CHAPTER 89: WHEN THE GROUND MOVES, NOBODY DANCES

The ground trembled under my feet. Not enough to spill a bowl, but enough that every kobold in earshot froze where they stood. All that festival noise—bickering, laughter, the last of Bitterstack’s singing—shrank to a pin-drop silence. I saw one of the Gen-2s stuck halfway through sweeping, holding a broom like it was a spear, eyes darting between me, the sky, and the yard stones.

Nobody said it, but everyone was thinking the same thing.

System message, dead center above the square, bright enough to wash out the dusk:

[ALERT: Substructure Disruption Detected – Source: Eastern Ridge]

[Threat Level: Unknown]

[Gorak Detected: Probable]

Bitterstack muttered something sharp under her breath, and even Cinders didn’t ask what it meant. Relay, halfway through her victory lap, tripped over her own feet and started frantically checking her runner tokens—"East post, north, south, central line—come on, work—"

Splitjaw locked eyes with me, posture all business, tail stiff. Quicktongue had her ledger open and a stub of charcoal in her claws. Embergleam didn’t move, but I saw her glance at every open flame in reach, measuring, waiting.

If you listened hard enough, you could almost hear the moment the square shifted from "home" to "defense." The air tasted different—smoke, sweat, cold fear. I thought I could smell moss, like the memory of rain on old stone.

Splitjaw cleared his throat, barely above a whisper. "Do you want the squads ready?"

"Hold," I said. "Not until we know more." No panic. Facts first. "Relay?"

Relay blinked, hands moving fast. "Signals are still coming through, but there’s... static. All the posts are up, but the lines are humming, boss. That’s not normal."

Cinders pressed a bowl into my hands, her eyes sharp. "Eat. Might be the last warm meal for a while."

I took a sip. Hot, too spicy, probably on purpose. Burned my mouth a little. I didn’t mind.

Tinker hustled in, a wrench in one hand and blueprints jammed under his arm. "If it’s the ridge, we might need to reroute node flow. I’ll check the relay anchors." He looked at Stonealign, who already had a toolkit slung over one shoulder.

Stonealign grunted, brushing off dust. "No one goes up the ridge alone. Not for this."

Quicktongue was writing as fast as her claws allowed. "The system’s been acting up since the last big surge. Might be nothing, but—" She looked at me, then at the system alert, then down again.

"It’s Gorak," Bitterstack said, flat. Not a question. Not even loud. But it landed like a dropped hammer.

A mug fell over somewhere in the crowd. Someone’s dog barked, then everything was motion again—faster, sharper, nobody talking unless they had to.

Splitjaw started, "We could—" but I cut him off with a shake of my head. He let it go.

"Quicktongue, get me every report on system pings and patrol logs. Relay, stay on comms, check for anything weird, I don’t care how small. Tinker, Stonealign, I want you ready for diagnostics, but don’t leave the square. Embergleam—" I saw her already pacing the edge of the light, eyes scanning shadows. "Just keep doing what you’re doing."

"Someone grab Flick," Cinders called out. "If he’s not already up a wall, I’ll eat my own apron."

Bitterstack started counting rations under her breath. Embergleam touched every fencepost she passed, not rushing, not stalling either. Even Chaos was quiet, adjusting something on his golem with slow, careful hands.

I took another spoonful of soup, swallowing hard. If I closed my eyes, I could remember what it was like before any of this. Before "threat levels," before "Sovereign," before Gorak had a name and a shape.

Another tremor. Not enough to see, but enough that I felt it in my chest.

[Settlement Status: Stable – Conditional]

[Alert: Eastern Ridge Under Observation]

[Morale: Elevated, for now]

Quicktongue looked up from her notes, face tense. "Call a meeting?"

I nodded. "Ten minutes, command hut. Core team, Gen-2s, anyone with sense."

Relay’s voice shot up, "On it!" and she disappeared, already shouting for Glare.

For a second, I stood alone in the middle of the square, the last warmth of the festival clinging to the stones, the taste of soup still burning my tongue. Lights in the windows. The forge hammer stopped. For one moment, Ashring was just... home.

Then the ground moved again. Not big, just enough.

I headed for the meeting, every step heavy as if the world wanted to keep me in place.

---

The command hut felt smaller than usual. Maybe it was the crowd, maybe it was the weight of every eye on me. I set my soup down, tried not to burn my hands, and scanned the faces circling the table.

Splitjaw was first to speak. "We prep as if it’s real. No half-measures." His voice carried the old steadiness, the one that got us through sieges and cave-ins. "If Gorak’s coming, I want squads posted and weapons ready by sundown."

Quicktongue barely glanced up from her ledger. "Signal’s jittery, but we haven’t lost contact. Outer posts all clear—so far." She pushed a sheet to Relay, who took it with both hands and read upside down, lips moving. "No false alarms," Relay said, "but I can double the runner cycle."

Stonealign had already started sketching on the back of a ration sheet. "South wall’s the weak spot. If he comes from the ridge, we’ll need everyone reinforcing the central beam." He looked at Tinker, who was fidgeting with a coil of copper wire. "We can tie in extra anchors, but only if we have the new batch of resin."

Tinker nodded. "I’ll grab it from the workshop—if Cinders didn’t use it all on last week’s stew experiment." He shot her a quick grin, which she ignored in favor of scribbling a supply list on the back of her hand.

Cinders said, "If the kitchens go down again, we lose morale. I’ll prep enough for a day’s worth of hot meals and back-up rations. No one fights on an empty stomach, not even Glare."

Glare, already leaning on the far wall, shrugged. "I’ll take north watch with Flick. We’ll check the tunnels and keep an eye for movement."

Bitterstack clapped her ledger closed. "Medical kits are ready. I want runners assigned for quick resupply. If it turns into another siege, we’ll have to ration hard from the start."

Embergleam leaned against the doorframe, eyes half-lidded but watchful. "I’ll finish checking the ritual posts. If anyone feels a shift—cold air, bad smell, too much quiet—report it, no questions."

Chaos lifted his hand. "I’ll rig up golem sentries for the south yard. Nothing fancy, just alarms and noise. Should buy us a few minutes if anything tries to sneak up."

No one laughed at that, but the silence felt like agreement.

I listened, tracking every word, every nervous glance, every hand that tightened on a cup or scrap of paper. The room wasn’t scared. Not exactly. But everyone was waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

Quicktongue finally looked at me. "Orders?"

For a moment, the words stuck. It would’ve been easier to say nothing, let Splitjaw or Bitterstack handle it. But that’s not how it works. Not here.

"Start prep," I said. "No panic, no rush. We do what we’ve always done: reinforce, check, and double-check. Nobody goes out alone, not even for a walk. Relay, if anything drops out of signal—even for a minute—you let me know. Flick, Glare, you handle the tunnels. Tinker, Stonealign, don’t burn out. Bitterstack, make sure the medical crew eats."

Cinders was already moving to the door. "I’ll get the stew started. Hot and spicy. If Gorak’s going to show up, he can do it with a nose full of peppers."

That got a tired laugh. Even Splitjaw cracked a grin.

The meeting broke up in a flurry of assignments. It felt almost normal—almost. I lingered, waiting for the others to clear out, letting the old warmth settle over the command hut.

Quicktongue stayed, flipping through her notes. "You worried?"

I shrugged. "Always. But this feels different."

She looked out the window, watching the shadows stretch across the square. "It’s not just Gorak, is it? It’s what he means. That things can come back."

I didn’t answer. She didn’t push.

Outside, Ashring hummed with motion. Runners darted between the outbuildings, voices low, footsteps sharp. Cinders banged a pot against a bench, and the kitchens came alive. Tinker and Stonealign argued over which toolkit to use, both pretending not to be worried. Flick and Glare vanished into the dusk, shadows flickering behind them.

I walked the perimeter with Splitjaw, not saying much. He checked every gate, every latch, every wall with his usual slow patience.

When we got to the south wall, he paused. "You think we’re ready?"

I took a breath, smelling smoke, sweat, and whatever passed for hope on a night like this. "No. But we’re as ready as we ever get."

He nodded, gave the wall one last hard look, then moved on.

As dusk settled over Ashring, the village pulsed with its old, stubborn energy. Rations were counted, fires stoked, relay posts checked again and again. If you squinted, it almost looked peaceful.

I stood by the gate as the first real chill hit the air. Lights in the windows, soup simmering, voices rising and falling—Ashring, for now, was whole. Every part of me wanted to believe it would stay that way.

But the ground under my feet was never still for long.

Just before midnight, another tremor rolled through, strong enough to rattle the door on the old archives. No one screamed. No one ran. Every light stayed on.

We were waiting. Not hiding. Not hoping.

Just ready.

If this was the last quiet night, at least we’d earned it.