Morning comes late.
Not that there's a sun or anything. The fire dims, the aches set in, and everyone starts moving around like we've all agreed to pretend sleep means something.
The stranger's still curled near the wall, silent. Still breathing. Still not dead.
So that's… good?
No one talks about it. They just watch it when they think no one else is watching them. Like it'll sprout teeth if looked at too long.
The female sharpens her shard. The hoarder checks our stash again, counts it under his breath like numbers will change if he repeats them. Stonebite eats slow, his wound bound tight in soot-stiff cloth. The kid draws lines in the ash. Doesn't look at the rest of us. Doesn't speak. He's working something out. I'm too tired to ask what.
And I realize something, right there, while poking dead embers back to life with a stick:
I'm not running this.
Not really.
They look to me when things break, or when monsters drop from ceilings, or when symbols start glowing without permission.
But now?
They're feeding themselves, guarding corners, cleaning blades, checking supplies. I didn't assign any of that.
Which would be fine—great, even—except it also means if someone else came along and gave better instructions, I'm pretty sure they'd follow them.
Because I did build some of this. The fire. The first marks. The reason they gathered here in the first place. But that's all scaffolding. Just bones. And now the room's filling up faster than I can shape it.
[Warning: Role Node Drift – Authority Status Unstable]
[Cohort Volume Approaching Threshold – Structural Definition Required]
Cool. Thanks, system.
Nothing like an impending identity crisis before breakfast.
The kid pauses. He's drawn something new: a loop with two prongs. Not sure what it means, but it's sharp. Assertive. Not like his usual curved lines.
Before I can ask, I hear it.
Footsteps.
Soft, too many.
Coming from the northeast tunnel.
The others hear it too. Everyone goes still. Tension floods the space like bad air.
Stonebite rises, slowly. The female shifts her stance. The hoarder crouches near the fire, one hand already in the bag.
Then they appear.
One by one. Two at first, then five, then more. Eleven kobolds total. Dirty. Scarred. Underfed. Their eyes flick everywhere—fire, stranger, wall marks—but always land back on me.
One of them steps forward.
He's got a bone hook tied to one shoulder, some kind of wrap-strapped harness, and an attitude like someone who thinks surviving makes him right.
"This where the firekeeper lives?" he asks, voice dry and hard.
I blink.
"Depends who's asking."
He taps his chest. "Call me Splitjaw. Led this group through the south chokes and out of the burn holes. We're not dead yet, so I'm in charge."
Then he points at the slab.
"You drew that?"
I don't answer.
Because I know what's coming.
And I already hate it.
Splitjaw doesn't wait for an answer.
He walks up like he owns the floor, starts circling the slab, tail flicking like a whip behind him. His kobolds—the new ones—fan out around him. Not aggressively. Just… naturally. Like they're used to forming a wall.
The older kobolds—mine, I guess—shift in response. Female steps closer to the stranger. The hoarder backs up toward the stash pile. Stonebite doesn't move, but his grip on the makeshift spear tightens.
I look down at the slab.
Old. Smudged. Too many layers. Half the symbols don't even mean what they used to.
I walk over, pick it up, and shove it aside. It lands with a soft clack.
Then I head for the wall.
It's smooth enough.
I grab a chunk of burned bone, hold it tight, and start drawing.
Not pretty.
Not spiritual.
Just practical.
Triangle—pointing up. I mark the top: a pair of eyes and three lines forward. scout.
Bottom left: a short wall. guard.
Bottom right: a circle with a flame. keeper.
Three jobs.
Three shapes.
"You want a place here?" I say without turning. "Pick what you're good at. Stick to it."
One of his kobolds—bigger than the rest, face like a cracked plate—squints. "And you?"
I draw a box around the triangle. Not above it. Just around it.
"I watch everything."
Splitjaw snorts. "You make yourself king?"
"No," I say. "I make myself tired."
The hoarder stifles a laugh.
Female nods once, very slightly.
Splitjaw stares at me a long moment. Then shrugs.
"Better than no rules."
He draws the triangle again in the dust. Sloppy, but accurate. His group follows. They choose spots. One marks the triangle on their cloth with soot.
It spreads.
It holds.
System pings.
[Proto-Structure Formed – Basic Hierarchy Established]
[Threads Anchored: scout | guard | keeper]
[Cultural Node Unlocked: Order Layer – Tier 0]
[Firekeeper Path: Split Registered – leader | builder | sovereign]
Great. A split.
Like I needed more decisions.
Later, after things quiet down, I sit by the wall.
The stranger hasn't moved.
Stonebite sleeps near the fire. The female sharpens a new shard. The hoarder finally stops muttering.
The kid adds something beneath the triangle. A square with three dots and a slash through the middle.
I don't ask.
I think I know what it means.
It begins.
Then one of the scouts—new ones, triangle-marked—rushes in.
Breathless. Eyes wide.
"There's more," he says. "Kobolds. Maybe twenty. Coming from the lower shafts. Two hours behind."
Splitjaw grins.
The hoarder groans.
I stare at the wall.
This isn't a camp anymore. It's the start of a kingdom. And I don't even have enough beds.