The citadel doors had never been so crowded at dawn.
People clustered in anxious lines, wrapped in blankets or half-buttoned jackets, faces pale in the early grey. No chatter. No fidgeting children. Just the low murmur of breath and boots shifting on stone as everyone waited for the world outside to be real again.
When the heavy doors slid back, a wall of cold air hit them—sharp, clean, and wet enough to sting.
The valley beyond looked washed raw.
A pale grey morning stretched over Deepway, the sky still swollen with leftover storm clouds but no longer snarling. Mist rose from the soaked earth in long, ghostly ribbons. Everything glistened. Everything dripped.
The river was the first thing they noticed.
Normally a swift but manageable ribbon of water, it had swollen into a churning, doubled serpent—wide, furious, frothing white at the edges. The current ran so fast it looked like it wanted to rip itself out of its own banks.
Someone whispered, "If we'd still been in tents…"
No one finished the thought.
Trees along the bank lay snapped in clean halves or ripped out entirely, roots jutting like broken ribs. Mud had piled along the southern edge in smeared ridges. Bits of foliage and bark hung from branches like shredded flags.
And there, far across the meadow, against the western valley wall, sat a boulder the size of a two-story house.
Talia stared at it, arms crossed despite the cold. "That wasn't there before."
"No," Dad said beside her, voice hoarse. "And thank god it chose that side."
Behind them, more people filtered out, their boots sinking into mud-softened ground.
"We'll need to check if it changed the water flow," Ben muttered.
"We'll need to check everything," Grandma whispered.
And they did.
The clearing crews had been waiting since before dawn. As soon as the shock of the outside world settled, they moved with crisp, practiced urgency. Groups split off: debris-clearing, branch-cutting, mud-channeling. Someone rolled out the big crates of tools. The foragers grabbed fresh sacks. The runners dispersed to check trail markers.
Talia followed the first team down the meadow path. The stone routes she'd carved days earlier still held, but the sections she hadn't reinforced were narrow and sagging. She crouched, pressed her hand to the ground, and began strengthening each stretch—compressing the mud beneath, anchoring the edges, creating solid footing where erosion had eaten at the path.
Behind her, murmurs rose.
"She's reinforcing the whole trail—good."
"Bless the mountain, we'd be slipping everywhere."
"Careful of the mudslide zone—watch your footing!"
She kept working, slipping naturally into the rhythm that comforted her more than sleep. Tap, smooth, anchor. She didn't lift her head until Dav tapped her shoulder and pointed toward the tunnel crew disappearing down the slope.
Theo wandered with him, arms tucked stiffly across his chest, deep in conversation with two scouts.
"Go," Talia told him. "I'll finish here."
He nodded and jogged off.
The Council heads spread out as well—Grandpa Fin taking stock of damaged storage crates, Mum heading toward the farming district to check the greenhouse seals, Cael already snapping orders at volunteers forming impromptu clean-up groups.
Meanwhile, the rest of the population… showed their hearts.
Some rushed forward as soon as the council stepped outside.
"Where do you need us?"
"Tools?"
"Clearing or hauling?"
Others didn't wait for instructions—they simply bent, lifted, carried, dragged, helped. Those were the ones who saw Deepway as home. Some had wives, children, or siblings among the workers. Some just felt responsible because they'd survived together.
But there were others—the ones who hovered at the citadel door, uncertain. They watched but didn't join. Some wandered back inside, deciding the storm's aftermath wasn't their problem. Others simply loitered, waiting to see which way the crowd leaned.
Talia caught Theo's returning gaze across the meadow. He didn't speak, but his expression said everything.
We saw it. And we needed to.
The new Clan structure… was coming at exactly the right time.
Theo reached her just as she finished stabilizing the last ridge of the path.
"Tunnel's intact," he reported, passing her a waterskin. "Both entrances."
Talia drank. "Any damage?"
"Minor debris at the southern mouth, nothing serious. No cracks. No structural weakening."
"And the patrol?"
"Annoyed but alive." He snorted. "A few beasts tried to squeeze in during the worst of the storm. Poor things didn't know what hit them—guards took them out easily. Apparently the beasts were panicked, not attacking."
"Nature seeking shelter," she said softly.
Theo held out a bundled carcass. "Processing team will want this."
She passed it off to a watcher, who jogged away toward the temporary butchery station, nose wrinkled but proud of the catch.
Before she could respond, the foragers appeared—mud up to their shins, triumphant.
"Storm catch!" one shouted, lifting a wriggling bundle.
A chorus followed.
"We found seven bush-chickens hiding under an uprooted tree!"
"And these little guys!" Another forager held up a small creature the size of a kitten, long-eared with soft, spotted fur and a faintly glowing tail tip.
The six creatures blinked at the world with enormous eyes.
Half the bunker children shrieked and ran over, and within ten seconds the small rabbit-cat hybrids had been swallowed by squeals and gentle snuggling.
"Oh no," Talia whispered. "We're keeping all of them."
"We are absolutely keeping all of them," Grandma confirmed, already taking two from the nearest child to examine them for injury.
The foragers began sorting: wild beasts to cages, domesticatable ones to the pens. The bush-chicken flock had grown by five. Theo muttered something about needing a census.
Talia smiled despite herself. The valley felt wounded—but alive.
But she felt the mountain calling more strongly than the chatter around her.
There was work to do. Work only she could do.
In the early afternoon, once most critical damage had been assessed and the foragers had returned for the second haul, she slipped back inside the citadel. The halls were quieter than usual—people scattered, fixing, hauling, cleaning. The glow-moss lit the pathways gently, giving the mountain a calm, steady pulse.
Her steps automatically took her back to the husbandry district.
The caverns still smelled faintly of dust and fresh stone—the comforting scent of creation. Talia rolled up her sleeves and went to the front cliff facing wall.
This would be the best gate area. Where the creatures inside could be let into an outdoor pasture.
She pressed her palms to the stone, inhaled, and pushed.
The rock softened under her will, reshaping like thick clay. She widened the original opening, carved out the frame of towering double doors, then hollowed out a second set just beyond—security layers, later efficiency, and future expansions all in one gesture.
When she stepped back, the husbandry district boasted a proper ramp—broad, reinforced, practical—and a bay large enough for wagons they didn't yet possess.
She shaped grooves for future defense weapons, smoothed the stone until the walls gleamed with faint mineral sheen, and anchored support pillars with a craftsman's pride.
When she finally stopped, the sun had dipped behind the mountain crest, casting the valley in soft blues.
Her hands throbbed. Her head buzzed. Her ribs ached lightly from the pacing of her healing skill.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist.
"That's enough," she murmured to herself—and to the mountain. "I did enough for today."
Outside the beast gate, a runner passed by and waved. "Dav's back, Talia! He said—when you're done—to meet him before dinner."
"Good," she said. "I'm heading up now."
Her boots echoed softly through the halls as she made her way toward the bunker. People were talking again—not with storm-frightened whispers, but with the cautious relief of those who have seen the world survive a test and found themselves surviving with it.
As she stepped into the warm glow of the upper hall, she felt it settle deep within her:
The storm had shaken them—but it hadn't broken them.
And Deepway, for the first time, stood together not only because they feared the world outside…
…but because they were beginning to care about the world they were building inside.