A few days later, we finally arrived at the ruins of the outpost.

  Tink, seated at the reins of the wagon, gave me a sharp look and an irritated tone. “Stop playing with your new thunder pipe and pay attention, you big lug.”

  I chuckled, setting the weapon down across my lap as I looked ahead—only for my grin to fade.

  The outpost loomed before us, blackened and broken. Scorched walls and burned-out buildings stood as silent witnesses to the violence that had passed through this place. Amidst the wreckage, the blockhouse still stood—a squat, cube-shaped bastion with a stone base and a wooden second floor, its murder-holes gaping like empty eyes.

  As the expedition circled the wagons around the blockhouse, Captain Firebeard wasted no time issuing orders. Trees were marked for cutting, work crews dispatched to gather materials, and sentries posted along the perimeter. Tink and I unloaded our gear, setting up my small workshop beneath the protective shadow of the blockhouse walls.

  The captain approached soon after, his expression all business. “Master Smith,” he said, “I’ll be needing your skills for more than just repairs. The Rangers will need paper cartridges—and a steady supply of them. The pay will be better than what we agreed.”

  I gave a nod, hiding my surprise at the generous offer. “Consider it done, Captain.”

  The work began immediately. Trees fell beneath the steady swing of axes, and the bones of the new fort began to take shape from the ashes of the old. I found myself pausing more than once, watching the speed and precision of the Rangers and builders as they raised walls and reinforced the blockhouse into a true citadel.

  Every man and woman had their task. The latrines were dug first, followed by the larger pit beside it—destined to become the underground mushroom farm. Tink was eager to show me the rune-marked stones the gnomes had brought along for the farm’s walls.

  “They soak up the nutrients from the offal,” she explained, tapping one of the stones with her knuckles, “and push it into the soil. Makes the mushrooms grow faster and richer. Efficient and sustainable.”

  I tried not to grimace at the thought of it.

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  Curious about the water supply, I asked the sergeant nearby, who pointed toward the blockhouse’s inner yard. “Elven make,” he said, motioning toward a crystalline orb nestled within a protective frame. “Water stone. Constant flow of pure water—placed in a cistern inside the citadel. From there, pipes’ll run it where it’s needed.”

  The system was clever—practical, reliable. Exactly what we’d need if another siege ever came.

  Construction continued at a relentless pace. Barracks, alehouse, dormitories, hospital, animal barns—all rose from the soil like crops sprouting in the spring. Ostrog Towers were erected at each corner of the fort, their simple wooden designs reminiscent of the human fortifications from the last great war against the Horde. But this time, there was an added twist—the tunnels beneath, dug by dwarven hands and lined with trap runes, ready to collapse and bury any would-be invaders who dared breach our walls.

  Above the citadel, the gnomes clambered like squirrels, stringing cables and installing the semaphore system—a web of flags, pulleys, and mirrors that would let us send signals across great distances. At the heart of it all, Captain Firebeard kept a communication orb at his side, a gift from the elves. Limited in range, but good enough for short messages. Combined with the semaphore relays, it would keep us in contact with other outposts and the nearest settlements.

  In less than a week, the skeleton of the fort stood proud, halfway to completion—a monument to dwarven craftsmanship and stubborn will. Patrols rode out daily to scout the surrounding lands, securing the nearby trade routes.

  It wasn’t long before we spotted the flickering lights of the second expedition approaching from the south. Relief spread through the camp as fresh bodies and supplies arrived. More Rangers, more builders, more hands to finish what we had started.

  With their arrival, the outpost came alive. Empty barracks filled with voices and laughter. The halls echoed with the clang of hammers, the scrape of whetstones against steel, and the warm sound of mugs raised in evening cheer.

  For my part, work never seemed to slow. Word had spread of my “papered loads,” and orders continued to pile up. Tink, always quick to lend a hand (and quicker to remind me that she expected fair pay), stopped by often to help meet the demand. Between the two of us, we kept the Rangers’ ammunition flowing steady.

  In the quiet hours after the day’s work was done, I often found myself at the barracks’ hearth. The Rangers would leave a space open at the fire for me, mugs of ale passed freely as stories of old battles and lost loves filled the night air. It was simple. Honest. The kind of peace you only find between comrades who know the edge of death and have chosen to laugh anyway.

  We weren’t just building walls out here—we were carving out a place of safety in the heart of a wild land. A sanctuary. A home.

  And though the work was hard and the days long, I felt a growing pride in what we had accomplished. The fort stood not just as stone and timber, but as proof that civilization could hold the line against the dark.

  There would be more battles to come. Of that, I was certain. But for now, I will enjoy the company.