Chapter 7 - Chapter 7: Fire in the Forge

Morning slid over Novaterra like a hand smoothing a wrinkled sheet. The sky brightened without spectacles; the grass decided to be green again; the watchtower creaked and then settled into its new bones. Chickens held a brief meeting and agreed to be loud. The cows did not attend. 😌

Aiden woke with the feeling that things were waiting—good things, loud things, necessary things. The [System] obliged.

[Morning Brief — Novaterra] • Blacksmith: 100% (Operational) • Barracks: 80% (ETA: tomorrow) • West Hollow: Dormant. Perimeter stable. Scout recommendation: daily. • Riversong: Stable. Request: Nails, rope, extra hands (5). • Mine Cycle: Iron 100 / Coal 200 / Stone 200 / Magic Crystal 1 • Caltrops: Materials staged (30 iron). Forge ready. • Morale: Confident 🙂

He barely had time to smile before the first bell clanged from the new forge—tentative, like a throat clearing. Then another strike answered, bright and sure. The sound raced through the frames and along Founders' Way like a rumor that remembered how to be a promise.

Aiden found the blacksmith by following his ears and nose: ring-ring ring, and the smell of hot iron and quenching oil. The shop looked modest—stone footings, tall windows to vent heat, a roof that would stop sparks from becoming novellas. Inside, the anvil held court. A broad-shouldered man with arms like tree roots lifted the hammer and brought it down in a way that made sense. Two younger apprentices (one freckled, one quietly furious at making mistakes) worked the bellows and fetched stock.

The smith looked up when Aiden stepped into the threshold. He didn't stop striking; he simply included Aiden in the rhythm. "Hadrik, lord," he said, in the pause between blows. "Shoes horses. Shoes soldiers. Shoes whatever will stand still long enough." His grin cracked the soot. "You ask for caltrops. I ask for iron and patience. You want the first or the second first?"

"First the iron," Aiden said, returning the grin. "I have patience on layaway."

Hadrik's laugh came out like a cough that learned to cheer. He nodded to the stacked ingots. "Venn has been counting them at me since dawn."

"Counting at you," Venn said, appearing like he'd been summoned by his name. "I prefer 'counting for you.' For the record." He adjusted his ledger with a tiny huff. "Thirty iron to caltrops. Ansel wants hinges after. Thorn wants bolts. The mine says: you are welcome."

"We'll make the ground sharp before we make doors swing," Hadrik decided. He set the red bar on the anvil and kissed it flat with three measured blows. "Apprentices—cut, bend, punch. Even triangles, not poetry. Poetry gets men limping."

The freckled one smiled despite himself. The furious one nodded like the sun had just been given a schedule.

Elara slipped in under the lintel with the quiet she wore like a cloak. She glanced around the forge, inhaled the iron smell with clear approval, and let some stiffness leak from her shoulders. "Good morning, Lord. Smith." She nodded to each as if they'd both earned introductions. "Scouts set for West Hollow. Rinna is walking Thorn's crew through a field test on the west road. Dace has the oval. Calder is making tea and threats." 😏

"Tea and threats?" Aiden asked.

"He threatened to sing if the recruits don't hydrate," Elara said. "They drank."

Aiden checked his list. "Escort to Riversong goes out in an hour. Nails, rope, and five steady hands." He tugged a corner of the [System] map. "We'll run caltrops to the west line by noon, lay them in a pattern you like. Barracks tomorrow. Then the wall—first corner."

"Strong before pretty," Elara said, eyes bright. "We'll teach stone the shape of a promise."

Hadrik's hammer agreed. Ring.

Riversong's escort assembled at Founders' Way with tidy bundles and the particular calm of people picked for not panicking. Two of the bought Soldiers—one older with a limp that didn't argue with his competence, one young with good eyes—took flanks. Three recruits with quiet feet filled the spaces. Venn handed over a list so neat it might have been ruled by a god. Ansel threatened the rope with dire fates if it frayed before it reached a dock.

"Walk," Elara said. "Don't swagger. Swagger invites opinions."

Aiden walked them as far as the first turn of the road. "Bring back a fish," he said, trying for light and hitting it. "Or at least a story."

"We'll try not to fall in," the youngest recruit promised, flushing as the others laughed. 🙂

Jory went up the tower as they left and played a jaunty two-note bit that wasn't any of the official signals but made the escort straighten anyway. "Practice," he called down when Elara arched a brow. "For… morale."

"Careful," she said. "Morale has a cousin named 'showing off.' He's a thief." Jory saluted the air, chastened and delighted in the same breath.

By midmorning the forge sang properly. Caltrops multiplied in orderly piles: cruel little stars meant for goblin feet. Hadrik worked like a man in a conversation with metal; the apprentices learned to stop sulking and start listening. Rinna arrived with Thorn's crew to pick up the first tray of bolts—sleek, iron-headed, fletched short for stiffness.

"Don't put your face over the bow," Hadrik said gravely. Tam flushed. "Don't ask how I know." Tam flushed harder. 😅

On the west edge, Elara set the pattern for caltrops with the precision of someone who liked predictability when the world refused it: staggered rows, pockets where a rush would tangle, clear paths marked for their own feet with subtle chalks only their side recognized. Calder followed with a bag of something that smelled like bitter herbs and a few words that tasted like oxen refusing to be spooked. The air felt… anchored.

Aiden paced between ready sites, letting his presence be the thing he could do. Mara matched him for three stretches before peeling off to go terrorize the latrine schedule, which she did with the contentment of a queen punishing traitors. "You build better when you don't have to run anywhere," she said over her shoulder. "Remember that, lord."

"I do," he said, and did.

The mine's second cart rattled in, stone clinking like coins. The crystal—today's—came wrapped in thick cloth with Venn's warning written on the top: DO NOT LICK. Someone had added, in a different hand: Tam. Tam pretended not to see it. 😇

Aiden turned toward the Barracks, where Ansel had coaxed angles into true and rafters into place. Recruits practiced in the oval, sweat drawing dark maps on tunics. Elara moved among them like a metronome that had discovered charm. "Spears are for friends," she said dryly when a thrust drifted wide. "Keep them out of friends."

Dace held a shield and let three recruits push against her in turn until they learned that push did not mean fall and that legs, not arms, did the work. Rinna drilled Thorn's crew on reloads until the clicks and thwacks became a sentence Aiden could read without looking.

The [System] chimed with a courtesy:

[Skill Uptick] • Cadre Alpha: Formation Discipline +1 • Thorn Crew: Reload Speed +1

He grinned. "We're leveling," he said under his breath, and it felt ridiculous and exactly right.

The Riversong escort returned near noon with rope accounted for, nails requested, and a fish as long as Jory's arm carried on a pole like a banner. The escort leader—older Soldier with the limp—reported short sentences that added up to no trouble, then offered the fish to Mara. Mara accepted it like a treaty and assigned three different stews to three different kitchens on the spot. "We'll pretend fish is glamorous," she announced. "Tonight, we eat like people who know water."

"Cheers to boats," someone shouted. "Cheers to not falling in," someone else added.

Aiden sent the escort back out with two more calm hands and a folded note to Riversong: Proud of you. Don't name the second boat "Definitely Not Falling In." You are tempting gods. He considered drawing a smiley, decided against it, then added a tiny fish. 🐟

He had just closed the [Riversong] pane when the tower horn spoke once: stranger approaching. Not fast. Not panicked. Aiden's chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with goblins.

He walked to the half-planned gate with Elara beside him and the reflexive thought—Lucien—scratching his ribs like a cat. It wasn't. The figure that came along the west road wore no coin-slick smile. She wore mud to mid-calf and a cloak too thin for any world, and her braid had lost the argument with the wind. A white staff-capped healer walked beside her, calm as a lake.

The young woman from the courtesy vision—Silverbrook's lord—raised a hand in greeting that wanted to be brave and almost made it. "We saw your smoke," she said, voice tremulous but clear. "And heard your horn. And… smelled your fish." A guilty, hopeful smile. "My name is Lia. I… came to ask for help."

Elara's posture changed in a way Aiden felt, not saw: not softening, exactly, but shifting weight toward empathy rather than edge. "You walked a hundred kilometers."

"Ninety-eight," the healer said mildly. "We cut a bend."

"On purpose?" Mara muttered, horrified and impressed. The healer's mouth twitched.

Aiden stepped forward so Lia didn't have to stand alone under so many eyes. "I'm Aiden of Novaterra," he said, and the word Novaterra did a warm thing in the air as if the town itself wanted to meet the guest. "This is Elara. That's Calder, our priest. And this—" he gestured at Thorn, who looked like a smug insect "—is Thorn."

"Hello, Thorn," Lia said solemnly, as if greeting a neighbor's dog. Tam beamed. 🥲

"What do you need?" Aiden asked.

Lia's throat worked. "Bandits," she said. "Not… many. Yet. But they've found the road by our river, and they want… everything that touches coin. We have fish. We have hands. We do not have… teeth." She looked at Elara's spear, then at Aiden's face. "I saw your line last night. I heard your horn. We have… a healer." She squeezed the staff-bearer's arm. "We don't have a you."

Aiden glanced at Elara. Duty slammed heads with wisdom in his skull. They were busy. West Hollow needed a constant press. The wall wanted its foundation like a newborn wanted milk. But letting a neighbor bleed two months into safety felt like an excuse that would teach the wrong lesson.

Calder saved him from pretending it was a simple choice. "If you let kindness die early," the priest murmured, not soft enough to be private, "you teach fear to run your ledger."

Elara's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes agreed.

Aiden exhaled. "We'll help," he said. Lia sagged and then caught herself, standing straighter out of respect for the dignity of the moment. "Not with everything," he added, because honesty buys more than promises. "We have our own edges to mind. But we can spare a bite."

Elara nodded. "A three-day detachment. We push bandits off the road, break their confidence, show Silverbrook how to hold a line. No heroics." She tilted her head toward Aiden, a silent your call on who.

"Rinna stays," Aiden said immediately; Thorn was west's anchor. "Dace goes. Ten Militia ready to listen, not prove. One of the bought Soldiers with experience, not swagger." He looked at Lia. "We'll also send rope and nails. Your road wants a fence. Fences teach manners."

Lia laughed on a sob. "We'll take manners." Her eyes shone. "Thank you. Thank you." 🥺

"Eat first," Mara snapped, because she had to fill any space that looked like weeping with food. "You can thank people with chewing."

They ate fish stew on benches that would be tables by next week. Lia ate like someone who had walked ninety-eight kilometers and pretended she hadn't. The healer (who introduced herself only as Sera) blessed Thorn with a smile that made Tam stand a little taller and Aiden worry a little less about sending anyone anywhere near a road with knives on it.

After, Elara laid the plan on the dirt with a stick. "Dace takes five militia and the older Soldier," she said. "Sera with them if Lia insists, otherwise she stays and learns our clinic's way with Calder for two days; we'll trade notes. We leave at midafternoon and sleep halfway, we hit the road market at Silverbrook at dawn, we move like a broom—not a spear."

"A broom," Lia repeated, as if the word itself had armor. "Yes. Please."

Jory leaned over the map with naked fascination. "Do bandits have horns? We should make them use horns. Then they'd have to learn calls and you can't stab people while learning calls—"

"Jory," Elara said, fond and devastating.

"Right," he said, flushing. "I'll… label the broom plan." He did, with a tiny broom. 🧹

By early afternoon, the first caltrop field lay under the grass like a secret lesson. Hadrik delivered a crate to the west line himself, as if iron wanted to see where it would work. The apprentices watched the militia set them with odd reverence; there's a special holiness in small ugly things that make big ugly things trip.

The Barracks roof took its last ridge beam. Ansel sat on the edge for a long second after the final peg and looked out at Novaterra, chest heaving, grin broad enough to hurt. He didn't call for applause. He just breathed like a man who had hit a nail that had deserved it.

Aiden stood at the planned wall corner with Elara as crews marked the trench with braided cord. He'd stared at the [Megaproject] pane long enough that its numbers had stopped trying to bite him and started feeling like lines he could coloring-book inside of.

"Trench depth one and a half," Elara said. "Crushed stone base. Big stones on the outside, rubble inside. We will add mortar later when we have lime. For now, gravity and stubbornness."

"I have both," Aiden said. "In bulk."

"Good," she answered, almost smiling.

They broke ground together. Not with their hands—he couldn't; she wouldn't dishonor the crew—but with a word and a nod that set spades and picks into motion. The earth rolled away; stones kissed dirt; the corner learned the first letter of the alphabet that would spell city.

The [System] hummed:

[Megaproject Initiated: Capital Wall — Corner I] • Progress: 1% • Passive Morale: +2 (People believe in lasting things)

A cheer rose, small and real. Someone started a chant and stopped, embarrassed, and then it caught anyway. Founders' Way carried the sound and the sound made Founders' Way feel paved even if it wasn't. 🙂

Dace's detachment formed at the half-gate: Dace herself—quiet sword, hard eyes—five militia with fresh caltrop scratches and eager faces, the older Soldier with the limp and a pair of calm hands for liaison. Lia tried not to wring her cloak. Sera tied a ribbon on her staff like a road blessing.

Aiden stood before them with that particular ache of a leader sending people away from the place his hands could reach. "No heroics," he said. "Be a broom. Sweep the road. Teach the hold. Come back." He looked at Dace. "They can lean on you."

"They will," Dace said simply.

Lia swallowed. "I will owe you—"

"You'll owe someone else someday," Aiden said gently. "Pay it forward. We're too far apart to survive alone." He felt the truth of the last word in his bones and hoped the world would agree.

They left to Jory's careful two-note not a signal, but encouragement. The detachment turned into the west and became a ribbon on the road. Aiden watched until the ribbon became thread and the thread became a story he would have to wait to hear. He hated waiting. He practiced it anyway. 😐

He was headed back toward the forge to nag Hadrik about hinges in his most respectful, least nagging voice when the horn blew again—stranger from the east this time. Jory's posture shifted: not afraid, not casual—alert. Elara's hand found her sword-hilt in a motion small enough that only Aiden noticed.

The figure coming from the east wore dust like jewelry and confidence like a coat. Not Lucien Duvall himself. A courier, by the look: lean, booted, cloak pinned with a silver token stamped with a fox's laughing face. He raised an empty hand, palm out, the way men do when they want to keep their teeth.

"Parley," he called. "Message from Duvall's Dominion for Lord Aiden of Novaterra."

The silence that followed wasn't fearful. It was the quiet of knives going back into sheaths slowly.

Elara nodded to the gate-that-wasn't. "Let him in," she said. "If he brought trouble, we'll teach it manners."

The courier entered with a half-bow calculated to flatter without groveling. He drew a sealed letter from his cloak with exaggerated care. The wax bore a fox in profile and a coin mid-flip. He offered it on an open palm.

Aiden did not take it—could not, by the rules of this place. The courier blinked, then remembered where he stood. He set the letter on a crate and stepped back.

"Lord Duvall bids you well," the courier said smoothly. "He offers trade—iron for grain, information for information, goodwill for goodwill. He also offers… friendly advice." The courier's smile showed zero teeth, which was an achievement. "Bandits tend to gather where roads are new. A lord with many projects may find his attention… divided."

Elara's eyebrow did something sword-like. "Friendly," she repeated, the word tested for balance.

Aiden looked at the wax, then at the man, then east, toward a domain he hadn't seen except as a shimmer. "Tell Lord Duvall," he said, "that Novaterra returns goodwill for goodwill. Trade is possible. Advice is… noted." He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He let calm be the thing, the way a wall could be handsome by being there.

The courier bowed that same not-grovel again. "He will be pleased," he said, as if reporting the weather. "I will carry your words." He hesitated, then added with a flash of something like personal opinion, "Your horn sounds good. Clean. Not desperate."

"Jory will insufferably enjoy that compliment," Elara said, deadpan. Jory tried, and failed, not to preen. 😏

The courier left the way he came, dust deciding he was interesting but not that interesting.

Mara stared at the letter like it might turn into a snake. "We're reading that with Calder and Elara in the room," she said. "And with Venn counting any syllables that try to cheat."

"Agreed," Aiden said. The wax fox looked up at him, coin forever mid-flip.

He took the step back that leaders have to take to see more than one thing at once. West Hollow sulked under new ash. Riversong sent fish. The forge sang. The barracks breathed timber and soon sweat. The first corner of a wall sat like a baby tooth in the gum of the earth: small, silly, important. A detachment moved toward Silverbrook with a broom instead of a spear. And from the east, a coin had flipped into a smile he would have to learn to translate.

He turned to Elara. "Tonight, same as last: perimeter, caltrops, no heroics."

"Tonight," she agreed. "And tomorrow, we see what foxes sell in daylight."

The [System] chimed the way a cat purrs when it wants you to believe everything is fine, for now.

[Afternoon Summary — Novaterra] • Blacksmith: Operational — Caltrops batch #1 complete (200). Hinges queued. • Barracks: 90% (Final bracing). • Wall Corner I: 1% → 3% (Trench set, base laid) • Riversong: Resupplied; morale high; first boat named "Try Not To Fall In" (unofficial). • West Hollow: Stable perimeter. Daily disruption recommended. • Detachment: En route to Silverbrook (ETA: dawn). • Courier: Duvall's Dominion — Trade overture received. • Morale: Steady → Curious 🙂

Aiden closed the pane and let the noise of the forge and the quiet of the tower wrap a moment around him.

"Novaterra," he said softly, "we build, we share, we bite when we must. And we don't flinch at foxes."

The wind decided to approve, just for the afternoon. The anvil agreed louder. And somewhere west, a drum tried to start a song and found caltrops where it expected applause.