The moat was deeper than originally planned.
Misaki stood at the bottom of the excavation—five meters down instead of the three he'd initially specified—and ran calculations through his head for the third time that morning. The dimensions bothered him in the way that good engineering always did: they represented a solution to a problem he hadn't wanted to acknowledge.
"You're certain about this?" Syvra called down from the surface, her two-hundred-year-old face skeptical. "That's a significant deviation from the approved specifications."
"Vel'koda'mir has water manipulation specialists in their military ranks," Misaki replied, checking the trench walls' stability with practiced efficiency. "I've seen the intelligence reports. If we fill this with water like a traditional moat, they'll freeze it solid for their siege towers to cross, or worse—they'll weaponize it. Turn our defensive barrier into a drowning trap for our own people."
He climbed the ladder back to surface level, brushing excavated soil from his work clothes. "So we fill it with something they can't manipulate. Something that turns their tactical advantage into a liability."
"Oil." Syvra's tone suggested she'd already guessed his reasoning but wanted confirmation anyway.
"Oil. Specifically, the thick petroleum tar that Seleun'mhir extracts from the eastern deposits. The same substance you use for lamp fuel in the mountain cities." Misaki gestured at the deep trench circling Stone's End's outer fortifications. "Five meters deep, eight meters wide, filled with a substance that's extremely difficult to ignite accidentally but burns for hours once lit. Any assault force trying to cross will either build bridges—which we can destroy with fire arrows—or attempt to drain it, which is effectively impossible given the volume."
The defensive coordinator studied the excavation with the calculating expression of someone mentally revising tactical assessments. "That's... actually brilliant. And terrifying. You're essentially creating a weapon that can incinerate hundreds of soldiers simultaneously."
"I'm creating a deterrent," Misaki corrected quietly. "Something so obviously lethal that no rational commander orders their troops across it. The goal isn't to burn people alive—the goal is to make the fortification too expensive to assault."
Syvra nodded slowly. "The eastern oil deposits produce approximately forty thousand liters monthly. Most goes to lighting infrastructure, but we can divert perhaps fifteen thousand for this project without causing civilian hardship." She pulled out her planning documents, already calculating logistics. "At eight meters wide, five meters deep, circling the entire outer wall perimeter... you're looking at roughly six months to fill the moat completely. Longer if we experience supply delays."
"Six months is manageable." Misaki checked his surveying notes. "The outer wall foundation won't be ready for another four anyway. We're still ahead of schedule."
Movement at the trench edge caught his attention. Sera sat cross-legged on the excavated soil, Misaki's canvas tool bag open before her, carefully organizing metal implements by size and function. Her seven-year-old face showed intense concentration as she arranged hammers, chisels, measuring tools, and stakes into neat rows.
"What are you doing?" Misaki asked, amused.
"Making systems." She didn't look up from her sorting. "You said good engineering requires good organization. So I'm organizing the tools so you can find them faster."
The simple logic was endearing. "That's very helpful. Thank you."
"Also, the small hammer is my favorite because it fits in my hand properly." She held up a geological hammer with obvious pride. "The big ones are too heavy."
"Then that one's your official tool," Misaki said seriously. "Every good assistant needs their own equipment."
Sera's face lit up with the kind of pure joy that only children experiencing validation could produce. She immediately tucked the hammer into her belt like she'd seen the construction workers do, standing a little straighter with the weight of her new responsibility.
Hours later, after the work crews had transitioned to afternoon excavation rotations, Misaki and Sera returned to their quarters in Stone's End's communal housing district. The refugee section had evolved over three months from temporary shelter into something resembling actual community—families establishing routines, children playing in designated areas, elderly residents gathering in shared spaces to exchange stories and wisdom accumulated over centuries.
Their assigned room was modest: twelve square meters containing sleeping pallets, storage chests, a small table, and a window overlooking the inner city's market district. But it was theirs, and that mattered more than luxury.
Feya sat near the window with Kyn sleeping in her lap, the infant's nine-month-old face peaceful in afternoon rest. The shy apprentice mage had transformed over the past months from traumatized refugee into something approaching confident young woman—still quiet, still reserved, but no longer afraid to exist in shared spaces.
She looked up when they entered, her finger rising to her lips in the universal gesture for silence. Sera immediately modulated her energy, tiptoeing across the room with exaggerated care that would have been comical if it weren't so genuine.
Lyria emerged from the attached washroom, her healer's bag slung over one shoulder, her amber eyes tired but satisfied. "Good timing. I was just about to make the workers' medicine. Muscle aches have been terrible this week—apparently the foundation excavation requires core strength that most of the crew hasn't developed yet."
"Lots of bruises too," Sera reported in a whisper, settling at the table with her reading materials. "I saw three people at midday meal with big purple spots on their arms."
"Impact injuries from improper lifting technique," Lyria agreed, pulling clay jars and cloth bundles from her medicinal supplies. "Nothing serious, but they'll appreciate the pain relief."
She began her preparations with practiced efficiency—grinding dried herbs in a mortar, mixing powders in specific ratios, creating salves that would reduce inflammation and promote muscle recovery. The room filled with sharp botanical scents: mint for cooling, arnica for bruising, willow bark for general pain relief.
Sera spread parchment across the table and retrieved her writing implements—a luxury Misaki had purchased for her after recognizing her genuine interest in literacy. She'd been practicing letters for two months now, her childish script gradually improving from incomprehensible scribbles into recognizable words.
"I'm writing about the tools," she announced quietly, her tongue poking between her teeth in concentration. "So I remember all their names."
Misaki watched her work for a moment—this tiny survivor who'd walked through hell carrying her infant brother, now safe enough to worry about proper penmanship—and felt something tighten in his chest. The contrast between her past trauma and current normalcy was almost painful.
He turned to his own preparations. The scout's blade hung on its designated wall mount, the weapon that had become extension of his combat capabilities over six months of daily practice. He lifted it down, feeling the familiar weight distribution, the balance point that his muscles now recognized instinctively.
The blade was Seleun'mhir military issue—seventy centimeters of folded steel, single-edged, designed for quick draw and rapid cutting techniques. Nothing like the katanas from Earth's Japanese tradition, but close enough that Misaki's aerospace training's cultural immersion had provided foundational understanding of similar weapons philosophy.
He moved through his practice forms in the room's limited space, each movement deliberate and controlled. Overhead cut. Horizontal slash. Rising diagonal. Thrust. Retreat. The forms weren't about power—his strength scores would never support that approach. They were about precision, about understanding angles and momentum, about developing muscle memory that would function under combat stress.
"You're getting faster," Feya observed quietly from her position by the window.
"Muscle adaptation," Misaki replied between forms. "The body learns efficiency through repetition."
Outside, the afternoon sun—Ulth'rk—descended toward the mountain horizon, painting Stone's End in amber and crimson. The city's population had swelled over recent months as refugees from Ul'varh'mhir's genocide continued arriving, seeking shelter in Seleun'mhir's neutral territory. The communal quarters that once seemed spacious now felt dense with human presence, every available room occupied, every public space utilized.
Somewhere in that growing population mix were the newest arrivals—a contingent that had entered through the eastern gates just hours earlier, their presence announced by city guards with unusual formality.
The dwarves had arrived.
Misaki stood at the outer fortification site as the dwarven convoy established their encampment in the designated area beyond the construction zones. They moved with military precision—setting tents, organizing equipment, establishing perimeter markers—but the efficiency carried none of the rigid formality of human soldiers. Instead, it reflected cultural discipline developed over generations of cooperative engineering projects.
There were forty-seven of them. Misaki counted twice to be certain. Forty-seven dwarves, each carrying tools and materials that represented specializations he could only guess at. They were shorter than humans—averaging perhaps 130 centimeters—but built with the kind of compact muscle density that suggested strength far exceeding their size.
What struck Misaki most wasn't their physical presence but their social organization. Unlike Ul'varh'mhir—where the population consisted almost entirely of humans with scattered hobbit minorities—Seleun'mhir displayed genuine racial diversity. The city guard included humans, dwarves, and what Misaki had learned were forest-adapted elves called Syl'varen. The merchant districts featured halfling traders, mountain hobbit craftsmen, even the occasional representative from more exotic populations that Misaki hadn't yet identified.
"Humans represent eighteen percent of Vulcan's total population," Lyria had explained during one of their evening conversations. "We're actually a minority species globally, though we've established territorial dominance in several regions through sheer reproductive rate and political organization. Ul'varh'mhir is unusual—most nations maintain more balanced racial demographics."
Watching the dwarven specialists work, Misaki understood why Seleun'mhir valued diversity. The precision they brought to camp establishment suggested engineering expertise that would shame most human construction crews. Every tent aligned perfectly. Every equipment cache positioned for optimal accessibility. Every measurement verified before implementation.
Syvra approached across the construction site, accompanied by a dwarf whose bearing indicated leadership. The newcomer wore practical work clothes reinforced with what looked like hardened leather panels, their dark beard braided with metal clasps that might have been purely decorative or might have served some technical function Misaki didn't recognize.
"Misaki Haruto," Syvra said formally, "may I present Master Sev'ea Thrun'dakor, Chief Engineer of the Eastern Mountain Halls and appointed coordinator for siege equipment production."
Sev'ea studied Misaki with eyes that had clearly evaluated thousands of engineering projects. "So. You're the Earth human who convinced Seleun'mhir to rebuild their border fortifications using principles from another world." The dwarf's voice carried an accent Misaki couldn't place—consonants slightly harder, vowels more rounded. "Syvra shared your architectural revisions. The concentric wall approach is sound. The moat concept is inspired. The projected timeline is optimistic but potentially achievable."
"Thank you," Misaki replied, uncertain whether he was receiving compliment or criticism.
"However," Sev'ea continued, "fortifications mean nothing without proper siege equipment to defend them. Which is why the Mountain Halls sent our best specialists to ensure Stone's End receives weapons worthy of your wall designs."
The dwarf gestured toward the convoy's material wagons. "We brought tools, raw materials, and technical specifications for defensive siege engines that will revolutionize this city's tactical capabilities. Trebuchets with improved leverage systems. Ballista platforms with enhanced torque distribution. Catapults utilizing spring tension principles that your human engineers haven't discovered yet."
Misaki's engineering mind immediately engaged with the implications. "Improved how? What kind of performance gains?"
"Our current generation siege equipment averages five percent increased range over traditional human designs, achieved through lighter construction materials that don't compromise structural integrity. The weight reduction also improves repositioning speed—critical during siege conditions when defensive angles shift rapidly." Sev'ea's expression suggested professional pride rather than arrogance. "Dwarven siege engineering represents eight hundred years of continuous refinement. We don't share those specifications lightly."
"Then why share them now?" Misaki asked directly.
"Because Vel'koda'mir's expansion threatens neutral territory. Because genocide destabilizes regional power balance. Because building walls without weapons is decorative architecture, not defensive infrastructure." The dwarf's tone hardened slightly. "And because the Mountain Halls recognize expertise when we encounter it, regardless of species origin. Your engineering principles may be unfamiliar, but they're sound. We respect sound engineering."
Sev'ea paused, then added quietly: "Also, Syvra mentioned you adopted two refugee children. A seven-year-old girl and her infant brother. That you're raising them despite being barely more than a child yourself by my people's standards." The dwarf's expression softened fractionally. "The Mountain Halls value those who protect the vulnerable. It speaks to character that transcends technical competence."
Misaki hadn't expected that assessment. "I... thank you. Sera and Kyn are—"
"Family," Sev'ea interrupted. "Yes. I understand." The dwarf turned toward the encampment, where teams were already beginning preliminary measurements of the fortification walls. "Now. Business. My people will establish our workspace separate from human construction areas. Not because we distrust your workers, but because our methods include proprietary techniques that the Mountain Halls have protected for centuries. You'll understand—as an engineer—that some knowledge must remain restricted to preserve competitive advantage."
"Industrial secrets," Misaki translated.
"Precisely. However, we'll coordinate with your construction schedules to ensure siege platforms integrate properly with wall architecture. Syvra indicated you prefer collaborative planning rather than parallel development?"
"Integrated design prevents compatibility problems later," Misaki agreed. "If the siege equipment doesn't fit the fortification layout, we've wasted resources building both."
"Excellent. Then we'll begin wall thickness verification tomorrow morning. Third hour after dawn, eastern approach section. Bring your specifications." Sev'ea extended a hand in what Misaki recognized as the universal gesture of professional agreement. "Welcome to multiracial engineering cooperation, Earth human. Try not to embarrass your species."
Misaki shook the dwarf's hand—noting the grip strength that confirmed his earlier assessment about compact muscle density—and smiled despite himself. "I'll do my best."
As Sev'ea returned to the dwarven encampment, Syvra lingered beside Misaki. "They're setting up separately because they genuinely don't want their techniques stolen," she said quietly. "The Mountain Halls have been building siege equipment longer than most human kingdoms have existed. Those specifications represent cultural heritage they protect fiercely."
"I understand," Misaki replied, watching the dwarves work. "Earth had similar dynamics. Military technology, industrial patents, trade secrets." He paused. "Though it does make me wonder what innovations they're protecting. Five percent range increase through weight reduction suggests materials science advances I'd like to understand."
"Perhaps you'll earn their trust enough to learn." Syvra's tone suggested she considered that unlikely but possible. "Dwarves respect competence above all else. Demonstrate engineering excellence, and they'll treat you as peer regardless of species. Fail to meet their standards..." She trailed off meaningfully.
"Then I'd better not fail," Misaki said simply.
The sun descended toward the mountain peaks, painting the construction site in dramatic shadows. Forty-seven dwarven specialists established their separate workspace with methodical precision. Somewhere beyond the fortifications, oil extraction operations prepared shipments that would eventually fill the black moat with its deadly deterrent.
And in the communal quarters, a seven-year-old girl practiced her letters while an infant slept peacefully nearby, both of them safe for perhaps the first time in their short lives.
The pieces were moving into position. The fortifications taking shape. The timeline compressing toward inevitable confrontation.
Stone's End was becoming something more than a border city. It was becoming a statement: this far, and no further.
Misaki just hoped the statement would hold when Vel'koda'mir finally decided to test it.