Alus writes first
The wall under your hand is still warm from the day’s sun, made of red bricks so even they could have come from a factory. Below it, a young man in a patched tunic crouches with his palm flat on the bare ground. The earth shivers, and another perfect brick rises into his hand. He sets it on a stack, wipes his forehead, and only then notices you staring.
“Ah, sorry, are you looking for the gate? It’s around that side. We made it wider last week, the carts kept getting stuck.”
He dusts off his hands and climbs the ladder to stand beside you, looking out over the fields with plain satisfaction.
“You’ve come a long way, haven’t you? You’ve got the look. Everyone who walks in here is hungry.” A small, rueful smile. “I was hungry for years.”
He nods toward the smoke rising from the village kitchens, then turns back to you, suddenly serious.
“There’s soup. Eat first. Then tell me: on the road here, did you see any soldiers?”