Riku had started tracking the forge temperatures by instinct.
He didn't trust the crude gauges they'd rigged from bone and wire. He trusted the sound of the heat—the way the vents hissed when properly channeled, the low groan the chamber made when stone expanded inside the compression shell. It had taken almost a week to reach that sound, and now that it was stable, he didn't want to lose it.
He paced around the forge at dawn, rolling his shoulders and glancing at the glow through the fuel vent. Kael had left the night shift tools in an orderly pile, and someone had rewrapped the shaft on the heavy hammer. Probably Sira. She couldn't stand fraying grips.
The wind was still pushing mist up from the southeast trench. It didn't reach the dome, but its presence lingered. Everyone felt it.
Tharn hadn't spoken in hours.
Kael was quieter than usual.
And even the forge flames—burning clean, full, bright—didn't banish the sense that something was watching from behind the ridgeline.
Riku stepped into the supply hall.
His boots hit stone. Cold, hard.
He opened the first of the reinforced crates where they stored ingots. They'd only smelted iron, so far. Barely enough for five proper weapons, and the rest used for blade blanks and spear cores.
But the crate was full.
Riku blinked, crouched, and lifted one of the ingots.
Then another.
Then a third.
He paused.
They were cold.
Not fresh-forged.
Stored.
He ran his hand across the base of the crate. Nothing had been disturbed. No drag marks on the stone floor. No heat signatures. Kael would've said something. No one else handled the stockpile without logging it.
He checked the tally scratchpad nailed to the wall beside the forge.
Iron Ingot Total (Start of Day 11): 14
He checked the crate.
There were twenty-eight.
He stared.
The room stayed quiet.
Then the whisper came—not from the walls, not from the system's artificial voice, but the one he'd come to recognize.
A presence. A flicker. Faint and exact.
[Material Folded – Iron Ingot | Original: 14 | Multiplier: x2 | Final: 28]
No fanfare. No light.
Just truth.
It wasn't random now. Not fully.
It came when the materials were his. When he didn't expect. When he didn't need to ask.
Riku closed the crate slowly and stood still for a long time.
He knew what this meant.
They could move faster.
By midday, Kael noticed. He walked into the forge hall with two scrolls and a look of hesitant suspicion.
"Something's off," he said.
Riku didn't stop working. He was already reinforcing the outer frame for the forge's second vent chamber, sweat dripping down the side of his face.
"We didn't have enough iron for this last night," Kael continued.
Riku said nothing.
Kael paused, then lowered his voice. "Did we get a gift drop? From the system? I didn't see any prompt."
"No," Riku replied simply.
"Then where—"
Riku turned and met his eyes. Calm. Focused.
"Use it," he said.
Kael held his gaze, then nodded.
The second chamber of the forge was completed by nightfall.
With it came the capacity to smelt in tandem—two cores at once. More than any other sovereign could afford this early. The others, if they were still alive, would be busy just building walls. Trying to catch and cage fire. Riku had already bent it.
He sat on the top tier of the forge scaffolding as dusk came down like a thick curtain. Below, Tharn oversaw test runs of the new chamber. Kael was adjusting the shape molds. Sira walked silent perimeter shifts, eyes never still.
The camp moved with rhythm now. Not perfect. But purposeful.
Riku leaned back against the pillar and let the heat roll over him.
He knew what he had.
More than resources. More than weapons.
He had lead time.
The fold didn't just make more.
It made them faster.
And if he timed it right, if he didn't waste the momentum—
He would be the one ready first. The one armed before the storm.
He added a new line to his private fold log that night.
#9 – Iron Ingot | Quantity Fold x2 | From 14 to 28
Triggered upon supply check, early morning. Materials untouched.
Then he sat beside the growing fire-root plant, now as tall as his thigh, and watched it shift its leaves toward the heat.
It wasn't blooming.
Not yet.
But he had time.