Sorry for the delay, I was really busy this weekend but here's the next chapter.
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When the shock of what had happened finally wore off, I came back to myself and buried Spat in the snow, his siblings lying over his improvised grave.
At first, I didn't understand why my actions had affected me so deeply, but now that I think clearly, I know why.
It was the first time in my entire life that I had killed someone I loved.
He was just an animal, a pet, but he was mine—I had raised him since he was a pup, and that only made it worse.
I've always had a soft spot for animals. Of course, I've killed many before—marine animals, polar bear-dogs, and other leopard-caribou—but none that I cared about, none that I had raised. And those times, I killed in self-defense.
But I can't let this define me. I can't let my own recklessness decide my path. Spat was my friend, and I killed him so I could live. I can't spend the rest of my life regretting it or living forever with this guilt. The best I can do is honor his memory and sacrifice.
Once I finish this new village, I'll build him a statue—out of stone or wood.
And speaking of this village, my chi and energy to use waterbending would take at least a couple of hours to recover, so it was better to eat and regain my strength.
Taking provisions from a food sack, I began to eat.
My mind stayed busy thinking about how to prepare the foundations for the houses and other recreational areas, anything to help forget what happened today.
I had enough wood to make floors and walls for about 15 houses, but right now almost 60% of the tribe consisted of elderly women. It would be more efficient to build one large cabin for them. I could lay down a layer of hides over the snow and place granite stones on top.
Fortunately, over the years I had managed to accumulate a large number of hides and granite stones. And thanks to this spirit that can store things, I was able to bring everything without issue.
I woke the spirit and made it spit out the stones, which fell into a huge pile.
Using my spear, I began marking the perimeter of the large cabin. Around 25 square meters should be enough, especially if I organized the space well.
I went straight to the granite pile. I didn't have time to carve each stone like it was a work of art, so I worked with what I had. I set one rock after another, breaking them with firm, quick, precise strikes. The tip of my spear sunk with accuracy, making the rocks split where they needed to. If a slab was even, I left it. If not, I rotated it, found its place, and moved on.
I covered the entire ground. The slabs, placed over a base of hardened hides, fit together like pieces of a rough but effective puzzle.
In the center of the circle, I left a wider circular hole. That's where the communal fireplace would go—a fire pit fed with dark stones, protected by a low granite ring. Designed to radiate heat from the heart of the cabin in all directions, warming the stones from below so the entire floor would stay warm even during the harshest nights.
Then came the logs. I had them ready: dry, straight, and thick. I raised them as columns around the circle, tied together with braided fibers and cross-reinforcements. I built the walls with interlocking wood, sealed with a mixture of frozen mud and ash, and stuffed with hides on the inside.
The roof was conical, tightly sealed, with only an adjustable opening above the chimney—just enough for the smoke to escape without letting the wind in. The structure was well-balanced, supported by a sturdy frame—more functional than pretty, but reliable.
When everything was done, the interior of the cabin felt different. Even without a fire, you could already feel the difference—the air didn't bite, and the stones seemed alive, ready to fulfill their purpose.
I sat for a while in front of the communal cabin, hands resting on my knees, breathing in cold air through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. The sky was still overcast, but a faint brightness among the clouds told me it was still midday.
Time to move on.
I had built the most urgent structure. Now it was time for everything else.
I stood up and gathered what I needed from the storage spirit: cut wood, hides, ropes, and more stone blocks. I organized everything by zone, placing the materials next to where I'd raise each new structure.
I decided to start with the storage building. I wanted it near the communal cabin, but not so close that the heat from the fire would spoil the food or treated hides. I drew the plan in my mind—a simple five-meter square.
This time, I wouldn't spend so much time on the floor. The design was simpler, and the goal was practical—keeping things dry. I opened the water container I had brought with me, stretched out my hands, and began to move the liquid with slow, steady motions. I now understood the rhythm it required. I knew how far I could push without overloading my chi.
I formed a precise, steady current. I used the water to clear snow from the ground and compact the earth underneath, smoothing it into a firm base. Then I moistened the dry clay walls I had gathered, mixing them with plant fibers. I used waterbending to stir it, press it, and apply it as a sealant between the stone pieces that formed the base.
No dramatics. No whirlpools. Just measured, controlled movements. As natural as breathing.
Once the perimeter was secure, I began raising the structure with the prepared logs. The walls were easy to lift, and I finished the roof with crossed planks and a thick layer of waxed hides. On the sides, I left space for shelves, hanging sacks, and small underground compartments, well-sealed to keep the cold from damaging the more delicate supplies.
A couple of hours passed. I stopped only to drink water and check the chi point linked to waterbending. It was stable. A bit smaller and depleted, but within acceptable limits. I kept monitoring it, not letting excitement make me forget what had happened.
Next goal: Gran Gran's house.
It wouldn't be the biggest, but it had to be the most reinforced. I used the same system as the communal cabin: a base of stone slabs, this time with a slight tilt toward a small drainage channel I dug with waterbending. I used melted snow to help push the mud into the joints, then sealed the edges with resin and hide.
For the walls, I selected logs with the bark still intact, which helped retain heat better. The roof was low, slanted to one side so snow wouldn't pile up. Inside, I left space for her bed, a small table, and a low shelf. Nothing more. I knew she wouldn't want luxuries.
When I finished, I got some water and a bit of dried meat. I sat on a stone while eating, watching everything that had already been built around me.
In just a few hours, I had built more than this tribe had managed in decades—but to be fair, they didn't have my knowledge.
The village couldn't remain just isolated structures. Not anymore.
Now that the main dwellings were done, it was time to think about the rest. Seriously. As it should be.
I looked at the open space before me, still covered in untouched snow. Everything was white, uniform. Empty, yet full of possibilities.
I rolled up my sleeves, took a deep breath, and began to plan.
First, the paths. They couldn't just be marked trails—they had to last, to resist, to guide. I moved across the area with careful steps, packing the snow down with my body, flattening it into curved routes. Each curve had a purpose: blocking wind, avoiding accumulation, or guiding those unfamiliar with the village. Then I placed granite blocks in key spots. Not too many—just where traffic would be constant. They sat firm over the compacted snow, giving a sense of permanence.
Next, the light posts.
I didn't use wood. I used ice. Large cylinders over a meter and a half tall, carved directly from frozen blocks I had stored weeks ago. Carefully, I placed them at intervals, embedding them deep into the hardened snow. At the top, a small cavity held an oil torch protected by polished stone.
When lit at night, the light would refract inside the ice like a crystal lamp. Efficient, practical… and beautiful.
I moved on to the remaining houses. Every woman and young person needed a home. Nothing fancy, but comfortable and warm. I repeated the process I had perfected: hides as the base, well-set slabs, interlocked log structures, and interior sealing. I gave each house a small difference—a different orientation, a semicircular entrance, a design on the door. Small details that, without saying it, made each one feel like theirs.
As I worked, my thoughts didn't stop.
I measured angles, mapped wind routes in my head, tested snow drainage. I used waterbending with precision—freezing areas to set foundations, smoothing surfaces, creating ice molds to shape pieces I didn't have time to carve by hand.
With a fluid arm sweep, the water sliced through accumulated snow to clear walkways. With slower motions, I molded the ice to reinforce the bases of the bridges. Nothing flashy. But all useful. And always mindful of my energy.
After what I guessed was 5 P.M., I began working on the drainage system. The village sat on compacted snow, but if the thaw came—or rain in the spring—everything would turn into a frozen swamp. So, I dug shallow channels beneath the paths, all connected to a small downward exit that flowed out to the sea. I sealed the inner walls of these channels with hardened ice, which flowed at the gesture of my hands as if it had always belonged there.
It wasn't a grand feat of engineering, but it was something that worked. Something made to last.
By the time the sun began to dip low, the village already had shape.
The curved paths were visible. The homes were lined up like orderly pieces. The bridges were firm, the lamps in place, the drainage active. And it wasn't just structure. It was harmony. It was direction.
The sun began to sink behind the horizon, dyeing the sky a deeper blue. For a few minutes, the snow reflected orange and golden hues. But soon, everything returned to its usual white—only colder, quieter.
It was time.
I walked along the newly formed paths, lighting one by one the torches set high into the ice posts.
The oil burned without sputtering, with a steady flame, and as soon as each wick lit, the light entered the ice... and expanded. Not like a flash. Like a breath. A soft, bluish pulse that traveled inside the post.
The snow around each lamp lit up with that cold, almost liquid glow. It wasn't warm like fire, but it wasn't hostile either. It was… clean. Peaceful.
I moved along each section, lighting with no rush, letting the village reveal itself in layers: first the paths, then the houses, then the bridges.
From the center, I could see how each lamp reflected off the granite slabs, outlining the walkways as if someone had drawn lines of light over the white ground. The posts weren't just for night vision. They gave the whole space visual structure. Depth. Rhythm.
I stopped at the central crossing. I looked around.
The village was breathing.
It was no longer materials forced together. No longer unfinished projects.
Now it was a living network of paths, shelter, and light. Not perfect. But alive. Habitable.
Katara probably wouldn't like this change, but it was necessary.
Necessary for them and for me. Since I arrived here, my only goal has been to become as strong as possible to face future challenges, but the truth is my dream is as simple as anyone else's.
My desire and ambition is to have as much freedom as possible—and to be as wealthy as possible. Building this village now will allow me to relax once the war is over. And since tomorrow I'll be named chief, I plan to take a year to rest—until I turn fifteen, when I'll pull Aang out of his iceberg.