You step into the center of the rough camp and call the twelve into order, sorting sawyers, haulers, and diggers with the brisk certainty of someone who has already imagined the colony’s bones. The argument around the shaft fades as each dwarf is given a task that suits their hands and temper, and the chaotic first hours settle into a rhythm of purpose. Picks bite deeper, ropes run smoother, and even the nearest skeptics begin to grin when they see how quickly the work multiplies under clear direction.

By midday, the site feels less like an argument against the wilderness and more like a plan taking root. Fresh spoil mounds along the tree line, stake markers ring the future entry, and the stream is measured with careful attention instead of hopeful guesswork. Then a distant rumble rolls through the ground, subtle as a clearing throat, and the colony falls silent for just a breath before returning to its labor with renewed, uneasy focus.