Downstream by the riverside, dusk settled over the Shy camp in the cave. The returning raft party silently slipped through the hanging moss curtain. Uiska bristled as they approached, his squeaks sharp with alarm, nostrils flaring as he sniffed out the human's identity.

The pika and Brynnal entered first, followed by Vikka and Sylven, with Jerrik lingering in the shadows. It was an awkward homecoming into what felt like a changed, charged atmosphere.

Vikka also picked up the new scent. "That's not just any human. Doesn't smell like a guard or stablehand."

A young Shy boy, who Sylven recognized as Wembo, ran out towards the cave entrance. His eyes widened as he spotted the party. "It's her!" He called out to them in as loud a whisper as his little lungs could muster, voice and legs trembling. "The Overseer! She's come for us!"

The further in they went, the more it became obvious that the camp was in full-on defensive mode. Every Shy they passed had their weapons drawn.

Sylven couldn't ignore the imposing shadow of their formidable guest. He was about to reach for his spear but ended up hesitating. The overseer's demeanor was not what he anticipated. Her shoulders were slumped, hands held open in supplication. Beside her, Veyran stood close, his stance strangely possessive, as if shielding her from the Shy's scorn.

"Wait," he pointed out to his companions. "Look at Veyran. He seems… calm, almost protective of her."

Among the gathered adults, Callan spotted the returning Sunbraves first, walking over from where he had been quietly speaking with Garret.

"You made it back," he said, relief softening the edges of his voice. "But where's Sela and Ilkin?"

Before they could explain about the ruins, Mara emerged from the main lean-to. Expression strained, she opened her mouth to speak to the assembled Shy—then stopped as they felt the floor rumble with the movement of giants.

From the shadows at the cave's rear, Garret crawled forward, followed by another towering figure moving into the firelight.

The woman kneeling before them was Rhiannon, though the humble workers of Greyhold may struggle to recognize their imperious erstwhile Overseer. Her once fine clothing was ripped and stained with mud and blood, her haughty posture crushed by the confined space. Yet neither was she diminished. If anything, this Rhiannon carried herself with a harder, more focused intent, stripped of pretense. Her eyes tracked across the gathered Shy, examining their wary faces and the sharp edges of their weapons.

At her side, Veyran stood looking in a much better state than the human. His cool gaze swept unnervingly over the Sunbraves, as if daring them to strike. Above him, the arclith lode in Rhiannon's pouch glowed through the stitches in the leather, casting eerie lines of light on the Deepshy's face.

Several of the Shy instinctively pointed their weapons at her, futile the gesture may be. Eryl's grip on her staff tightened until her knuckles whitened. But no one made an overly aggressive move.

With Mara silent and all eyes on her, Rhiannon decided to break the ice.

"To all you Shy who I have wronged, I am here as a supplicant, not an Overseer," she began in carefully coached Shyspeak. "Whatever power I once held has been usurped by our true enemy—Ruth."

"You're here sooner than we expected. And wasted no time getting to the point," Mara said, voice pitched low in human speech. "We appreciate that."

Rhiannon raised a brow. "I wasn't expecting… well, to be expected. And for you to speak as fluently as… Veyran."

Alvon stepped out from the shadows, emerging beside Mara. "I sent warning," he said. "But she took the faster, harder way up. Well, harder for a human like her. I wasn't expecting her to do the climb in her state."

Veyran raised a hand. "That was my doing. I thought it would be the more fun, scenic route… and maybe humble her a little," he quipped, a subtle darkness behind his grin.

None of the Shy so much as smiled at Veyran's attempt at levity—except Brynnal, who couldn't keep himself from smirking.

Rhiannon's voice betrayed a frayed edge, supplanting her previously more supercilious tone. "I've come to let you know that my ties to Greyhold have been slashed and burned," she continued. "All my previous authority is now in ashes. But I know Ruth's strategies. Where and how she'll strike."

"And we have this." Veyran prompted, pointing up at the human's hip.

Rhiannon unclasped her pouch. The lode gleamed in the firelight as it was unwrapped, reflecting wavy beams of blue and green on the cave walls, projecting an illusion almost as if they had all been plunged underwater. She bowed and placed the treasure at Mara's feet with a care and reverence that silenced the camp.

"That's enough arclith to punch a hole through the Sunveil." Veyran declared.

Mara didn't allow herself to be distracted by the immense offering. "You never seemed to concern yourself with our well-being at Greyhold. Why trust you now?" she pressed.

"Because I want to… atone," Rhiannon said, the word uneasy on her tongue. "Not just as the Overseer. But as a human who finally understands the injustice of our actions..."

Sylven chose that moment to step forward, still dripping water onto the packed earth. "You clearly mean to tug at our hearts with your speech, or should I say… script?" He asked in the human's language, glaring at Veyran.

"We're merely having a civilized conversation," the Deepshy cooly replied. "You're welcome to join, Sylven. Or just keep listening."

Mara gave the Sunbrave a sidelong glance. "So, what terms do you mean to discuss?"

"I want to bring dignity, and genuine industry, back to Greyhold. End our reliance on Shy slavery. But there must be some form of continuity for it to work. Or the other humans won't agree to leave you be," Rhiannon explained. "We'll also need to repair any damage Ruth has done and restore order as quickly as possible. Before chaos pulls everything apart…"

Jerrik's voice cut through the tension. "We can't trust her—she'll just toy with us like the other humans did at Greyhold! They only want to loom over us!" His words already hung in the air before he saw Garret's face and could temper his outburst. He hung his head as he realized his careless dismissal of their human ally who'd become his close friend, the one who had no need to prove his intentions. "I didn't mean you, Garret. You're… different," he stammered.

Garret's expression didn't change, but a shadow of hurt flickered in his eyes, betraying his usual stoicism. He leaned forward, his bulk blocking the firelight. "We all have reason to doubt you. How do we know this isn't some trick?"

Rhiannon met his gaze, unflinching. "I was blind then, Garret. I see now what I couldn't before. The system we upheld was corrupt, and I was complicit. But I'm here to make amends, however I can."

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Brynnal scoffed, crossing his arms and broadening his stance as he leaned back into Uiska's shoulder.

Rhiannon gasped when she spotted the creature behind Brynnal and the kobold. "My pet!"

The pika flattened his ears, bristling at the word, his eyes flashing fiercely. Not a pet. Never a pet.

"You were never meant to be domesticated," Rhiannon shook and dipped her head, offering him a tiny, tentative bow. "I see you've found your true place."

Uiska squeaked in agreement.

Veyran stepped forward, his voice firm. "Hear her out. She's not the same person she was. She's here to help, and she would know better how to thwart our enemies."

The other Shy all started speaking at once, until Mara raised a hand, silencing the dissent.

"I understand your fears and anger. But we can't afford to reject potential allies, especially ones with their strengths and knowledge. We'll keep a close watch on them, but for now, we need to take advantage of what they bring to us."

Eryl's hand tightened around her staff. Her voice was quiet. "We're not even done recovering."

Veyran gave her a look that wasn't unkind. "But we're done running and hiding."

"We've run enough," Sylven declared. "If we choose to trust, we do so with eyes open. We decide based on strategy, not on fear.

Garret said nothing, only stepped between Rhiannon and the huddled Shy. The fire crackled between them, throwing long shadows across the walls of the camp. For the moment, no one moved. But the lines were drawn. Veyran knew where he stood, realizing that the Shy knew they needed Rhiannon more than they hated her.

"Allies come with open hands, not hidden weapons or veiled threats. We will hear your words, but we won't be cowed by them," Mara stated. "We still need to deliberate," she said, stealing a glance at Sylven.

"Then decide on a plan," Rhiannon said. "Because when the others find us, and they will, I will act. With or without you."

Veyran stirred. "She means it." These were his people, his blood. Yet Rhiannon was also risking everything. Where would he stand now, with blades and shards at their throats?

"I know," Mara said. She glanced briefly at Eryl, who gave an almost imperceptible nod and began chipping at the lode to carve out shards.

Whatever came next, they would have to face it together. The question that remained was whether that would be enough for whatever was coming.

Since the Shy had escaped, Greyhold hadn't adapted. It had unraveled. The clatter of tools rang louder and harsher. The forges were driven to burn hotter, belching acrid smoke made darker with soot and impurities, as if coughing up their failures.

The workshop's rhythms had been thrown into disarray. Where once every click and hiss aligned like breaths and heartbeats, now gears stuttered and bellows wheezed, their timings off kilter.

It was more a cascade of small, simple issues instead of one big snag, but the new human work crews just couldn't keep things going steady. The enlarged assembly lines rang with profanities as they struggled to align parts that once seemed to practically assemble themselves.

As Wyatt entered the room, a copper gear rolled off a table and struck his foot. He pocketed it then looked up to see Telman, the supervisor, grumbling.

"These damned screws just won't fit their sockets. Is it just me or does it feel like these pieces keep shrinking?"

"They're not," Wyatt replied. "Your threading's off. You should stop forcing it."

Red-faced, Telman muttered something inappropriate for a child's ears and stomped off. Wyatt let out a slow breath and approached the worktable, properly adjusting the threads as best as he could.

"Is that how the Shy used to do it?" one of the harried workers asked, bags under his eyes. His tone wasn't unkind, just taut with frustration.

"No," Wyatt replied, his practiced fingers deftly adjusting the mechanisms. "That's what I would do. Because it works."

The man watched the boy's nimble tinkering, then grunted. "Should've gotten little kids to do all this fiddly stuff from the start."

"We just need enough skilled hands," Telman suggested, watching from the doorway. "Or at least a few more hands who know what they're doing to begin with.

Everything moved slower, less efficiently now. The Shy hadn't just done fine work, they had calibrated every fitting to a precision humans weren't capable of. Ruth's strategy to compensate with increased human labor and brute force was backfiring fast. The compound's remaining arclith offered little aid. The tiny shards salvaged from the captured Shy were dull and barely flickered. Some buzzed unpredictably when placed too close to the steam vents, a few others sputtered when kept outdoors.

The compound had leaned hard on the Shy's exacting efforts. Now, much of the assembled clockworks froze mid-tick or spun wildly under stress.

Ruth didn't seem to care about the minutiae of their operations while orders still flowed and production lurched forward, albeit at a fickle pace. Jobs were reassigned and positions doubled up. Wyatt found himself being shuffled from one crew to another multiple times, from the workshop to the kobold pen then back again.

He kept quiet, for now. But continued to watch and listen.

Wyatt peeked into the Brood Barn, noting Grilsha's eyes following him as he entered. Was that a sign of recognition as she slowly blinked?

The corpulent kobold had grown even more listless. Unlike the proud strutting at the head of her royal retinue led by Tibbin, her gait had become sluggish, tail dragging in the muck.

Wyatt clucked with his tongue, the usual feeding signal of the kobold keepers. Grilsha's head perked up slightly, then seeing him empty-handed, she turned away not even bothering to adjust her tail.

The other kobolds barely reacted even when they were poked and prodded. They had stopped singing as a group, and would only sometimes hum, their chants having faded into off-key warblings. Hoping to incubate a new brood, Ruth had several of the larger eggs kept in a clay oven heated by a temperamental coal stove, minded by two guards who clearly hated the assignment.

Wyatt remembered when the kobolds used to chatter. Not that he could understand them, but the creatures had lively exchanges and interactions. Now, whatever used to animate them seemed to wither with each passing day. The boy didn't know how to help them, even if he wanted to.

Greyhold was stuck in a downward spiral. Not that Ruth would admit it. Her grip had tightened, but her vision hadn't widened to match. She still believed she could nag her way to results, barking orders as if productivity would improve the more she shouted.

That afternoon, Wyatt overheard Ruth haranguing the message clerk.

"Tell those lazy fools in the city guilds that whatever we offer should be good enough for them," the beleaguered overseer snapped. "Or if they want to get their orders faster, they can come crawling to me and fetch the stock themselves!"

Nights in the dormitory felt longer as Wyatt stared at the ceiling, the weight of everything wrong pressing down on him. The adults were too scared or stubborn to admit things weren't working. If his father were here, he certainly wouldn't be giving up.

Later that night, in the crawlspace he used as his private reading nook, Wyatt unfolded his father's map, which Garret had hastily sketched for him before disappearing into the woods. It was little more than smudged lines now, a rough layout of the landmarks leading to the river.

His father, the Shy, Rhiannon… all missing. He had little idea how and where they were. But someone could have noticed their movements, or he could try picking up on their trail.

He closed the map, folding it into a flat packet beneath his shirt.

Wyatt was done waiting for someone to speak up and avert disaster. If no one else would act, then it would have to start with him.

He had to keep pretending he was busy working while planning his exit. All he needed was one good reason to walk out the gate. And enough of a headstart before anyone looked for him.

He moved toward the task board, nodding to the quartermaster as he scanned the postings. The assignments were clustered around repairs, inspections, and inventory checks. Most of the farther-flung patrols had been retracted lately—too few people, too much equipment breaking down.

Two guards walked up, grousing to each other as they checked the job list.

"If we don't find something better to do, we gotta start whipping those new recruits into shape bright and early tomorrow," one groaned.

"Isn't Overseer Ruth just gonna send the poor saps to blunder around the woods as soon as they can hold a crossbow straight?" the other asked.

"That's why I'd much rather shovel manure," the first guard replied. "At least you know it's good for something."

Wyatt's breath caught. However frayed and leaky, Ruth's stubborn net would still eventually close in on those he hoped to find.

As soon as the guards walked away, he turned and made his way to the tool closet. He quietly started picking out gear: rope, rations, wires and a water canteen, among other things.

The remaining guards and workers were too distracted to care. Ruth had her hands full dealing with everything going wrong. He was beneath their notice, and that was the advantage he'd use to slip right past them.

His pulse quickened—not from fear, but a building momentum. His plan was simple: Walk out the compound gate. Leave a note at their home for his mother. Walk out of Greyhold. The Grey Road headed west, if he followed it long enough, he'd reach the river, and from there… he'd figure it out.

Somewhere in the Veilwoods, his father and the Shy were hiding out. Maybe even the former overseer Rhiannon. He believed he could find them.

At worst, someone else in this world should care enough to help, he told himself that as he caught a few fitful hours of sleep.

Just before dawn broke, he tiptoed out the dormitory. As he walked past the Brood Barn, a low, guttural hum drifted from within. The voice of one kobold, barely singing to herself. The tune caught him off guard. It wasn't mournful but more... wistful, stirring a deep chord in him.

Wyatt tightened the strap of his pack and headed to the gate in the early grey light, ready to face the guards with his most innocent smile.

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