CHAPTER 90: EMERGENCY MEETING, OR HOW TO PANIC IN STAGES

Morning in Ashring began before the sun. It wasn’t the typical market noise or Bitterstack’s voice marshaling kitchen volunteers. It was quiet—the kind of quiet that follows a storm or foreshadows one. I conducted my rounds before breakfast, just to ensure everything was in order. Rations: stacked. Fences: holding. Relay: already up and busy with the east relay node, mumbling about "static" and "possible cross-talk with the north post, unless it’s just rats again."

Quicktongue called everyone into the command hut before the steam had even left the morning tea. "We need a real plan," she said, her voice tight. "Not the usual let’s-hope-and-see." The hut filled quickly—Splitjaw, Bitterstack, Stonealign, Stonebite, Tinker, the Gen-2s, even Cinders with a flour-streaked apron and Flick trailing at her heels.

Quicktongue took the center, distributing clipped system reports and her own notes. She flicked her claws at a fresh message as if she could swat it away. [Notice: Monitoring Situation – No Action Recommended] flashed, then faded.

Stonealign and Stonebite huddled over a crumpled map, exchanging low words. "If the ridge cracks, central wall won’t hold," Stonealign said, jabbing a claw. "Tunnel team needs a backup route. We can’t leave the southern supports thin."

Stonebite snorted. "If we split too thin, we lose both. Better to pick one line and make it count."

Tinker chimed in, waving a greasy diagram. "What if we divert flow through the new anchors? That gives us two chances if Gorak pushes on the ridge—"

Bitterstack cut in, "That’s assuming he cares about ’chances.’" She rapped her ledger for emphasis. "People need food, water, and a safe spot to run if it goes wrong. I can’t split my team and still keep rations going."

Splitjaw tried to play mediator, but his tail gave away the nerves. "We post a heavy squad at the main gate. Gen-2s cover supply lines and the signal post. If we need to retreat, we set a rally point at the old storehouse."

Someone—probably Flick—asked, "Do we get spears or just pointy sticks?" Relay snorted and replied, "I’ll give you the runner baton if you promise not to lose it this time." Even in the thick of it, the room ran on sarcasm as much as strategy.

Stonealign looked up, exhausted. "We need a decision—wall, tunnel, or fallback. Pick, or we lose all three." Nothing like a game of choose-your-own-catastrophe to wake up the room.

Splitjaw bristled. "We’re not running. Not yet."

Cinders rolled her eyes and scribbled her name on Bitterstack’s ration sheet. "If you think anyone’s eating cold soup through this, you’re wrong. I’ll keep meals hot even if I have to do it on the forge."

Quicktongue’s voice cut through the noise. "What about outside help? If we signal the Guild—"

The room bristled. Stonebite growled, "And hand Ashring over the minute we look weak?" Tinker shook his head. "We’re not a lost cause yet."

Relay, ever the optimist, piped up. "If things get bad, I can run a call for aid—quietly. Only if you say so, boss."

The banter edged toward bickering. Every voice was a little too sharp, every plan a little too desperate. The system pinged again, this time in the middle of someone’s sentence.

[Notice: Unknown Vibrations Detected – Analysis Pending]

[Status: Leadership Stress Level – Above Threshold]

The system now officially recognized my emotional collapse. How considerate.

Stonealign groaned, "Great, even the system thinks we’re doomed."

I rubbed my eyes. "Maybe it’s just lonely."

Glare stood up, appearing more dramatic than usual, shoulders squared like he was expecting applause. He must’ve been practicing in front of the water barrel again. "I’ll take Flick and scout the ridge. If Gorak’s coming, someone needs to see it first." Flick nodded, practically bouncing.

Splitjaw grunted. "Don’t get heroic. Stay in line of sight. Relay, keep your eyes on them."

Cinders handed Flick a wrapped bread roll. "For courage," she said, but her eyes were tight. Flick grinned and hid it in his cloak.

The arguments kept looping—who guarded what, how many rations to pack, which Gen-2s got to hold actual weapons versus sticks. Bitterstack insisted on a backup ration cache. Tinker lobbied to wire another relay to the central post, "just in case." Even Chaos suggested rerouting golem sentries to cover more ground. Every suggestion sounded more frantic than the last.

All the while, system messages kept coming, never helpful, just stacking like pressure.

Quicktongue finally called a halt. "That’s enough. We work with what we have, not what we wish. Everyone take five. Regroup outside."

I slipped out before anyone could ask for a decision, just for a breath of air. The light outside was thin, clouds drifting low over the rooftops. Embergleam was waiting near the garden wall, staring at the ground.

I joined her silently for a minute, listening to the wind.

She didn’t look at me. "If Ashring’s story is supposed to end here, what do we do?"

I watched a pair of Gen-2s chasing a loose scarf down the lane, laughing even though nothing was funny. "Then we tell a new story," I said. "That’s all we’ve ever done."

She nodded, offering a small, tired smile flickering. "I’ll hold you to that."

---

I didn’t get to savor the moment. The five minutes of outside air vanished under a swarm of new problems.

I had inhaled hope. That was my mistake.

The meeting spilled back out onto the square. Bitterstack began assigning ration runners and medical kits. Cinders took over the kitchen, banging pots loud enough to ensure everyone remembered what hot food sounded like. Tinker and Stonealign went straight to the east side, arguing over which relay should take priority if the ground split open.

Quicktongue moved through it all like she was chasing a current only she could see. She handed reports to Relay, who ran them up the line. Even Chaos had a job—checking every golem for loose bolts and miswired arms, muttering about "last-minute surprises."

The mood shifted with every footstep. Banter still flew, but beneath it, nerves buzzed like flies in summer. Glare and Flick had already left for the ridge, each with a nod and a joke about who’d find the first sign of trouble. I told Relay to keep her eyes on the horizon. She promised, but I saw her double-check her runner tokens three times.

System messages kept flashing. [Notice: Routine Check Incomplete] [Status: Defensive Alert—No Further Data] [Reminder: Food Supplies Above Minimum—Good Job!]

I was officially being patronized by my own settlement software.

Somebody groaned. "Great, even the system wants us to stress eat." Bitterstack didn’t disagree.

There was always something to fix. Cinders made a second pot of stew just in case. Embergleam checked the fenceposts for splits and paused by the flame stands, tracing the wood with an old habit’s care. Tinker tried to lighten the mood by showing off his "emergency lantern," which was just a soup tin with holes punched in the side. No one complained—it worked. And in Ashring, "it didn’t explode" now counted as an engineering gold standard.

An hour passed, maybe two. The sun never really broke through, just drifted behind heavy clouds. Patrols ran their routes twice. Every time someone came back, a little more relief crept into the square—until Glare and Flick didn’t come back on time.

Quicktongue caught it first. "Their check-in’s late," she said quietly, her voice clipped. Splitjaw’s head snapped up. "How late?"

"Half a cycle," Relay said, her eyes flicking to her tracker. "That’s not nothing."

I didn’t let the worry show. "We wait another ten minutes. If they’re still out, we send a team."

It was less than ten. Glare’s shadow reappeared at the gate, Flick at his heels, both breathing hard but unhurt. Flick had moss stains on his cloak, and Glare had a stick in one hand, broken in half. "The ridge is changing," he said. "It’s spreading."

Everyone stopped moving. Flick unwrapped his cloak and let a handful of moss scatter onto the table—bright green, fresh, the kind that never grew this close to the village.

Stonealign took one look and said, "That’s not right. Not this season."

Glare shook his head. "We didn’t go far. It was just there. And the ground’s humming."

No one laughed at that. Embergleam went pale. Even Splitjaw swore quietly.

A sound rolled through the square—low, almost musical, a vibration in the earth that rattled windows and made bowls shiver on the tables. It faded, but the silence left behind was thicker than fear.

I looked at the moss, then at the team. "We double patrols. No one walks alone, day or night. And if the ground sings again, everyone gets inside."

I did not elaborate on what "singing ground" meant. If you hadn’t lived through at least one sentient terrain event, you weren’t ready for the explanation.

Splitjaw nodded. Quicktongue was already writing new schedules, flipping pages with sharp, angry energy.

Cinders poured herself a mug of stew, staring at the moss like it might bite her. "Just once," she muttered, "I’d like a quiet week."

Bitterstack snorted, but nobody argued.

Outside, the clouds pressed lower, and the air felt heavier than before. The village worked, prepared, hoped—and waited for the next sound.