The final construction blueprint clicked into place with a sensation Talia felt more than heard.
She stood in the heart of the Storage District, hands resting against cool stone, eyes tracing the layered markings only the system recognised. Labels glimmered faintly and then faded and disappeared.
Done.
Not finished forever. Nothing ever was. But complete enough to trust.
She made herself walk the full loop one last time. Hazardous storage isolated and reinforced. Medical reserves sealed behind registration stations. Emergency rations buried deep and dry. Cold storage secured in a water cooling system approved blueprint, an early engineering design. Charcoal and firewood stacked under controlled humidity. Farm overflow routed cleanly to ease quick access for processing.
No shortcuts. No gaps.
By the time she surfaced, the weight hit her all at once.
A full day passed in a blur of confirmations and cross-checks and Theo verified logistics. Megan sent three calmly worded notes that somehow covered twelve potential problems before they could exist. Finally, Casey confirmed load tolerances on the upper floors without asking why Talia sounded distracted.
Mental exhaustion crept in sideways, and so did Talia.
That night, Talia slept.
Not the half-sleep she'd been surviving on, not the just lie down for an hour kind. Real sleep. Deep and heavy and dreamless, like her body had finally claimed its due.
When morning surfaced, it came gently.
Maris found her in the common corridor. Talia's hair still loose, boots unlaced, looking more human than Lord for once.
There was something different in Maris's expression—no urgency, no alarm.
Contained excitement.
"The first crops are due for harvest," Maris said.
Talia blinked.
A pause followed. Deliberate. Respectful.
"Do you want to take a break and see them?"
Talia didn't even think.
"Yes."
This wasn't abandoning work.
This was the point of it.
The walk to the Farming District felt different from weeks ago.
People moved with quieter confidence. Not rushing. Not wandering. Purpose threaded through their steps like a shared rhythm. Baskets were being carried—real ones, woven and sturdy. Chalk boards leaned against posts with dates and names already written.
There was laughter.
Actual laughter.
The sound snagged in Talia's chest, unexpected and sharp. She hadn't realised how long it had been since she'd heard it without tension riding underneath.
Mum was waiting at the entrance to the first greenhouse.
She looked tired. Satisfied. Grounded in a way Talia recognised instinctively.
"You're just in time," Mum said.
Inside, the air shifted immediately—warm, damp, alive. Clean water channels ran beneath transparent panels, roots visible in clear troughs, pale and strong and undeniably real. Leafy greens filled the space: spinach-like clusters, broad-leaf natives with darker veins, delicate fronds that trembled when people brushed past.
Hands were already harvesting. Careful, practiced motions. No frenzy. No hoarding.
Food.
Talia stood there longer than she meant to, fingers curling slowly at her sides.
"These will be replanted after seed collection," Mum said quietly, as if she knew not to break the moment. "But these ones—these are calories now. Fresh. We can serve them today."
It hit harder than Talia expected.
Not the scale. Not the numbers.
The reality.
This wasn't a plan. It wasn't a projection or a contingency. This was something grown under their care—pulled from systems they'd built, fed by water they'd stored, protected by walls they'd carved.
They moved to the second greenhouse next.
Soil this time. Rich and dark, worked carefully into raised beds. Earth crops and native plants interspersed in deliberate patterns. Mum crouched and pressed her fingers into the soil, then lifted them to show the texture.
"The native plants are outperforming the Earth ones," she said. No pride. Just data. "Faster growth. Stronger stalks. Better water efficiency. The researchers are—" her mouth twitched "—going slightly feral trying to replicate it."
Talia smiled faintly.
"Some Earth crops are being harvested early," Mum continued. "Others we're leaving longer for seed stock. This greenhouse resets after that. Fields will be quadrupled next planting."
"That fast?" Talia asked.
"We planned for it," Mum replied simply.
Strategy. Not luck.
They stepped into the open soil beds.
Potatoes. Carrots. Familiar comfort crops nestled beside unfamiliar native roots—thicker, more fibrous, faintly iridescent in places. A shallow paddy-style water field reflected the sky above in broken silver.
Talia stopped. "Those—"
"Grandpa Fin insisted," Mum said. "Native roots. Said the land would tell us what it wanted to grow."
"And?" Talia asked.
"Two-thirds faster maturity," Mum answered. "Minimum. Water-based crops show similar acceleration."
Something settled in Talia's chest.
They hadn't just survived.
They'd listened.
Outside, the open fields stretched in careful stages. Newly sprouted rows beside flowering beds. Near-ready crops brushing against grain fields that waved softly in the breeze. Oilseed plants clustered beside them, leaves thick and resilient.
Talia voiced the concern she knew everyone was carrying. "Will there be enough time?"
Mum didn't soften the answer. "Trying is better than hunger. Grains store longest. Oils multiply everything—calories, preservation, morale."
Talia studied the sky. Calm. Stable. No system alerts. No pressure shifts.
"Plant everything," she said.
No hesitation. No theatrics.
They hadn't used the full seed reserve. If they needed to, they could rebuild it. If they didn't try now, winter would decide for them.
Leadership—quiet and deliberate.
Lunch was announced shortly after.
Fresh greens.
Talia laughed, the sound surprising even herself. "Fresh greens for lunch?"
Mum arched a brow. "Lord, are you abusing power and connections?"
"Of course not," Talia said solemnly. Then she grinned. "They just… happened to slide in front of me."
The laughter that followed was real. Loose. Shared.
Faintly in the background, the Celebration Runners—an overexcited little news-squad from the Event Department—came pounding through the citadel yelling, "WE HAVE A HARVEST! WE HAVE A HARVEST!" leaving a wave of cheers in their wake.
Baskets filled steadily. Chalk boards updated with names and tallies. People paused to watch green leaves pile up—not enough to relax. Enough to believe.
Deepway ate from its own land that day.
For the first time.
High above the Deepway citadel, where the cliffs cut into cloud and mist drifted like slow breath, three figures stood in silence.
They were travel-worn—storm-scarred cloaks, lean lines carved by long roads and longer choices—but their stillness carried authority born of familiarity with consequence. None of them spoke at first. They simply watched.
Below, the otherworlder Clan moved through their fields.
At first, confusion flickered through the watchers. Many of the crops were unfamiliar—leaf shapes wrong, colours too deep, growth patterns that didn't match the land's old rhythms. Yet as they observed, something quieter settled in. The harvest was careful. Deliberate. Measured.
Not desperate.
Hope—faint and unwelcome—stirred.
They had seen this Clan before: unstable, loose, scattered. Loud with arguments. Reckless with authority. Early on, the three had been certain these outsiders would burn themselves out or be culled by the land within a season. Too trusting. Too soft. Too willing to allow challenges to leadership.
That Lord in particular had drawn their scrutiny.
She had allowed dissent. Questioning. Even opposition. Things no true Lord tolerated without blood. It had marked her, in their eyes, as weak.
Unworthy of loyalty.
And yet.
They watched the way the Clan followed her now—not out of fear, but alignment. They saw her hands in the work, not lifted above it. They had seen her build alongside them, bleed energy into stone, take the same exhaustion she asked of others. They had seen her draw a line when needed—the exile still sat uneasily with them; it should have come sooner—but when she acted, she acted cleanly.
Hard when required. Gentle the rest of the time.
And because of that, the Clan grew.
Not just in numbers or walls—but in competence. In confidence. In people stepping into strength instead of being kept small.
That, more than the harvest, earned their attention.
The central figure shifted his gaze—not back to the citadel, but outward, toward the deeper forest where older powers slept beneath moss and root.
"Final test," he said at last.
The others inclined their heads, silent agreement.
"Lead them to the Moss-Badger Clan," he continued. "Let them meet Beastkin without advantage or warning. Observe their response."
His voice cooled, sharpened.
"If they exploit them. Enslave them. Spill blood without cause… then this territory is unnecessary. We will claim it."
Mist folded inward as bone and muscle flowed, reshaping without haste. A great white lion unfurled its wings—vast, pale, unhurried—already turning toward the hunt.
Below, Deepway endured.
Still rough. Still unfinished.
Now standing beneath a gaze that was no longer dismissive—
but not yet trusting.