Chapter 12

Underleaf smelled like burnt bread and wet clay. Which, all things considered, was a serious improvement over smoke and blood.

I stood in the village square—now technically a "plaza" if we wanted to be fancy—watching goblins argue over who stole whose hammer. Again. Someone suggested a duel. Someone else suggested a nap. I suggested shutting up. Nobody listened.

Welcome to governing.

Riri arrived with a stack of papers and an ink stain that stretched from her elbow to her collarbone. She gave me a hopeful look that said please let today not be a disaster.

"Council's ready," she said. "Gresh is already yelling at Grak. Bruz brought a new map. And Bonk brought... snacks?"

"What kind?"

"Unidentifiable. Possibly alive."

"Pass."

I followed her into the new longhall—a sturdy timber building with an actual roof and walls that didn't wobble when someone sneezed. Progress.

Inside, the council had assembled. Grak sat in his usual place, cane across his knees, squinting at the firepit like it owed him money. Gresh leaned against the far wall with arms crossed, his whole posture screaming don't trust anyone. Bonk waved at me with a mouthful of... something chewy. Probably not poisonous. Probably.

And Bruz, our mountain goblin liaison/carpenter/demolition expert, was glaring at a map like it had personally betrayed him.

"I propose we open trade with the southern pass," I said, without sitting down. I figured if I moved fast, no one could interrupt.

Too late.

"Trade with who?" Gresh grunted. "Bandits? Bears? There's nothing but cliffs and creeps down there."

"Exactly why we get there first," I said. "Establish routes. Build tiny outposts. Maybe plant a flag."

"Flags don't stop arrows."

"They do if they're big enough."

Riri muttered, "That's not how flags work."

"Not helping."

Bonk raised a hand. "Can we make the flag shiny?"

"Focus," I said, trying very hard not to scream. "If Underleaf is going to survive, we can't keep living like it's wartime. We need trade. Alliances. Visibility."

Grak tapped his cane. "Visibility gets us killed."

"Or taken seriously."

Bruz grunted and unrolled his crude but surprisingly accurate map. He pointed to a mountain trail and a red circle labeled "Troll Problem?"

"This route's safest," he said. "Mostly rocks, but stable. Few old ruins. Could clear a path."

"Great," I said. "Then we send a caravan. Just a small one. Supplies, crafts, smoked mushrooms..."

"I'm not giving up my mushrooms," Bonk said immediately.

"They're burnt."

"Charcoal-aged!"

I took a deep breath. "Riri, draft a trade manifest. Grak, pick two scouts. Bruz, you lead the expedition. And Bonk—"

"Flag duty?"

"Guard duty."

He groaned. "Worst timeline."

...

After the meeting, Riri followed me outside, still scribbling notes.

"You sure about this?" she asked. "We're not exactly... established."

"We don't need to be a nation yet," I said. "We just need to look like one long enough to convince people we are."

She stopped. "That's either brilliant or incredibly risky."

"Welcome to Underleaf."

...

Later that afternoon, I stood in the tailor's hut. Yes, we had a tailor now. Yes, it was Bonk's aunt. No, she had no formal training. Yes, she had opinions.

"You want a what?" she barked, pinning fabric to a mannequin that looked suspiciously like a sack of flour.

"A uniform," I said. "For the caravan. Cloaks, maybe. Or tabards. Something that says, 'We're not bandits. We're diplomatically awkward, but approachable.'"

She snorted. "You get three. I don't do mass production."

"I'll take it."

I left her muttering about thread counts and barbaric color palettes.

...

By evening, I was halfway through crafting fake travel documents.

Yes, fake. Because no one recognized Underleaf yet. And I wasn't about to send our goblins out there with blank slates and hopeful expressions. I made up titles, forged stamps, and invented a fictional "Underleaf Civil Logistics Department."

"Isn't this lying?" Riri asked, peeking over my shoulder.

"It's bluffing." I underlined a sentence about 'certified diplomatic mushroom exports.'

She blinked. "And this helps us... how?"

"If they believe we have bureaucracy, they'll think twice before attacking. Nothing scares people like paperwork."

...

The next morning, just as the caravan finished loading and Bonk was arguing with a goat, Elena returned.

She stepped out of the trees like a gust of wind wearing boots, cloak slick with dew and eyes sharp as ever.

"Taku," she said. "We need to talk."

I waved the caravan on. "Give me five. Or twenty. Depending on how bad this is."

"It's bad," she said immediately. "The Guild sent someone."

"Another inspector?"

"Not quite."

...

We met him by the well.

He wore the robes of a scholar, crisp and blue, and the bored expression of someone forced to evaluate vegetables. His name was Corvan Del Ansel—which was probably a crime against vowels.

"I've been assigned to observe your... settlement," he said, looking around like he expected goblins to attack his ankles at any moment. "There are concerns."

"Concerns about what?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "Monster cohesion. Infrastructure scale. Civil unrest potential. Also, sanitation."

"We bathe," Riri said, slightly offended.

"Mostly," Bonk added helpfully.

I pulled Corvan aside. "Let me guess. I smile wrong, and they send a force?"

"Not exactly," he said. "But you're on notice. Impress me. Or don't."

Helpful.

...

Back at the longhall, I tried to get Corvan to look at our architectural plans.

"This bridge spans a seasonal river," I said. "We used a modified king-post truss—"

"I don't need a lecture," he interrupted. "I need results."

"What do you think this is?" I snapped. "We built a village out of mud and hope in two months, and it hasn't fallen over."

He didn't respond. Just wrote something in a tiny leather-bound book.

Elena later pulled me aside.

"Be careful," she said. "Some Guild Lords already think you're dangerous. If he reports instability... they'll have excuse to act."

"I'm always careful," I muttered.

She gave me a long look. "That's what worries me."

...

That night, after everyone went to bed and Corvan disappeared into his little tent of judgment, I sat alone with the maps.

New trails. Future roads. A quarry. Maybe even a harbor, if we reached the river.

Underleaf wasn't ready. Not even close.

But it was real. And real was enough—for now.

I reached for a blank sheet of parchment.

At the top, I wrote: "Project: South Gate"

Under it, I scribbled:"Stone. Tall. Decorative. Looks expensive. Scares nobles."

Then I smiled.

Time to build something they couldn't ignore.