The communal tent smelled of sawdust and hope. It was an odd combination, but Marron thought she'd just get used to it. Through the open flaps, she could see mimics working on the half-finished structures, their forms stable in the afternoon light. Some carried lumber, others mixed mortar, a few hammered at roof frames with the careful deliberation of people learning carpentry from scratch.
"You're thinking too hard," Mokko said, settling onto one of the log benches they'd set up earlier. He adjusted his glasses with one claw. "I can practically hear the gears grinding."
Marron looked down at the Generous Ladle in her hands. The symbols along the interior bowl were still shifting, unreadable. The metal was warm, not from heat but from something deeper—like it was waiting for her to understand something.
"I want to make something special," she admitted. "Something that'll impress them. Something that shows I—" She stopped, recognizing the trap in her own words.
