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Edda stood at the command table, one hand resting on the edge of the carved map someone had made the week prior. Patrol markers dotted the northern ridges in red, and Threeburrow's shared boundary in green. A functional picture of everything they'd built.

Kesh stood across from her, still in his scout armor. Dust from the ride clung to his boots.

"Village is gone," Kesh said. "Combat signs everywhere but no bodies."

Edda studied his face.

"Drag marks led north," Kesh continued. "All of them towards the Waste."

"You think they were collected."

"I know they were collected. Draugr don't do that."

Edda absorbed this without speaking. Her Authority Awareness pulsed faintly at the edge of her attention, a low hum confirming the settlement around her was stable and safe.

"Are you concerned?" she asked.

Kesh met her eyes. "Yes. I don't understand why the bodies were taken, but we should be concerned. Draugr kill. They don't haul corpses in organized lines."

Edda nodded slowly.

"I'll keep investigating," Kesh said. "If I find anything else that doesn't fit, you'll hear it first."

"Good."

A knock at the doorframe drew her attention. Fenn stood in the entry, one hand braced against the wood. His toolbelt hung heavy at his waist.

"Edda," Fenn said. "Tor and Brenn want to talk to you. They're at the new housing row. Said they want to go over something before they finish up."

The refugee housing. Third expansion this month. Edda had approved the layout herself, but Brenn always wanted her to walk the row before they committed to the next phase.

"Tell them I'm on my way," she said.

Fenn nodded and disappeared back down the corridor.

Edda turned toward Kesh. He had already shifted his weight toward the door, getting ready to leave.

"I'll go rest," Kesh said. "Just got back. I'd like a few hours before I head out again."

"You should."

Kesh moved toward the door. Edda stepped forward and placed her hand on his shoulder.

He stopped.

"Thank you," she said.

Kesh looked at her hand, then back at her. "What for?"

"You didn't have to take on the military role. Nobody asked you to build patrol rotations or train militia scouts or coordinate with Rurran's teams." She held his gaze. "You chose to. And because you did, we have a functional defensive force. One that's saved dozens of refugees who would have died without it."

Kesh shook his head. "Threeburrow and Rurran deserve that credit. His people did the work."

Edda shook her head in return. "Without your level, without your experience as a hunter, we would have had a much harder time building any of this. Rurran knows defense. You know threats. The combination works because you stepped into it." She paused. "Give yourself more credit."

Kesh said nothing for a moment.

Then he exhaled quietly through his nose. A slight smile on his face.

"Get some rest," Edda said.

She let her hand drop, offered a small smile, and walked past him toward the corridor.

The hallway was cool and quiet. Afternoon light filtered through the narrow windows, casting pale bars across the stone floor. She could hear the distant sounds of hammers from the housing row.

Edda stepped into the cold air, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The wind carried the scent of woodsmoke and livestock—a living smell.

Two months since Doc and the trade expedition had left. Two months since this clearing held only the skeleton of a longhouse and desperate hopes.

She paused at the longhouse steps, surveying what they'd built.

The structure stood complete now—sixty feet of solid timber, reinforced joints, and pitched roof designed to shed snow. Smoke curled steadily from the central chimney. The partial palisade walls had grown, extending around three-quarters of the perimeter. The southern gate stood framed manned by Jonson and his militia rotation.

Beyond the walls, the animal pens sprawled larger than before. The goat herd had grown. The chicken coop Brenn built stood weathertight and producing. Both of them thriving under Tavi's care.

Edda's Authority Awareness pulsed again. More souls under her watch than there had been a month ago, and more arriving every day, refugees trickling down from the northern valleys as the draugr attack increase.

They'd taken them all in.

She walked down the cleared path toward the eastern side of the settlement, boots crunching through packed snow. Workers moved past her—haulers carrying lumber, a woman balancing a basket of winter crops and two children chasing each other near the storage sheds.

The militia had grown as well, equipped with Carl's rifles and Dulric's armor prototypes. Patrols ran daily now, coordinated with Threeburrow's military through the radio networks.

Near the goat pen, voices carried across the cold air.

Edda slowed, watching.

Tavi stood inside the enclosure, one hand resting on a Stonehorn Goat's flank. The creature stood calm, its massive horns curling back over intelligent eyes. Risa stood beside her, speaking to a small group of refugees—two women and an older man, all watching with visible hesitation.

"They're not aggressive unless threatened," Tavi said, her voice carrying the quiet confidence Edda had watched grow over months. "They read intent. If you approach steadily, they'll accept you."

One of the women—thin, worn clothes marking her as newly arrived—shook her head slightly. "Miss, those are monsters. I've seen goats like that gore warriors."

"They can," Tavi agreed simply. "But they won't. Not here. We've taken good care of them. They know us."

Risa stepped forward, gesturing toward the feed trough. "Come help me carry this. The goats need to see you working, not just watching. They respect effort."

The older man moved first, cautious but willing. He lifted one end of the trough, and Risa took the other. They carried it into the pen together.

The goats watched, unmoving.

Tavi approached the nearest one—a younger male with darker coloring—and patted his shoulder. "See? He's calm. You're not a threat."

The man exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening.

Edda felt something settle in her chest.

These weren't domesticated animals. These were monsters—core-bearing creatures that would challenge any warrior below level twenty. Yet here stood Tavi, barely ten years old, calmly working among them.

The girl had changed. Months ago, she'd been silent and wary. Now she stood in a pen full of dangerous beasts, teaching adults without hesitation.

Edda approached the fence, resting one hand on the rail.

Tavi glanced up, her expression brightening. "Edda."

"Tavi." Edda nodded toward the refugees. "Good work."

"They're learning fast," Tavi said. "Risa's been helping them all week."

Risa smiled, brushing goat hair from her sleeve. "She's better at this than I am. The goats listen to her."

Edda studied Tavi for a moment. The girl stood straighter now. Spoke clearer. Her bond with Tinyhorn—the phasehorn rabbit—had grounded her and given her purpose. And now she extended that same care to the goats and to every creature that passed through the settlement.

"How are the new ones settling?" Edda asked.

"Good," Tavi said. "The does are pregnant again—we'll have more kids by spring."

Edda nodded. Spring always meant more work than the season before.

"Tavi," Edda said. "Maz and Tanna are coming back."

Tavi's face lit up immediately. "When?"

"From what the radio said, sometime later today."

Tavi glanced at Risa, then back at Edda. Her grin widened. "I can't wait to show Tanna I can ride the goats now."

Edda's lips twitched. "I'm sure she'll be impressed."

"She will be," Tavi said confidently. "I've been practicing."

Risa laughed softly. "She has. Every day."

Edda allowed herself a faint smile. "Keep up the good work. Both of you."

She turned, leaving the pen behind.

The refugees continued their lesson, voices blending with the low huffs of the goats. Tavi's laughter carried on the wind.

Edda walked toward the longhouse, her mind already shifting to the next task.

Tor and Brenn were waiting.

The housing row needed final approval.

And after that, she'd check the radio schedule. Maz should be close to Foroughfore by now.

The settlement hummed around her, alive and growing

Edda exhaled slowly, her breath misting in the cold air.

They'd come so far.

And they weren't stopping.

---

---

Tor looked at his brother, then at the housing row they'd just finished framing.

Solid work.

He turned toward Fenn, Zim, and the rest of the construction crew—ten workers spread across the site, most of them leaning against support beams or sitting on stacked lumber.

"Good work," Tor called out. "Once Edda gives approval, we finish it up. Then we can finally rest."

The crew cheered. A few clapped. One of the younger workers punched the air.

Tor grinned.

The last two months had been nonstop. Foundations, walls, roofing, palisades, repairs, expansions—every day brought a new task, and every task needed to be done right. No shortcuts. Just muscle and focus until the job was complete.

He'd worked hard before. Everyone in the old village had.

But never like this.

Not with this many people depending on every beam he set and every wall help put up.

It felt good when a refugee thanked him. When kids ran safely behind the walls he and Brenn had built.

But it also felt heavy.

Tor rolled his shoulder, the muscle tight from swinging his hammer all morning.

Brenn was watching him.

"Careful," Brenn said quietly. "Don't think too much. You might hurt yourself."

Tor snorted. "Shove it."

Brenn smirked.

Tor walked over to the worktable near the southern wall. Blueprints lay across the surface, corners weighted down with small stones. He leaned over them, scanning the layout.

"What exactly do you want Edda to check?" Tor asked, glancing back at his brother.

Brenn approached, his expression thoughtful. "Just want to be careful."

Tor groaned. "You're always careful."

"And you're always not," Brenn replied evenly.

Tor straightened, crossing his arms. "We followed the plans. Joints are solid, beams are straight. What's left to check?"

Brenn tapped one of the blueprints—the eastern corner of the housing row. "This section. Once the upper floor goes in, the row's locked. I want Edda to walk it before we frame it — make sure she still likes how it sits with everything else she's planning."

Tor stared at him.

Brenn met his gaze without flinching.

Tor loved his brother. He really did.

But Brenn's careful nature could drive him crazy sometimes.

"It'll fit fine," Tor said flatly.

"Probably," Brenn agreed. "But I'd rather she walk it now than have us shift the row after it's framed."

Tor opened his mouth to argue—

Footsteps crunched through the snow.

Edda approached from the animal pen, her expression calm and measured,

Tor closed his mouth.

Brenn nodded toward her. "She's here."

Edda reached the worktable and studied the blueprints for a moment, then walked past Tor and Brenn toward the housing row. Her boots left clean prints in the snow as she moved between the framed structures, pausing at each corner to look up at the beams, then back toward the longhouse.

Tor waited.

Brenn stood beside him.

After a minute, Edda returned.

"Good work," she said simply. "The row matches up with what I had in mind. You can put the finishing touches on them."

Tor relaxed slightly. "That it?"

Edda glanced at the open ground beyond the row. "Afterwards, we might want to build more."

Tor grunted.

Edda's mouth tugged into something close to a smile. "Don't sound so eager, Tor."

"Why more?" Tor asked flatly. "We've been doing nothing but expanding. Feels like every week it gets faster."

Brenn's expression shifted slightly. He didn't speak, but Tor could tell his brother was thinking the same thing.

Edda's smile faded. She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

"Kesh just reported to me," she said quietly. "He found another village destroyed. The bodies were dragged north."

Tor frowned. "Draugr?"

"Yes," Edda confirmed. "Kesh thinks they're collecting them for something."

Tor felt a cold weight settle in his chest.

Brenn shifted beside him. "How many villages?"

"Three in the last week," Edda said. "That we know of."

Tor stared at her. "Three?"

Edda nodded. "The draugr attacks are only going to get worse. We're going to continue getting a constant stream of refugees. These people need homes." She paused, looking directly at Tor. "And we can provide that."

Tor exhaled slowly.

He'd known it was bad. Everyone knew it was bad.

But three villages in a week?

That wasn't just bad.

That was a disaster spreading faster than anyone could stop.

Edda's gaze softened. "I know you've been working nonstop. I'm sorry you haven't been given any breaks. But we still need your skills, Tor."

Tor looked at the housing row behind him. Then at the palisade walls. The longhouse. The animal pens.

Everything they'd built over the last two months.

Everything he and Brenn had poured themselves into.

He sighed. "Alright. But I don't have to like it."

Edda patted his shoulder—a firm, grounding touch, like a loving grandmother reassuring a restless child. "I know I can count on you."

Tor grunted.

Brenn glanced at him, then back at Edda. "When do we start?"

"After Maz gets back," Edda said. "She and the others should be arriving pretty soon. I'm planning to have Jonson and his goat riders go out to greet them."

Tor tried to picture it—Jonson and three militia members mounted on massive Stonehorn Goats, charging across the snow at full speed.

"What do you think Maz'll say when she sees that?" Tor asked.

Brenn exhaled quietly. "She'll probably laugh."

Edda's smile widened. "She will. And then she'll ask why we didn't train more."

Tor shook his head. "This place gets stranger every day."

"It does," Edda agreed. "But it works."

She turned and walked back toward the longhouse, leaving Tor and Brenn standing by the worktable.

Tor stared at the housing row for a moment longer.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let's finish this one first."

Brenn nodded. "One at a time."

Tor grabbed his hammer.

Back to work.

---

---

The road wound up the last switchback two hours past midday, and Tanna saw the smoke first.

More chimneys than she remembered. That was the thing that registered before anything else — the number of separate columns rising against the gray sky.

Moss-ear shifted on her shoulder, ears flicking forward.

She rolled her neck and felt the ache settle deeper. Marron rode quiet beside her on the bench. Maz walked ahead, her warhammer across her back, her stride the same as it always been. Some people didn't show wear. Maz was one of them.

The caravan stretched out behind them along the switchback. Three refugee wagons, ten or twelve folk in total, mostly families. Farmers from the look of the hands. A smith's daughter who'd helped Marron secure a loose wheel two days back. They'd joined up at Threeburrow — settled there for weeks, but choosing now to move on once they'd heard the settlement needed hands. Quiet on the road.

Morg drove the second wagon, rifle propped against the bench beside him. He'd been scanning the slope since they cleared the tree line, an old watchman habit he had. He met her eyes once and gave a small nod. She returned it.

The wagon crested the ridge.

Tanna saw the settlement spread across the shelf ahead — palisade walls reaching further than they had two months ago, rooflines she didn't recognize, fence posts marking out pens that hadn't existed when she'd left. The longhouse stood whole now. Smoke curled from its central chimney in a thick steady ribbon.

She heard the hoofbeats before she saw the riders.

Heavy. Wrong-cadenced for horses. The sound came from the eastern slope, five sets of them moving in formation, kicking up snow in arcs.

Tanna's hand drifted toward her rifle on instinct.

Then she saw them.

Five Stonehorn Goats at full canter, harnessed, ridden, coming up the slope in formation. The lead rider raised a hand. Jonson. She recognized him by the militia colors and the way he sat.

Tanna stared.

Marron made a small sound beside her. Something between surprise and laughter.

"What?" Maz said, ahead of them, not turning.

"They're riding the goats," Marron said.

"I can see that."

Behind them, voices rose from the refugee wagons — surprised, then delighted. A child's laugh carried over the wind. One of the farmers said something Tanna couldn't catch, and another answered him.

The riders came closer. Tanna's eyes tracked the harness work — proper saddles, weight-balanced, stirrups set for the goats' shoulder height. Someone had built that. She wondered who.

The goats slowed to a trot, then a walk. Jonson called something Tanna didn't catch — orders, by the cadence. Three riders peeled off toward the back of the caravan, taking up flanking positions alongside the refugee wagons. Escort formation.

Then she saw the fifth rider.

Smaller. Knit cap pulled low. A coat too big for her shoulders. A phasehorn rabbit perched on the goat's haunches behind her, ears up, nose working.

Moss-ear went very still on Tanna's shoulder.

Tinyhorn.

Tanna's eyes climbed to the rider's face.

Tavi grinned at her.

The kid raised one hand in a small wave — careful, not letting go of the reins. The goat beneath her huffed and shifted, and Tavi adjusted with it without thinking.

Tanna felt her throat go tight.

She lifted her own hand and waved back.