The dawn came quietly.
No alarms. No runners shouting warnings. No storm pressure crushing the air until every breath felt borrowed. Just pale light slipping over the valley mouth and into the citadel, touching stone that had finally stopped feeling temporary.
Talia found Theo where she expected him—already awake, already working.
He stood near the edge of the first-floor overlook with a ledger tucked under one arm, pencil behind his ear, eyes tracking the people moving below like pieces settling into place on a board only he could fully see.
"You look annoyingly functional," she said, stopping beside him.
Theo snorted softly without looking away. "You look like someone who slept through an entire night without being woken for emergencies. I'm proud of us."
He flipped the ledger open. The pages were already dense with neat, decisive notes.
"The department heads met before sunrise," he said. "They've selected subordinate leaders and started sorting applications. Megan reviewed manpower needs and cut nearly half the initial requests."
Talia hummed, unsurprised. "That sounds like her."
"Limited people. Too many jobs," Theo continued. "She forced every department to justify each role—no padding, no 'just in case' positions. If they couldn't explain what someone would be doing every single day, that role didn't exist."
"Good," Talia said. "We can't afford bloat. Or politics."
Theo nodded. "Exactly her argument. With winter coming, our population's capped. Expansion is off the table. No new members until next season."
"Next season," Talia agreed easily. "We stabilise first. Feed, house, and protect the people we already have."
Theo's gaze followed a pair of workers jogging across the lower path, tools balanced easily on their shoulders.
"How's the Clan reacting?" she asked. "They looked… lively this morning."
"They are," he said. "Structure helps. Familiar work helps. Knowing who to report to, when shifts start, where they belong—it matters more than we realised."
He hesitated, then added, "A few are still shaken from yesterday. Exile isn't something people forget overnight. But it didn't fracture them."
Talia let out a slow breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. "Good."
"They're waiting for jobs," Theo said. "Waiting to be useful."
That, she thought, was a good Deepway problem to have.
They walked toward the farming district together, boots echoing softly against stone that no longer felt borrowed.
"Has planting been organised?" Talia asked.
"Yes. Mum and Grandpa Fin split the seeds into trial batches—Earth seeds in one plot, foraged seeds and root stock in another. They're logging growth obsessively."
"As they should."
"First harvest estimate is thirty to fifty days," Theo continued. "Based on observed growth rates."
Talia frowned. "That's tight."
"It is."
"We'll need to accelerate foraging and hunting," she said. "And we still need salt."
Theo grimaced. "Salt remains the bottleneck. Drying and smoking can only carry us so far."
"We'll find a source," Talia said. "Or trade for one."
He closed the ledger. "The Contribution Hall will be on floor two of the governing district. For now, Evan's setting up in a tent in the meadow."
"Temporary," she said flatly.
"Very," Theo replied. "Casey's drafting the permanent layout. Once it's approved, you can build."
Talia rolled her shoulders. "Good. I'll focus on construction once the system's running without me hovering."
"And we can't upgrade the territory yet," Theo added. "Ritual's required and we have no idea what it entails. Auntie Junia has tried a few approaches, but nothing's responded."
"So we wait," Talia said. "Or we learn."
Theo's mouth tilted. "Hopefully from neighbours who don't try to eat us."
She smiled faintly. "I'm going to check the territory now that Dav's stopped shadowing me."
"Enjoy your freedom," Theo said. "It won't last."
The farming district smelled alive.
Damp earth. New growth. Wood smoke curling from preservation racks.
Mum stood with sleeves rolled, dirt smudged across her cheek, listening to a hunter's report while Grandpa Fin knelt nearby, inspecting a line of sprouting leaves with near-reverence.
"Soil's better than expected," Mum said when she saw Talia. "Rich. Holds moisture well. We'll need careful rotation or it'll exhaust itself."
"Hunting teams are moving faster," Mum continued. "Dav gave me some tips on team formation. I'm splitting them—smaller, more efficient. Less waste."
She sighed. "Salt's still limited. We're using it for vegetables that have no other preservation method. We'll dry and smoke what else we can. Winter will be tight unless we get more."
"We will," Talia said. "One way or another."
Kass appeared almost on cue, hair wind-tossed and grin sharp.
"The beasts are settling," she announced. "No fights. No escapes. And—" she leaned in conspiratorially, "—that turkey?"
"Yes?"
"Male bush chicken. Turns out we misjudged the feathers."
"That explains the attitude."
"They've started… maybe… mating behaviour," Kass added. "Hard to tell. Could be territorial."
"Winter breeding?" Talia murmured.
"Beastworld's weird," Kass said cheerfully. "Either way, we're collecting fodder now. Diets are mapped. Eggs are regular."
She proudly held up a baseball-sized leaf-green egg.
Mum reached over and studied it. Grandpa Fin leaned in, and suddenly they were deep in a discussion—ending with Grandpa Fin bolting for the lab to test it and Mum rushing toward the preservation hall to organise another line.
"Dried scrambled eggs," Mum muttered, already halfway gone.
Talia and Kass watched the whirlwind and laughed.
Children darted past them, arguing loudly over names for a rabbit-cat hybrid that had latched stubbornly onto Kass's boot.
"We're doomed," Kass said fondly.
Talia continued on. When she reached the bunker, the hall had changed again—quieter now.
Children hovered at one end, watching Grandma Elene, Brielle, and two volunteers bent over a table stacked with slates and borrowed books.
"How's it looking?" Talia asked.
Grandma didn't look up. "Functional."
That's where Theo learned it from, Talia thought, amused.
Brielle smiled. "Basic education's covered. Literacy, numeracy, and survival theory."
"And beyond that?" Talia asked.
Grandma finally lifted her head. "This world's survival classes aren't Earth's. We're adapting."
She folded her hands. "For younger children, structured schooling is good. For thirteen and up? Full-time classrooms will harm them more than help."
Talia nodded slowly. "They need work and training."
"Exactly," Grandma said. "We'll teach ethics, observation, decision-making. What keeps them alive and human."
The children listened, wide-eyed, as if being entrusted with something heavy and important.
Talia found Dav, Collie, and Cael in the bunker meeting room, maps spread across the table.
"Our visitors' scouting slowed," Dav said immediately. "From daily to once every three days."
"Why?" Talia asked.
"Either caution," he said, "or planning."
"The Clan's training plans are finalised," Cael added. "Adjustable per individual."
"The grounds are selected and cleared," Dav said. "Obstacle course and bush gym—up and running in two days."
Collie stepped forward and held out the exile's ring.
Talia turned it over thoughtfully. "A space pocket can't hold another space pocket," she murmured. "Interesting."
Collie nodded. "Personnel selection meetings are happening here."
She felt their eyes on her. Danger. She didn't answer.
She turned and ran.
She started noticing faces instead of crowds.
Dom stood near the hall entrance, posture rigid, already slipping into guard duty. Beside him was Launa, older and sharper, wearing a safety officer's sash. Their eyes met briefly—nodding in greeting. A promise postponed.
Reno followed Megan through the lower corridor, slate clutched to his chest. Every time Megan stopped, he stopped too, already writing.
Near the medical area, Dale sorted dried leaves beside an older healer while two researchers hovered, debating properties. Teagan stood just behind him, correcting a trainee's bandage while listening. They moved like a unit.
Luke corralled a pack of teenagers toward the proposed training grounds, laughing when one tripped. Chaos—but with direction.
At the valley mouth, Joel marshalled a hunting party with hand signals and quiet checks. No speeches. No noise. Just confidence. The group disappeared into the trees like they'd always belonged there.
"We'll have to catch up," Talia murmured, watching them move with purpose, "once things quieten down a bit."
Over the next few days, the valley changed.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. There were no speeches, no bells, no moments anyone could point to and say this is when it happened. The shift crept in quietly, like roots taking hold beneath the soil.
People stopped wandering.
They checked notice boards at the start of their day, fingers tracing names and times. They reported to places that now had titles instead of vague descriptions. They asked questions—and, more importantly, they received clear answers instead of shrugs or guesses. Paths that had once held loitering clusters emptied as people moved with intent, boots scuffing stone in steady rhythms.
Idle corners vanished. Not because they were forbidden, but because no one needed them anymore.
Contribution Points stopped feeling abstract. They became motion. Hours logged. Work completed. Effort recognised. Earth relics began to surface from packs and pockets—carefully hoarded tools, battered novels, notebooks, a single unbroken mug. Small comforts, suddenly precious. A quiet race took shape, not sharp-edged or cruel, but eager. People worked harder not out of fear, but because they wanted something again.
Talia watched it all from the stone paths, hands clasped behind her back, smiling despite herself.
"Who raided those places?" she muttered, eyeing a particularly rare item as it changed hands. "I want to meet them."
Deepway had found its rhythm—not perfect, not effortless, but real.
And for the first time since the storm, the citadel didn't just feel like shelter.
It felt like a lived in home.