Riona hefted a mana stone crate from the wagon bed, testing the weight. Heavier than expected, but manageable. She adjusted her grip and started toward the colony entrance.

  The lift descended smoothly, amber runes pulsing along the shaft walls. A few months ago, she'd been watching herds. Now she carried magical stones into an ancient dwarven forge-complex while wearing militia-issued armor.

  Still wasn't used to that.

  The corridor opened into the main workshop area. Runes provided steady light, casting everything in cool blue-white. Riona stepped through, boots echoing off seamless stone.

  Carl sat hunched over a workbench near the far wall, tablet propped beside him. His fingers moved in quick, frustrated gestures—adjusting something, checking the screen, muttering under his breath.

  Ember stood beside him.

  The repair golem looked nothing like Zim. Smaller, rounded, bronze plating worn smooth from centuries of work. Four articulated limbs worked with steady precision, etching runes into a strip of dark metal. The glyphs glowed faintly as Ember shaped them, each mark deliberate and exact.

  Riona slowed her approach, watching.

  Ember had been dormant when she'd first descended. Just another relic among many. Now the golem moved with purpose, helping Carl the same way it might have once helped dwarven smiths centuries ago.

  The settlement didn't stop for anything.

  Carl's muttering grew louder. "...can't stabilize the draw. Core fragments bleed too much—lattice doesn't help if the source itself fluctuates." He tapped the tablet screen, scrolled through something, and groaned. "Three prototypes. All the same problem."

  Ember paused mid-rune, limbs adjusting slightly. Its central glow pulsed once—soft, amber warmth.

  Carl didn't look up. "I know, I know. Broader channels won't fix it if the core output spikes every third cycle." He rubbed his eyes. "We need something consistent. Something that doesn't...."

  He trailed off, staring at the tablet like it had personally offended him.

  Ember resumed etching.

  Riona shifted her weight, crate still balanced against her hip. She'd never seen Carl this wound up before. Usually he bounced between excitement and frantic energy, but this was different.

  This was stuck.

  Carl muttered again, quieter now. "Battery works fine for the radios. Fine for the stabilizers. But rifles need clean output—can't have variance when you're channeling photonic bursts." He flipped through another screen. "Core fragments are too unstable. We need—"

  He stopped.

  Stared at the tablet.

  "We need a different power source entirely."

  Ember's rune-work completed. The golem stepped back, limbs folding into resting position. The metal strip cooled, glyphs settling into faint, steady light.

  Carl didn't notice.

  He sat frozen, eyes locked on whatever diagram filled the screen. His jaw worked silently, like he was chewing through a dozen thoughts at once.

  Riona cleared her throat.

  Carl jerked upright, tablet nearly slipping from his hands. "Riona—I didn't—when did you—" He blinked rapidly, focusing on her for the first time. "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Long enough," Riona said. She nodded toward the workbench. "Sounded like you were arguing with yourself."

  Carl flushed. "I wasn't—well, maybe a little." He glanced at Ember. "The rifle batteries aren't working. Core fragments can't deliver stable enough output for sustained fire. Every test prototype either bleeds energy or surges unpredictably."

  Riona set the crates down beside the bench. "Brought these from the wagon. Mana stones from the trade expedition ."

  Carl stared at the crate.

  Then at Riona.

  "Their here?" he asked. "I thought the return trip would take longer."

  Riona shrugged "Tanna said traveled through the night, really tired them out but they arrived in good time." She gestured toward the crates. "Figured I'd bring these down since they are all in a meeting with Edda in the long house. Also wanted to tell you about my bad shot."

  Carl blinked. "Bad shot?"

  "Elk. Sixty meters." Riona's jaw tightened. "Missed completely. Kesh had to finish it."

  Carl winced. "Ah."

  "We still need proper training on these weapons," Riona continued. "No matter how many times I shoot, I can't make an accurate shot. Close range? Fine. Anything beyond twenty meters and I might not waste my shots."

  Carl nodded slowly. "Morg and Jonson have the same problem. They can hit targets when they're close, but distance…" He trailed off, then brightened. "Doc's here, though. We should ask him."

  Riona frowned. "Doc knows how to use it?"

  Carl hesitated.

  The pause stretched.

  Riona waited.

  "The… the weapon blueprint was provided by Doc," Carl said carefully.

  Riona absorbed that. She'd heard stories about Doc and his impossible knowledge. But she hadn't realized he'd designed the rifles himself. She really needed to properly introduce herself to him.

  "Right," she said. "Then he'd know how to use it properly."

  "Exactly." Carl stood, brushing metal filings from his trousers. "Come on. Since his back, we should ask now before he leave again on the expedition."

  Riona glanced at Ember. "What about—"

  "Ember's fine," Carl said, already moving. "He'll keep working."

  The golem's central glow pulsed once—soft acknowledgment.

  Riona followed Carl toward the elevator.

  The lift ascended smoothly, runes fading as natural light filtered in from above. Riona stepped out into cold mountain air, boots crunching on packed snow.

  The longhouse stood solid against the ridgeline—timber walls reinforced with stone, smoke rising from the central chimney. Voices carried from inside.

  Carl headed straight for the entrance.

  Riona followed.

  Inside, warmth wrapped around them. The central hearth burned steady, casting orange light across the main hall. A cluster of figures sat near the fire—Edda, Ironha, Marron, Dulric.

  And Doc.

  He sat with his back to the door. Fish lay beside him, head resting on her paws.

  "—stones are higher quality than expected," Marron was saying. "Kraggir knows his business. We'll get fair value even at guild rates."

  Edda nodded. "How many crates total?"

  "Twelve," Marron replied. "Enough to fund tool purchases and secure future trade relationships."

  Dulric leaned forward, firelight catching the edges of his beard. "Any luck finding Emberstone?"

  Doc shook his head. "Not yet. Kraggir mentioned possible sources farther south, but nothing confirmed."

  Ironha shifted, hands folded in her lap. "What about the wounded at Threeburrow? Did the tonics help?"

  "All seven are on a path to recovery," Doc said. "Ygrana sent her thanks through the radio."

  Ironha relaxed slightly.

  Carl cleared his throat.

  Doc turned.

  Fish's head lifted.

  "Carl," Doc said, standing. "When did you get back up here?"

  "Just now." Carl adjusted his glasses. "Riona and I need to talk to you about something."

  "What's wrong?" Doc asked.

  "Not wrong," Carl said quickly. "Just… we need help with the rifles."

  Doc paused. "rifles?"

  Carl turned to Riona. "Can I borrow your rifle?"

  She unstrapped the weapon and handed it over.

  Carl carried it to Doc. "This is what we've been working on."

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Doc accepted the rifle carefully. His prosthetic hand traced the bronze casing, fingers stopping at the runic etchwork along the barrel. The weight felt substantial—balanced but dense.

  "The frame is dwarven steel," Carl explained. "We adapted your emitter design to work with local materials."

  Doc examined the construction more closely. "What's dwarven steel?"

  Dulric stood from his seat near the hearth. "Base metal forged with powdered mana stone. Standard material in modern dwarven craft."

  Doc turned the rifle over, noting the structural density. "This doesn't feel standard."

  Dulric's expression shifted slightly. "It's not. We salvaged the metal from inactive constructs in the golem vault." He paused. "Most of those units are useless now. The techniques used to create them are lost. We decided to repurpose the material instead of letting it sit idle."

  "Makes sense," Doc said.

  Dulric continued, his tone measured. "This steel is different from what modern smiths produce. When I asked Varnak about it, he…" Dulric hesitated. "He said modern dwarven steel is fake."

  Doc's brow furrowed. "Varnak?"

  "Long story," Dulric replied. "I'll explain in due time."

  Doc nodded slowly, then looked back at Carl. "How can I help?"

  Carl gestured toward Riona. "She can explain better than I can."

  Riona stepped forward, shoulders squared. "The rifle works. Power's stable, shots discharge clean. But accuracy is terrible past thirty meters."

  "Recoil?" Doc asked.

  "Not recoil," Riona said. "It's the mana discharge. Every shot kicks the barrel off-target—not from the force, but from the energy release. Feels like the bolt wants to go somewhere else."

  Doc frowned slightly. "Energy drift."

  "Maybe?" Riona said. "Morg and Jonson have the same problem. We've been trying different stances, different holds. Nothing fixes it."

  Doc raised the rifle, sighting casually toward the far wall. His posture adjusted without thought.

  Then he lowered it. "I need to test it before I can show you how to use it properly."

  Riona's expression brightened. "Really?"

  "Yes," Doc said. "Once I understand the discharge behavior, I can write a training plan."

  She smiled. “I’ll go gather the others. Morg and Jonson will want to see this.”

  Carl stepped in beside Doc. “I’ll show you the way to the training area.”

  Doc glanced at Carl. “Thanks.” Then he turned to the group by the hearth. “Mind if I step out?”

  Edda waved him off. “Go. We’re almost done here.”

  Marron smirked. “Try not to shoot the palisade.”

  Doc slung the rifle over his shoulder. Fish rose at once, padding to his side.

  Outside, the cold bit hard. Carl led them toward the southern perimeter, past packed snow and half-buried timbers. The training ground lay beyond the partial palisade—a cleared stretch of frozen earth with snow-dusted logs set at measured distances.

  “Targets are out to fifty meters,” Carl said. “That’s where it starts falling apart.”

  Doc studied the range. Clean lines. Stable ground. Safe angles.

  Boots crunched behind them as Riona returned with two men—one older and broad-shouldered, the other younger, carrying a second rifle.

  “Morg. Jonson,” she said.

  Carl stopped just behind Doc, eyes fixed on the weapon now resting in Doc’s hands.

  Doc stepped forward, adjusted his grip, and faced the targets.

  “Alright,” he said quietly.

  Time to see what they’d built.

  Lux, scan the weapon. Full analysis.

  Acknowledged.

  The rifle's profile lit up in Doc's HUD—structural overlay, energy channels, rune patterns along the barrel. Lux tracked energy flow, or mana flow as the locals call it, through the core housing and mapped the emitter assembly in precise detail.

  Analysis complete. Energy regulation inconsistent. Core output fluctuates by eight to twelve percent per discharge. Focusing coil design stable but compensates poorly for energy variance. Conductor rod requires recalibration between shots.

  Expected accuracy?

  Effective range: fifty to eighty meters with proper stabilization. Current user error compounds deviation significantly.

  Doc nodded.

  He lifted the rifle, settling the stock against his shoulder. The weight distribution felt front-heavy but manageable. He adjusted his stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, body angled to absorb recoil.

  The target sat forty meters out. A log with a painted circle.

  Doc exhaled slowly, let his breath settle, and squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle hummed.

  A blue bolt lanced forward, striking the log dead center.

  Mana recoil kicked the barrel upward and left—subtle but distinct. Not physical. Energy displacement.

  Doc lowered the rifle. "Interesting."

  Mana discharge imparts directional drift. Predictable vector: eleven degrees upward, seven degrees left. Recoil dampens within point-four seconds.

  Carl stepped closer. "You hit it perfectly."

  "First shot," Doc said. "Let me try again."

  He raised the rifle, braced the stock, exhaled.

  Second shot. Blue light. Direct hit.

  Same recoil pattern.

  Third shot. Same result.

  Doc lowered the weapon and turned to the group. "The rifle's stable. The problem isn't the weapon—it's how you're holding it."

  Riona's brow furrowed. "We've been bracing."

  "Show me," Doc said.

  She took her rifle from Jonson and stepped forward. Her stance was wide, body tense. She raised the rifle, stock pressed tight against her shoulder, but her grip looked rigid—white-knuckled on the forward grip.

  She fired.

  The bolt went high and wide, missing the forty-meter target entirely.

  Subject's breathing pattern irregular. Muscle tension in shoulders and forearms exceeds optimal threshold. Stock contact unstable. Trigger pull initiated mid-inhale.

  Lux flagged every deviation in real time.

  Doc stepped beside her. "Again. Don't adjust."

  Riona fired twice more. Both shots missed.

  Doc gestured for Morg next.

  The older man stepped up, rifle in hand. His stance was better—more grounded—but his posture sagged slightly to the left. When he fired, the bolt went low.

  Subject favors left side. Barrel alignment drifts three degrees downward at discharge. Breath control acceptable but follow-through absent.

  Jonson went last. Younger, steadier, but his shots scattered—high, low, left.

  Subject anticipates recoil. Flinch reflex triggers point-two seconds before discharge. Grip tightens at moment of firing, destabilizing mana flow through emitter.

  Doc lowered his hand. "Alright. I see the problem."

  He walked back to Riona first.

  "Your body's fighting the rifle," Doc said. "You're gripping too hard, tensing before the shot. The mana recoil magnifies that. Every muscle twitch becomes directional drift."

  She frowned. "How do I stop?"

  "Relax your grip," Doc said. "The rifle doesn't need force. It needs stillness."

  He adjusted her hands—loosening her forward grip, repositioning her trigger finger.

  "Stock stays firm against your shoulder," he continued. "But don't pull it inward. Let it rest."

  Riona nodded slowly.

  "Breathe," Doc said. "Inhale. Exhale halfway. Pause. Fire during the pause."

  She tried again.

  The bolt struck closer—still off-center, but better.

  "Good," Doc said. "Again."

  Her second shot landed near the edge of the target.

  Doc turned to Morg next. "You're sagging left. Barrel's dropping before discharge."

  Morg shifted his weight. "Old injury. Right side's weak."

  Doc nodded once. "Compensate with your stance, not your shoulders."

  He adjusted Morg's footing—right foot forward, weight distribution evening out.

  "Let the ground do the work," Doc said.

  Morg raised the rifle again. His breathing was steady, but the barrel still dipped slightly as he fired.

  The bolt struck low, clipping the bottom edge of the target.

  "You're dropping it early," Doc said. "Follow through. Hold position after the shot."

  Morg inhaled, exhaled halfway, held—and kept the rifle level through the discharge.

  He fired again.

  The bolt struck center mass.

  Morg exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders.

  Doc nodded. "Same rules as everyone else."

  He moved to Jonson. "You're flinching."

  Jonson's face reddened slightly. "I know. I've been trying—"

  "Don't try," Doc said. "The flinch happens because you're anticipating the recoil. Stop thinking about what's coming. Focus on the shot itself."

  He adjusted Jonson's stance—shoulders squared, head positioned so his cheek rested lightly against the stock.

  "Eyes on the target," Doc said. "Breathe. Pause. Squeeze—don't pull."

  Jonson fired.

  The bolt struck the log.

  His eyes widened.

  "Again," Doc said.

  Jonson fired twice more. Both hits.

  Doc stepped back. "The rifle works. You just needed to stop fighting it."

  Jonson lowered his rifle, still looking surprised at his last few hits. "How long before we're... decent at this?"

  "Depends how much you practice," Doc said. "Run through the sequence again. Same fundamentals—breath, stance, follow-through."

  The next few shots showed improvement—still scattered, but closer to the target than before. Small progress, but progress nonetheless.

  While Doc worked with the new militia recruits on the training ground, Edda sat at the longhouse's central table with Marron, Dulric, and Ironha. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, and outside voices called out corrections and encouragement as the shooting practice continued.

  Edda settled into her chair, her hands folded atop the worn wood. "Marron. Walk me through it from the beginning. I need to understand what we're stepping into."

  Marron opened his journal, the pages marked with careful annotations and sketches. "First, the trade itself went far better than expected. We traded common goods—grain, crops, lumber, and potions—for froststones. The exchange rate was absurdly generous. Kraggir, their trade representative, offered three crates of high-grade mana stones for what should've bought maybe one."

  Dulric leaned forward slightly. "Why would they be so generous?"

  "Doc saved two of their children and one wounded from draugrs the night we arrived. Then the next day, a horde of over a hundred attacked the settlement. Doc, Mazoga, and Fish killed the Greater leading them. After that..." Marron gestured with one hand. "They stopped treating us like strangers and started treating us like allies."

  Dulric grunted. "Grateful people are good trade partners. But what kind of people are they?"

  "That's where it gets complicated." Marron turned a page, revealing notes and rough diagrams. "From what I've observed, Threeburrow isn't just a frontier settlement. It's an outcast refuge."

  Edda's expression didn't shift, but her posture straightened. "Explain."

  "The settlement was founded by three groups—goblins, kobolds, and gnolls. All of them were pushed out of human territories. They dug into the mountain together because no one else would take them. They survive by working the mines and trading froststones to Glasshold, the old Northern capital before the Empire integrated it."

  "Who leads them?" Edda asked

  "They govern by council," Marron said. "Ygrana is the goblin Matron—their healer and spiritual guide. Kraggir handles kobold trade and mining operations. Rurran leads the gnolls as Hunt-Chief and defender. All three must agree before anything gets decided."

  Edda studied the notes, her fingers tracing the rough sketch of Threeburrow's layout. Three distinct communities woven together by necessity. She'd seen worse foundations for unity, but not many.

  She turned her attention to Dulric. "You've handled more mana stones than anyone here. How valuable are the ones from this trade?"

  Dulric stood, moving toward the crate Marron had brought inside earlier. He pried the lid open, revealing rows of pale blue crystals nestled in wood shavings. Each stone glowed faintly in the firelight, frost patterns visible beneath their surfaces.

  He lifted one, turning it slowly in the light. His thumb brushed across the facets as he examined the internal structure. After a long moment, he grunted. "High-grade. Clean resonance. No fractures." He set it down and picked up another, repeating the process. "These aren't scrap. They're better than most of what comes out of imperial mines."

  "Better?" Ironha asked.

  "Purer. Stronger aspect alignment. Cold-natured, but stable." Dulric placed the stone back carefully. "In the Empire proper, these would sell for three times what common froststones fetch. Maybe more if you found the right buyer."

  Edda absorbed that, her mind already turning toward logistics. "What else did you learn?"

  "Threeburrow sits in the far north of the Northern Territory," Marron said. "Remote, even by frontier standards. Kraggir confirmed they're willing to provide a guide to Glasshold on our next trade run. He knows the routes, the people, and how to navigate clan politics."

  Edda's focus sharpened. She drew energy inward, activating Ledger of Plenty. The sensation was familiar—information blooming across her awareness like ink spreading through water. She saw their settlement's resources laid out in her mind's eye: grain stores, preserved meat, lumber stockpiles, healing herbs, monster cores, dwarven material and now—mana stones.

  The froststones slotted into the pattern immediately. Carl's devices. The radios. The tools. The rifles. Every project he touched needed clean, stable power. These stones answered that need.

  She shifted to Settlement Design, pushing her awareness forward. The consequences unfolded—trade routes solidifying, mutual reliance deepening, technology spreading. Threeburrow needed food and tools. They had crops and Carl's ingenuity to spare.

  It balanced.

  But more than that—it created obligation. Both ways. A formal contract would bind them to regular deliveries, reliable quality, consistent terms. No backing out when weather turned harsh or monsters grew bold. It also meant Threeburrow would depend on them, and they on Threeburrow.

  Edda weighed that. Dependence could become vulnerability. But isolation was vulnerability too.

  She thought of the three councils governing together—goblin, kobold, gnoll. Outcasts who'd made something stable from necessity. Not so different from what they'd built here.

  The choice felt right.

  Edda opened her eyes.

  "Marron. Can you draft a magically binding contract?"

  Marron blinked. "I learned the basics at the guild during my apprenticeship. It's been years, but yes."

  "Draw one up," Edda said. "Standard trade terms. Regular shipments in both directions. I'll sign it, and we'll send it with the next expedition for their council to approve."

  She leaned back, satisfaction settling into her chest.

  It was time to make this official.

  Thanks for reading!

  Chapter 70 drops Friday!