The storm arrived without mercy.
From the moment the first-floor shutters were opened, the entire citadel felt like it was holding its breath. Families crowded the wide stone windows, shoulders touching, hands gripping the ledges as if the mountain itself might shake them loose.
Outside, the world had become a violence of light and sound.
Rain hammered down in sheets so dense it looked solid—like someone was pouring the ocean straight down their valley. The droplets struck the stone with enough force to send shards of spray ricocheting upward like thrown gravel. Every few seconds lightning erupted across the sky, not in forks but in snarling webs that crawled across the clouds like living creatures.
The thunder didn't pause politely between strikes. It rolled and rolled—an endless roar that vibrated through ribs, stone, breath.
Someone whispered, "It sounds like the sky is falling apart."
Someone else muttered, "Glad we're in the mountain. Tents wouldn't have lasted ten minutes."
A child pressed into her mother. "Are the other people okay?"
Talia stood behind them, hands loose, eyes on the storm. "I hope so."
A few adults exchanged looks that meant they feared otherwise.
Another lightning chain lashed the clouds, turning the valley stark white, every raindrop becoming a shard of broken glass. The wind slammed into the cliff face seconds later—howling, violent, rattling the frames.
"They'd be dead out there," someone breathed. "Anyone would."
"What about the patrol in the tunnel?" a teen asked.
"They're safe," Talia said automatically. "Stone buffers most of it—they won't even feel the rain."
She hoped that was true. She hoped a lot of things were true today.
The storm kept clawing at the sky, and the citadel trembled with its fury.
As the initial terror plateaued into a buzzing nervous quiet, Grandma Elene clapped her hands near the bunker entrance.
"All right," she said briskly. "We're not sitting here doing nothing."
Auntie Junia was already elbow-deep in crates, pulling out yarn, needles, cloth scraps, weaving frames, twine, and a suspicious number of glittery beads.
"Storm or not," she declared, "the children are not climbing the walls."
Crafting-team members drifted in under the emerald Mossbulb glow. Tables pulled together, tools laid out and hands given purpose. Someone demonstrated mending stitches, another taught rope braiding while two teens practiced making leaf-pressed soap wraps.
Brielle, stationed in her cushion corner, corralled the younger children into a nest of blankets and moss-stuffed animals.
"Story time," she announced. "Pick a pillow. Sitting on a sibling counts, but only if they don't scream." They screamed anyway. Then giggled.
The sound cleansed the bunker like fresh rain.
Grandma Elene continued to set up "activity pockets"—a clay corner, a reading nook, a simple board-game table and a quiet tea station for overwhelmed adults.
Auntie Junia drifted between groups murmuring calming nonsense. "Weave something. Gives the mind less room to invent catastrophes."
Upstairs, Dad and Grandpa Fin had dragged chairs to the windows—cross-legged with clipboards and hot broth.
"Official storm analysis," Grandpa intoned.
"Research for countermeasures," Dad added solemnly.
Talia stared at the plate of snacks beside them. "Say that again," she said, "without the snacks and drinks."
Both cleared their throats and angled their clipboards toward the storm.
Liars. Beloved liars.
But their playfulness softened the knotted fear in the room. The citadel was stabilising.
Inside the mountain, life eased.
Too eased, Talia felt her purpose drifting.
She wasn't needed in the bunker—Grandma and Auntie Junia had everything under control, Theo handled the logistics, Dav rotated between windows and tunnel and the researchers were busy collecting storm data.
She hovered like a spare part. So she slipped away.
On the first floor she paused at the entrance, watching people mill about. Sitting, she began tracing invisible lines across her mental cavern layout.
'It works for now… but once more floors come online, travel time would devour hours.' She thought.
Talia sat cross-legged, elbows on her knees, staring at the rock wall as if it had offended her. People passed in careful silence—the way one walks around a resting predator.
She didn't notice.
Her eyes tracked the roof → floor → walls → repeat. Something tugged. Wrong shape. Wrong rhythm. Inefficient.
Her Territory panel flicked open under her fingers. A blueprint materialised—Casey's design—and she held it up, compared it to the empty air, frowned.
Casey, unfortunately, noticed.
The architect drifted closer like someone approaching a volatile artifact.
Talia stood abruptly.
"A helix."
Half the corridor jumped. Casey blinked, like her brain had hit a blue screen.
Talia, now fully aware she had an audience, zeroed in on Casey.
"Perfect. Can you redesign this entire entranceway?"
Casey opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Talia ploughed on, gesturing. "A central cavern. A waterfall cutting through levels. Main ramp connecting every floor. Side stairways. District walkways. And—oh—Clan Tram. A helix line running the entire six floors in height."
Silence fell like a dropped sheet.
Civilians paled. A man leaned on the wall. Two teens whispered, "Cool." Dav pinched his nose. Theo, appearing at the worst time, muttered a prayer.
Casey finally found speech.
"You want to carve out the mountain!? Lord—you're insane."
Talia nodded cheerfully. "Yes. But it'll work."
Casey pressed her hands over her face. "We're all going to die."
Talia grinned.
The people on the upper levels quietened after that but the storm still roared on outside.
She headed toward the Husbandry District—or what would be the Husbandry District, once the storm passed and Casey sent the new blueprints. She stood in the rough, half-born hallways, imagining stalls, pens, training grounds—
Then stopped.
She couldn't continue shaping. Not until she knew how the helix entrance would reroute airflow, drainage, load support and all the other subtle requirements for life under a mountain.
"Damn," she whispered. "I have to wait."
She settled for shaping only a small corner—safe work—palms against the stone.
Tap. Push. Tap. Push.
Stone softened. Shifted. Obeyed.
A rhythm that soothed her thoughts.
A whisper rose behind her.
"Is this how she makes everything?"
"It looks like magic."
"It's like watching a god."
"I want to try."
She didn't hear them—not until dizziness hit mid-push.
Too long.
She turned—and nearly collided with a crowd of silent watchers, eyes bright under Mossbulb glow.
"I need to rest," she said quietly. "A couple hours. Then I'll be back."
They parted like she was sacred.
"They seem… weird," she thought as she left. "Reverent, even."
And that was unsettling in its own right.
She'd barely returned to the windows when the sound hit.
Not thunder. Deeper. Closer.
Every person froze.
A screech tore across the sky—metallic, alive.
Then—
CRASH.
A boulder slammed into the far valley wall, exploding into shards. The ground shook. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
"If we were out there—?"
"We'd be dead."
"Not thinking about it."
Dom watched with narrowed eyes. "This world's used to storms like this. Nature adapts. We're the fragile ones."
A truth both comforting and terrifying.
Then something howled back at the thunder.
Talia's head snapped toward the sound.
Lightning strobed—
And she saw it.
A lion the size of an elephant, muscles carved in gold, fur sparking with electricity, claws biting into stone as easily as breath. Lightning streamed across its mane, turning the world into white fire.
"A lightning lion!"
"How did it get here?!"
"It's climbing—look at its claws!"
"That's not natural—cut its claws off! Don't bring it here!"
Dav's face hardened.
"If it turns toward us…"
He didn't finish, didn't need to.
Fortunately, the lion raced upward—focused on something higher. But fear rippled through the room. Quiet. Deep.
If a monster like that ever came for them…
Would Deepway hold?
Talia had no answer.
The storm didn't fade.
It thickened.
Lightning painted the windows. Thunder struck like a physical blow. But inside, Mossbulb lamps pulsed soft green.
Children slept—curled into siblings. Adults whispered or sat breathing slow. Observation crews rotated for food. Guards kept quiet watch.
Talia leaned on the stairwell wall, listening to the contrast:
Inside:
Soft breathing.
Murmured stories.
Cooling stew.
A lamp flicker.
Outside:
A world splitting open.
Every flash of white reminded them. Every tremor asked:
'If this is just a storm… What will winter be like?'
Talia finally lay down.
In the hush between thunderclaps, she slipped into uneasy dreams—full of lightning beasts, crumbling cliffs, and a sky that never stopped burning.