The council room smelled faintly of sawdust, sweat, and old parchment.
It was early evening, just after the final slate had been nailed into place atop the Guild Hall. The low orange of the setting sun poured through the windows, casting long beams across the table. Not that there were many luxuries — no banners, no seal, not even proper chairs for everyone. Just a long worktable, mismatched seating, and stacks of paper that blew slightly when the wind shifted through the new wall slats.
They'd been here for eight weeks. Almost nine.
The end of their second month in a world that had tried its best to kill them.
Harold sat at the head of the table, legs aching, back sore, arms scratched raw from the shingles he'd helped carry all morning. A dented mug of weak tea sat in front of him. Everyone else looked just as worn.
Beth was seated halfway down the table, going over lists — parchment scrawled in careful hand. Her shirt sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and there was a faint grease smudge across one cheek from carrying tools.
Josh leaned back in his chair — one of the few that didn't creak when moved — arms folded, eyes half-lidded but alert. His coat was draped over the back of his seat, and his boots were still caked with mud.
Margret sat with a stack of ledgers in front of her, muttering under her breath as she scribbled with a surprisingly elegant steel-nibbed quill.
It had taken Harold almost three weeks to convince her to buy a proper set from Caldwell's quartermaster stash. She'd insisted her charcoal stubs were fine. Then she'd tried the quill, and hadn't looked back since.
Lira sat at the opposite end of the table, legs wide, posture casual but alert. Her work gloves were tucked into her belt and her short sleeves still had dust from the quarry clinging to them. She was sipping something that looked suspiciously like cold broth from a metal flask.
Carter was standing. Arms crossed. His armor notched and unpolished, one boot tapping a faint rhythm on the stone floor. He hadn't even sat down yet.
And Hale was absent — still escorting the last of the refugee families back across the far river. Two more days, they expected, before he returned.
This wasn't a formal council, Harold just wanted a recap of what they had done.
Harold cleared his throat. "Let's take stock."
Beth looked up from her list.
"Finished structures: thirty-two. That includes the Lord's Hall, the Guild Hall, both barracks, the mess area, one granary, the enlarged forge, and five of the additional Hall buildings we designed. We've also got various logging outbuildings, the tanner, the glassblowers, sawmill, one main storage barn, and a half-completed bathhouse.
"Caldwell's supply depot is done, along with the Tanaka pen. We've got prepared areas for brick-making and coal-burning, though they're still primitive setups.
"The mining depot run by Lira is fully operational, and there's a small housing section out there along with the fortified post — currently manned by two squads.
"The farming lots are coming along. We've started expanding them, but progress is slow. Irrigation's still a problem.
"We've also built stalls for the marketplace, and people have started constructing small homes in the marked housing lots we approved. I'm not counting those structures in this number, though — since they're privately built."
We have a plan in place for all the new recruits we will be expecting and training pipelines planned that will allow them a full 3 weeks of training to unlock what we are calling the basic set of perks. This will also allow them to get started on the Knight and elite path we are wanting for the Legion.
Beth nodded as she finished her update and glanced toward Carter.
He picked up without missing a beat.
He shifted slightly, boot still tapping lightly on the floor.
"Farming lots are in progress. We've started expanding the cleared fields, but progress is slow. Irrigation's still a problem. We'll need a long-term solution if we want reliable yields."
Beth added, "We've also constructed permanent stalls in the central market square. Some of the settlers have started building small homes in the approved housing lots — not part of our formal infrastructure count, but worth noting for population growth."
Carter grunted. "Security-wise, we've got the perimeter staked and cleared in a five-hundred-meter radius around the Landing. No formal palisade yet, outside of the barracks fortifications, but we've marked sites for future watchtowers on all major approach paths."
He paused.
"We currently have four cohorts — including the Prime. Only the Prime's been blooded, but the Knight training path is officially live. Captain Hale's requirements are strict, but workable. We'll begin rotating eligible personnel into the program as they qualify."
Josh gave a small nod. "It's the only reason Hale's not here right now. He's escorting the last wave of refugees back across the river, but he's planning to handpick the first new Knight candidates on the way back."
Carter continued. "Scout program's underway too. Garrick says the volunteers are raw, but improving. It's going to take months to really shape it into a proper recon wing, but we've got the structure. We just need time."
He finally looked to Harold.
"And we've mapped out how we'll process the recruits we're expecting. With the portal upgrade, we're anticipating sixty new arrivals a day, and about a quarter of those will be viable for soldier roles."
Margret chimed in, eyes still on her notes. "We've got full training pipelines prepped for those recruits. Three weeks minimum per cohort. They'll walk out with the basic perk set — strength, durability, stamina, and a utility perk. That also gets them started on the Knight or Elite paths. Legion quality. Not just numbers."
Harold sat back in his chair slightly, brow furrowed — but in thought, not doubt.
Beth folded her list. "It's not perfect. We're still exposed in a hundred ways. No secured pass. No outer wall. Food is stable, not surplus. And every major piece of infrastructure is still being held together by the same fifty hands."
Josh leaned in with a grin. "But for eight weeks' work?" He glanced around the table. "We're still standing. We're organized. And we just built a damn town."
Caldwell, who'd been quietly flipping through his own slim notebook, cleared his throat.
"If we're talking survival and structure, yes. But we're more than standing now. The economy's functional."
The room turned slightly toward him as he adjusted the small spectacles perched halfway down his nose — purely aesthetic, Harold suspected, but the man liked his affectations.
"Our current reserve stock includes three months of dried goods and grain at controlled rationing. The forge is running full-time now — we've got a consistent ore flow from Lira's mines, and the smelter is operational. Tools, nails, horseshoes, very and I stress this very minimal armor plating — all being produced locally now."
"Coin is being minted," and people are using it. Still no bronze but the chits are working for that purpose. The treasury is still strong with the sale of potions but demand is increasing instead of decreasing. We could make double and still not meet it.
Margret, for once, looked mildly impressed. "And supply chain?"
"Growing," Caldwell said. "We've got surplus leather, stable timber production, steady ore, and enough sand and clay for glass and brick. Nothing fancy, but sustainable. I've three apprentices tracking all inventory movement through the yards, and we'll have proper ledgers by the end of the month. We need more tatanka or something similar if we want to sustain this pace though.
He glanced toward Harold. "We're not just surviving anymore. We're transitioning. From a fledgling settlement to something real.
Then—
One of Margret's aides slipped into the room, breathing fast but composed, and made a beeline for her. He leaned down, whispering urgently into her ear, his voice too low for the others to catch.
Margret's pen stilled over her ledger.
Her eyes narrowed — not in alarm, but in intense focus — and then she straightened slowly in her seat, looking directly at Harold.
"She's alive," Margret said.
She reached out on multiple forum posts to make sure we would see it. She's expected to be back in two weeks and is very sure the Thresher King is going to make a mess of the waterways.
Harold didn't move at first.
Then he blinked — once — and let out a breath that shuddered through his entire frame. Not relief, not yet. But something close. A pressure loosening around the ribs.
"Two weeks," Beth echoed, quietly.
"Two weeks," Margret confirmed. "And she's coming home."
Harold nodded once, jaw tight. "Well," he said, voice low but steady. "We've done a lot in eight weeks. Let's keep working."
His gaze swept the table — calm now, resolved. His smile was wolfish.
"We've got a basin to unite."