, rather than through secondhand accounts."
He presented the information clearly, as Blackstone had come to expect when John deemed something worth sharing: the buried foundation stone unearthed in the first week of digging; the temple ruin from his solitary month, its collapse leading to his first encounter with the sphere and, subsequently, Brontis—a detail Blackstone noted John mentioned only briefly, without elaboration, and one that the gathered crowd seemed disinclined to pursue further tonight; the standing wall section that Blackstone and Locke had examined, its joint technique closely matching the other sites, suggesting all three were the work of the same builders or tradition.
"What I don't know," John continued, "is who they were, when they constructed this, or what became of them. The mortar has decomposed in places, indicating its age—old enough that I wouldn't venture a guess, as any number I provided would merely be a dressed-up assumption. I'd prefer you to understand the honest shape of my ignorance rather than a false confidence that could mislead."
A voice from the crowd—Dane, Blackstone surmised, though the firelight made faces difficult to discern—interjected with the question Blackstone had been contemplating for days. "Do you think it's the beastfolk? The ones on the trail?"
"I don't believe so," John replied. "I haven't observed anything in their movements or possessions that suggests a masonry tradition this sophisticated. That doesn't rule it out—cultures evolve, skills can be lost, and what a people can construct in one generation isn't always what they can achieve in the next. But if I had to guess—and I want to emphasize this is a guess—I'd say we're looking at remnants of something that predates the beastfolk we've encountered. Whether that's an earlier iteration of the same people or something entirely different that has vanished, I can't say."
Voss's voice chimed in next, quieter and closer to the fire. "What about the old field patterns I discovered? Same builders?"
"Probably," John acknowledged. "I lack definitive proof, but the timeline aligns—worked stone and soil, both ancient and abandoned long enough for nature to reclaim them. If I'm correct, whoever they were didn't just build; they farmed and lived here in a manner that, at least in outline, resembles what we're attempting to establish now."
The clearing fell silent for a moment, the fire crackling softly as the crowd absorbed the implications of an answer that resolved little definitively yet replaced a dozen competing rumors with a single, honestly incomplete narrative.
Finally, Cobb broke the silence, his voice resonating clearly across the gathered crowd. "You're constructing your wall right alongside theirs. Doesn't that trouble you? Building a home on another people's grave, whoever they were?"
John pondered the question, weighing it with the seriousness it deserved. Blackstone, observing, thought he detected a shift in the boy's demeanor—something akin to genuine reflection rather than tactical calculation.
"It does trouble me," John admitted. "I've contemplated it more than I've expressed until tonight. However, I don't believe the solution is to avoid building here. This platform, this stretch of coast, is the best ground any of us have found for the same reasons the previous inhabitants must have valued it: the water, the defensible high ground, and access to both the river and the sea. Avoiding it because someone else valued it first doesn't erase what happened to them. It merely means we build somewhere inferior, for reasons that don't honor anyone. Instead, I intend to build thoughtfully, to pay attention, and if we ever learn more about who they were, to ensure what we create here is something they wouldn't be ashamed to see on their old ground."
No one responded directly. Yet Blackstone, watching the firelight dance across the assembled faces, sensed a shift in the crowd's collective posture—not resolution, exactly; the underlying mystery remained unresolved, but something akin to the relief of uncertainty finally articulated rather than left to fester in whispers.
The following morning, Blackstone returned to the old wall alone, before his crew had gathered for the day's work. He stood for a long moment at the junction where his fresh stone met the ancient interlocking joints, running his palm along the seam that had initiated all of this.
He reflected on the gathering from the night before, on John's admission—troubling me more than I've said out loud until tonight—and found himself, standing there in the cool morning light with the old stone rough and patient beneath his hand, believing it. Whatever else John might still be withholding, and Blackstone no longer doubted there was more, that particular admission carried a weight that felt, after forty years of reading craftsmen's tells, genuinely earned rather than performed.
He also contemplated his own trade, the particular responsibility a mason bears when laying the first stone of something meant to endure—a responsibility he had felt keenly enough over four decades that he had declined more than one commission from clients whose intentions for the finished structure he didn't trust. He was building a wall now, stone by careful stone, directly alongside the work of builders who had vanished so completely that even their mortar had returned to dust. He wondered, running his palm along that ancient interlocking seam one last time before turning to gather his crew for the day's labor, whether four hundred years from now, another mason might stand at the junction of his work and whatever came after, tracing the same questions through stone that had outlasted every voice capable of answering them.
He hoped, if that day came, the answer waiting in the joints would be kinder than the silence he was tracing now.
Locke, for his part, approached the question differently—less through touch, as Blackstone did, and more through the ordered columns of his survey notes. Over the following week, he began to annotate a second layer of observations he hadn't originally planned to keep: not just elevation and distance and flood marks, but every fragment of old construction his instruments encountered during the colony's ordinary, expanding work.
He discovered a second buried course while surveying the site for the colony's planned grain store, forty meters east of the well, deep enough that only the careful sweep of a boundary stake catching on something harder than soil had revealed it. He found a third, smaller fragment while assisting Thorncroft in extending the eastern watch line—a single worked block half-swallowed by root growth, old enough that a young tree had grown directly through the gap where a second block should have joined it.
Each new fragment he logged in his notebook accompanied the evolving sketch he had begun — not yet a formal map, nor one he had shared beyond the confines of his tent, but a meticulous record of every point where the old builders' work emerged within the colony's expanding footprint. By the end of the second week, the sketch had gathered enough points to reveal a faint pattern: not merely a wall or a temple, but something grander and more intentional, a network of construction whose full extent remained elusive, even to John.
One quiet evening, Locke approached John, sketch in hand, as the day's labor faded into the compound's evening rhythm. He observed John studying the sketch, his gaze steady and unhurried, as if savoring every detail.
"This exceeds my own mapping," John finally said, tracing a finger along the pattern Locke had outlined. "I was aware of the wall and the temple, but these two are new to me." He tapped the two recent fragments Locke had discovered. "If this holds true — if there's more out there — we're not merely looking at isolated ruins. We're on the brink of something much larger."
"A city," Locke whispered, the word hanging in the air, unspoken until now.
"Perhaps," John replied thoughtfully. "Or something akin to one, whatever they called it. I don't have all the answers, but your careful mapping is essential. We need a record of where their work extends, and you're the only one doing it right."
Locke folded the sketch, a quiet satisfaction blooming within him — the kind a surveyor feels when a private suspicion is finally acknowledged. He gazed beyond the warehouse toward the darkening tree line, where more remnants of the old builders lay in wait, half-buried and patient, awaiting the next curious soul to uncover them.
Long after Locke departed, John remained in the warehouse office, the implications of the sketch weighing heavily on his mind. He opened his notebook to a fresh page, transcribing Locke's points into his own record, their separate observations gradually merging into a cohesive map.
Four confirmed points, excluding the temple: buried foundation beneath the platform, standing wall section north of the perimeter, buried course near the planned grain store, single fragment near the eastern watch line. The pattern hinted at a larger structure, its extent still unknown. Priority: expand the survey methodically — assign Locke a dedicated pass instead of relying on incidental discoveries during unrelated digging.
He paused, pencil hovering over the page, and thought about what Blackstone had said at the fire — troubles me more than I've said out loud until tonight — and found that the admission, offered honestly to ninety strangers three evenings ago, had cost him less than he'd expected and bought him more. The colony's unease hadn't vanished; he didn't think it would, not fully, not until someone found an answer solid enough to replace the old owners rumor with something the platform could actually hold onto. But the shape of the unease had changed, softened at its edges, the way any fear did once it stopped circling in the dark and started standing in the light where people could look at it plainly and decide, together, what to do about it.
He thought, closing the notebook at last and banking the office's small fire for the night, about Kaiserfront's ancient-ruins events — the rare, scripted encounters that surfaced sometimes deep into a long campaign, a pre-existing civilization's remnants scattered through a province you'd already half-settled, forcing a choice between building over the past or building around it. He had always chosen to build around it, in the game, for reasons that had felt, at the time, more aesthetic than practical — a lingering respect for the fiction of a vanished people, nothing more substantial than that. It occurred to him now, sitting in the dark with Locke's growing sketch folded into his own notebook, that the choice in front of him tonight carried a weight the game had never once made him feel, and that whatever he decided to do with the old builders' remains — study them, protect them, simply build alongside them with the same careful respect Blackstone brought to every stone he laid — was going to matter to people who could actually be disappointed in him, in a way no scripted event ever had.
He banked the fire, tucked the notebook away, and went out into the cool night air, where the compound's own fires burned low and steady against a sky gone fully indigo, ninety colonists sleeping under roofs he'd helped build on ground that had, once, belonged to someone else entirely — and somewhere beyond the tree line, in the patient dark, the rest of that someone else's city waited to be found.