Eighteen days.
That's what the system said when I woke up this morning.
[Incoming Raid: 18 Days Remaining.]
Not ominous at all. Nope. Totally normal thing to wake up to.
I sat up, scratched at the moss mat we called a bed, and stared blearily at the main square through the half-built watchtower window.
Ashring looked... good.
Better than good.
The moss golems lumbered around stacking supplies. The goblins were already arguing with Bitterstack over which trading stall belonged to who.
Some of the new buildings actually had more stone than dirt in them now.
Kids — both kobold and goblin — darted between pillars, shrieking and laughing.
It didn't look like a war camp.
It looked like a village.
A real one.
I should've felt proud.
Instead, I just felt itchy.
Because nothing about a ticking countdown to a full-blown human invasion said "relax and enjoy."
Especially not when the dungeon was starting to twitch around us again.
I swung down from the tower, nearly crashing into Splitjaw halfway.
He grunted, stepping aside without blinking.
"Flames in your fur again?" he asked.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe I just like falling dramatically."
He grunted again — which was Splitjaw for "normal day, then."
First things first: goblin mess.
Quicktongue was already there, tail lashing as she negotiated territory rights with three very smug-looking goblin merchants.
From the way they were cackling and flashing crude maps, they were trying to claim the old latrine pits as "sacred market grounds."
I sighed. Loudly.
Everyone ignored me.
Fine.
One diplomatic crisis at a time.
"Any news?" I asked Splitjaw instead.
He jerked his chin toward the western gates.
"Scout team says Gorak's pack moved deeper. Out of immediate range."
"That's good news," I said automatically.
"Maybe," he said.
Which was Splitjaw for "not good news at all actually."
I wanted to pretend I wasn't relieved.
Wanted to pretend my nerves weren't wound tighter than Stonebite's forge cables.
But truth was... I'd been half-expecting another Gorak charge last night.
Instead, just mossrats scurrying in circles and one angry blind mole who bit a goblin's foot.
Progress, right?
"What about the village?" I asked, trying to pivot my brain back to tasks.
Splitjaw crossed his arms.
"Stonealign finished the second storage vault. Bitterstack led patrol rotations last night. Hoarder updated food reserves. Stonebite says weapon production up by twenty percent."
He rattled off the list without blinking.
Professional.
Deadpan.
Solid.
"And the new recruits?" I asked, glancing around.
A few fresh faces. Some already trying (badly) to copy the elite squad's drills.
A few others huddled around campfires, looking like they'd bolt if a breeze blew too loud.
"They'll harden," Splitjaw said simply.
I hoped he was right.
[Settlement Status: Stable.]
[Minor Civil Unrest: None.]
[System Forecast: Moderate Threat Detected.]
The system pinged calmly in the back of my mind.
Which somehow made it feel worse.
I leaned against the wall, tail flicking.
"So," I muttered. "We're in the eye of the storm."
Splitjaw shrugged.
"Feels more like the dungeon's holding its breath."
I hated how right that sounded.
"Alright," I said finally, squaring my shoulders. "Enough waiting. We prep. Hard. We build stronger. We don't assume Gorak's gone. We don't assume the humans will play fair. We don't assume anything except this: if we fall, we fall fighting."
Splitjaw grunted approvingly.
Which was Splitjaw for "I already decided that three days ago."
The goblins shrieked louder behind us.
Something about sacred moss rights and trading beetle oil.
Splitjaw raised an eyebrow at me.
"You handling that?" he asked.
I sighed again.
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."
Commander, sovereign, warlord, diplomat.
I should really start charging extra.
The goblin dispute took three hours, five near-fistfights, and one emergency offering of smoked bat jerky to resolve.
At the end of it, the old latrine pit became "Shared Market Plaza #1" and two goblins volunteered to build actual stalls instead of fighting over dirt mounds.
Victory, I guess?
Small ones count.
After that, it was back to the real problems.
Scout reports first.
Splitjaw dumped the maps onto the council table with the usual ceremony of "I was up all night doing this, you're welcome."
"Western tunnels show less Gorak movement," he said. "Eastern tunnels..." He paused.
I frowned.
"...What?"
He tapped the map once, slow and deliberate.
"New monster scents. Heavy ones."
The room went still.
Bitterstack leaned over, ears flat.
"Dungeon wave?"
Splitjaw shrugged.
"Feels like it. Nothing organized. Yet."
Yet.
Always that word.
"Alright," I said, voice rough. "We tighten patrols. Triple alarm drills. Field repairs. New fallback lines."
Everyone nodded.
Even the goblin merchants watching from the doorway didn't argue.
Everyone knew what was coming.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But soon.
I swung by Bitterstack after — logistics officer extraordinaire — to double-check supplies.
Her tail was twitching like mad, but the stockpiles were in order.
If we survived the month, I was giving her a medal. Or a whole wagon of smoked meat.
Probably both.
Scout teams rotated faster.
Trapmakers worked overtime.
Goblin kids got conscripted into digging emergency trenches — somehow they thought it was a game.
Not bad for morale, honestly.
At sunset, the system pinged again:
[Settlement Progress: 72% to Minor City Status.]
[Warning: Incoming Threat Detected. Monster Activity Rising.]
I stood on the half-finished watchtower as night fell, Splitjaw beside me.
Ashring glowed below.
Fires in tight rings.
Walls braced.
Golems on patrol.
Guards posted at every gate.
It wasn't peace.
It was pressure.
It was waiting.
A moment stretched tight enough to snap.
Splitjaw grunted quietly.
"Feels too quiet."
I nodded.
"Yeah."
I didn't mention the way the air prickled against my fur.
The way every flicker of moss-light seemed too sharp.
I didn't have to.
We all felt it.
A night like this never ended clean.
I turned to leave, tail flicking—
when a sharp, panicked voice split the air:
"FIRE! FIRE IN THE VILLAGE!"