I was halfway through a cup of hot mosswater, staring at the ash-dusted ridge like it might blink first, when the system chid in with its usual death whisper.
[Settlent Status: Raid Threshold Reached]
[Hostile Raid Imminent – Projected Window: 4.2 to 7.8 Hours]
[Recomndation: Finalize Defense Protocols]
[Personal Legacy Options Now Available]
The mosswater tasted worse after that. Which was impressive, considering it already tasted like burnt sli filtered through regret.
I didn't spit it out. That felt like admitting sothing.
Instead, I closed the system overlay. Set the cup down on the flat rock that served as Ashring's "council bench." It was just a lopsided chunk of collapsed ceiling we dragged out of the main tunnel. We liked to pretend it had aning.
It didn't.
But I needed it to.
"Four hours," I muttered. "Or seven. Or ten. You know what, thanks for the accuracy, system. Really helpful."
The system didn't reply. Probably too busy calculating my odds of failure.
So I got up. Walked to the northern wall. Checked the supports.
We had fourteen golems left, two of them twitchy and one actively refusing to obey the command glyph for anything involving stairs. We had about two hundred kobolds, not counting kids, and only fifty-seven of them were considered "combat-capable," which in this case ant they could stab sothing without dropping the weapon.
We had three layers of traps, two fallback trenches, a moss-field designed to confuse pathing, and one fire that might or might not be the spiritual nervous system of a sovereign-class dungeon fragnt.
And .
We had .
The sovereign. The builder. The kobold who learned to hold it together with bricks, soot, and a voice that didn't sound like it belonged to soone terrified out of their scales.
"Okay," I said out loud, to no one in particular. "Let's pretend this is still fine."
—
I started with the drainage grates.
They weren't urgent. They weren't even essential. But they'd been bothering since last week when the western runoff caused a soft slump in the wall foundation.
I adjusted the support stakes, re-aligned the mosscrete slabs, and double-checked the water tilt angles. All while not thinking about what was coming.
That was the trick. You could either panic, or you could improve infrastructure.
I chose infrastructure.
When that was done, I walked the southern path where the fireline had been extended. Stonealign had carved new path markers—short totems with heat-inscription threads that glowed faintly when touched. I brushed one with my claws.
It pulsed once. Steady. Calm.
I didn't feel steady or calm.
—
Embergleam passed by near the healer's circle, carrying four satchels of burn balm and a shovel for reasons I didn't ask.
"Raid window opened," I said.
"I know," she replied.
"You scared?"
"Yes."
She kept walking.
That was it. That was the whole conversation.
And it ant more to than anything the system could've said.
—
I climbed the watch slope alone. The trench scouts were already moving. Golem 3B was dragging a boulder into place. It made a sound like groaning granite, which probably wasn't literal, but I couldn't prove it.
At the top, I looked out toward the Verge.
Still nothing. No horns. No torches. No footsteps.
Just... quiet.
Too quiet.
And the system, always helpful, gave one last nudge:
[If You Wish to Na This Battle, Do So Now]
[Unclaid Myth Threads Will Be Archived Otherwise]
I stared at the prompt.
Then I closed it.
Not out of defiance.
Because I wasn't ready to write the ending yet.
Scribbles was sitting near the old tannery pit, surrounded by glyph-marked stones and a half-burnt slate board, chewing on the end of a charcoal nub like it owed him answers.
He didn't notice approach.
Or maybe he did. His eyes were a little too still.
"You okay?" I asked, gently.
He blinked once. Then nodded.
I waited.
After a mont, he lifted the slate. There were six drawings. All different. All the sa.
. The fire. And the fire going out.
Every version ended the sa way: broken torch, collapsed stone, no light. One showed falling backward into fla. One just showed a silhouette with a cracked crown.
I took the board from him. Studied it. Gave it back.
"Did you draw anything else?"
He nodded. Slowly. Reached into the pouch he carried everywhere and pulled out a rough scrap of hide.
It was a child's scrawl. But there was no mistaking it.
The fire still went out. But this ti... sothing grew in the ashes.
Sothing that looked like a tree made of bone and fla.
"Sovereign sapling," he mumbled, barely audible. "Only after it burns."
I didn't know what that ant.
I didn't like what it might an.
But I touched his shoulder. "Thanks for telling ."
He leaned into for a second. Then kept drawing.
—
I found Splitjaw checking spearhead straps near the third fallback trench. He looked like he hadn't slept. None of us had.
"Your orders?" he asked, casual as ever.
"No new ones," I said. "Just... don't die."
He looked at . "Sa to you."
We stood there for a bit, listening to the trenchline workers hamr stone stakes into place. The rhythmic thunk-thunk felt almost peaceful.
I wanted to say sothing clever. Sothing leader-y. But all that ca out was:
"Do you ever think about what cos after?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Always."
"And?"
"If we're lucky, a really boring wall inspection schedule."
I laughed. It caught off guard.
Then the sound ca.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a low, rhythmic vibration, like a giant heartbeat echoing through the stone.
Splitjaw's ears perked. Mine twitched.
The system, once again ever-helpful, confird it:
[Enemy Presence Detected – Distance: 1.7 Kiloters and Decreasing]
[Projected Impact in 3.1 Hours]
[Ashring Defense Status: Live]
Scribbles' drawing floated back into my head. The cracked crown. The dying light.
I didn't flinch.
I turned. Walked back toward the central firepit. Raised my voice just enough to be heard.
"Positions."
Kobolds moved. Golems rotated. Moss rustled.
I stepped into the fla circle.
It flickered. But it did not waver.
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