The word storm didn't alarm people at first.
Storms happened, rain happened.
Weather was weather, even on Earth, a storm meant inconvenience, damp socks, maybe a power outage if you were unlucky.
But "three to four days" changed the air.
And "coming fast" froze it.
People paused mid-task.
One woman stopped stirring her pot and accidentally let the wooden spoon drip stew onto her boot.
A craftsman held a half-carved spearhead suspended in the air.
Dozens of faces turned toward the narrow view of sky the valley allowed, squinting at perfectly normal blue—nothing to see, nothing obvious, nothing dangerous.
Which somehow made it worse.
Theo didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. "Meeting! All heads!"
The sound of benches scraping back and boots striking stone followed immediately.
The council assembled with the tension of people who already knew the answer wouldn't be pretty.
Talia spoke first. "Three to four days. The weather watchers are sure."
Ben nodded, jaw tight. "Barometric pressure dropped so fast my ears popped twice. Birds fled toward the mountain. Something's wrong."
"Wrong?" Grandma echoed. "Or normal for this world?"
A silence followed.
They all knew the truth: this world was not Earth, its storms might not play by human rules.
Talia exhaled. "Everyone needs assignments. We prepare as if this storm will cut us off from the outside for days."
Tasks fell into place fast.
"Farming volunteers—we need the core team living in the farming district starting today," Theo ordered. "Preservation, sorting, seed extraction and as soon as possible begin planting, winter is still coming."
"All hunting teams head out immediately," Dav added. "Final run before the storm hits. No overnight hunts."
"Foragers—no rest day," Mum said regretfully. "We need everything edible brought in before the sky closes."
Crafting crews were told to store the loose shelter clusters near the meadow. Bedding was reorganized, firewood hauled and carried deeper indoors.
Talia surveyed the movement bursting across the valley floor—the settlement rising into coordinated motion like a single organism. She heard no screaming, no uncontrolled panic. Just urgency. Focus.
A community that knew how to survive now.
"Let's get to work," she said.
The workforce shift began within minutes.
Foragers paired into groups, grabbing baskets and tools, darting into the forest lines with practiced speed. Hunters jogged toward the tunnel entrance, weapons already strapped, determined to bring back as much as possible.
The crafting hall became a storm before the storm.
Benches shoved.
Storage containers stacked.
Drying racks reorganized.
Grandma directing the chaos like an orchestra.
Workers from the farming district marched along the valley road in a long line, carrying preservation equipment, soil samples, crates of unprocessed vegetables. Kitchen teams moved in waves behind them, already planning a preservation blitz.
Talia watched as two teenagers helped lug heavy jars toward the kitchen. Someone joked about pickles becoming the new currency. Someone else cheerfully threatened to pickle the jokester.
Village life.
Settlement life.
Almost… normal.
But waiting under it all was the pressure—literal and emotional—of something heavy building in the sky.
Her own path carried her toward the husbandry district.
The animals needed more space—more shelter—before the storm arrived. She could feel the tremble of weather building under her boots, the faint shift of wind direction even inside the valley.
She braced her hands on the cliff face behind the district and began shaping.
Tap. Push. Pull. Breathe.
Stone receded. Stone advanced. Walls grew.
The beginnings of a new paddock took shape—broad, sheltered, a space to protect the creatures that had become part of their strange little ecosystem.
She was halfway through carving an alcove when she struck an unexpected cavity.
A faint light pulsed through the darkness, soft and green.
"What…?" Talia leaned in, brushing aside debris.
A cave.
A shallow one—but glowing.
Moss. Or something very much like moss.
Soft, velvety patches that emitted a steady green luminescence, bright enough to light her fingers.
"Whoa."
One of the nearby researchers, spotting her posture, called out, "Talia? Everything—oh."
Then the yelling started.
Two researchers sprinted over.
A runner was dispatched.
Within minutes the research team descended like excited forest spirits.
"It's photosynthetic—without sunlight!"
"Amazing!"
"Don't eat it!"
"No one was planning to!"
"You say that every time and someone always tries!"
The Mossbulb, as they would later name it, became the talk of the district by lunchtime.
Talia, sensing its value, carved out the whole cave carefully and shifted it—stone sliding like thick earth—moving the glowing chamber to the front of the animal district where it could serve as natural night lighting.
By the time the researchers finished squealing, debating, sketching, and declaring small scientific wars over moss samples, the sun had begun its descent.
Talia wiped sweat from her forehead.
Her paddock still wasn't done. Moving the moss cave took most of her reserves, making her target today unreachable.
After her meal, Talia decided to continue shaping the earth she was planning to carve until late evening.
The paddock's ground was flattened, layered in pulled grass, and walled by waist-high stone. The glow from the Mossbulb cave cast gentle green light over the entire area, bathing the unfinished structures in a dream-like hue.
The glow was stronger in darkness—soft, tranquil. She found herself slowing, breathing easier even as fatigue sharpened her bones. The air felt… calm. Like stepping into a warm bath after a long day.
She finished the stone fencing, then carved a small pen structure for the beetle and the stone rabbits—reinforced walls, small entrances, a nest secured for privacy.
By the time she stepped back, the farm team had arrived with the animals.
The rabbits hopped inside their pen immediately, sniffing everything with professional urgency. The beetle waddled behind them with the gravitas of a king inspecting new land. The bush chickens strutted forward arrogantly, as if it was all as they had ordered.
Talia let out a soft laugh. "Fine. You stay with them for now. You get your own pen later."
The bush chicken accepted this graciously.
The next morning, she was intercepted before breakfast.
A researcher waved a paper excitedly. "System-approved blueprint for the complete water system!"
That changed her entire agenda.
Talia headed to the basement water tank first. The tank had been functional but rudimentary—rough walls, uneven channels.
The moment she activated the blueprint, the system pulsed behind her eyes.
Stone smoothed.
Internal filtration veins formed, precise and quiet.
A drainage slope corrected itself.
A carved stone tap emerged near the entrance.
The overflow channel rearranged subtly, marking where Tank No.2 would eventually connect.
By the time the light faded, the tank didn't look amateur. It looked engineered.
She allowed herself one breath of satisfaction.
Then she began the long walk toward the waterfall lake.
The pipeline needed to be carved, the intake system built and the storm wouldn't wait.
She shaped the pipeline through the citadel foundations and out to the valley edge—stone parting around her fingers like soft clay. When she reached the lake mouth, she created a two-gate intake:
A lattice inner gate inside the newly carved water maintenance office, doubling as a guard post.
And an outer sliding stone sluice at the lake's edge, meant to block debris and regulate the force of incoming water.
By midday, she called out for Theo and Ben.
"Walk the line with me."
They followed her along the carved pipeline, verifying the pressure points, checking stability. Talia closed every district sluice gate except the tank feed.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Open it," Theo said.
She slid the outer gate.
Water rushed in, a deep roar echoing through the stone channel. Moments later, a heavy splash echoed through the basement tank.
"It's filling," Ben confirmed, eyes bright with satisfaction.
Talia finally exhaled.
One crisis prepared for.
Three more still looming.
By evening, she made another pass through the animal pens.
Except now… the pens were fuller.
"Uh," one of the farm workers said, pointing helplessly. "They… came in."
And indeed, they had.
Three new stone rabbit cubs nosed at the fence.
Five more bush chickens huddled on the perch.
A large turkey-like creature with an extravagant grass-feather crest regarded her with regal suspicion.
"Let me guess," Talia said tiredly. "Storm instinct?"
"Everything's running for shelter," the worker said. "They kind of… picked us."
Talia sighed. "All right. New paddock it is."
So she carved again.
A new chicken paddock, enclosed, with a coop and a flat roof with railings, to perch on regally and observe their territory.
A feeding line and a perch that wouldn't collapse under the combined weight of every bush chicken in the valley.
Lightning flickered faintly at the valley rim as she finished smoothing the last wall.
It was nearly midnight when she finally dragged herself toward her room.
Her body was a dull ache. Her hands vibrated faintly from overuse. Her mind hummed with worry.
How bad would this storm get? How long would it last? What would winter be like in a world where storms looked like this?
This wasn't Earth. This wasn't familiar. This wasn't safe.
It was a new and unforgiving world.
Talia curled onto her bedroll and closed her eyes, forcing her body to shut down.
Tomorrow, everything will change again.