The fungal harvest was not a glorious thing. It grew in the resurrected hydroponic bays, a fast-spreading, spongy grey mass that pulsed faintly with its own bioluminescence in the precise, artificial twilight of the Vault's agricultural sector. It smelled of damp earth and ozone. To warriors raised on the rich, bloody meat of the hunt, it looked like something that grew on a rotting log.

Lyra stood over the first tray, a harvesting knife in her hand. Elias, circles under his eyes but buzzing with triumph, beamed at it. "Strain Gamma-7. Calorie-dense, packed with essential proteins and vitamins, neutral flavor profile. It'll keep a warrior on his feet. And we can produce fifty kilos a day once the other bays are online."

It was the foundation of their sovereignty. A full belly. Ronan and his delegation had left at dawn, taking the first precious ten kilos with them as a gesture of goodwill to the Ice-Maw and Frost-Scar. The rest would feed the combined forces camped outside.

Lyra cut a chunk, its texture firm but yielding. She brought it to her lips and took a bite. It tasted like nothing. A bland, slightly slippery mouthful. It was perfect.

"It's food," she said, and the simplicity of the statement felt monumental. She was no longer just a Keeper of sleepers and secrets. She was a provider.

Kael entered the bay, his boots silent on the moisture-repellant flooring. He'd been on the perimeter, integrating the Crimson Paw patrols into a unified schedule with Silverfang and Southern scouts. He looked at the tray of grey biomass, then at her. "Well?"

"It's food," she repeated, offering him the piece she'd bitten.

He took it, sniffed it, then ate it without hesitation. He chewed, his face impassive. "It'll do. Better than going hungry." He looked around the vast, humming chamber, at the rows of trays beginning to sprout their strange, vital crop. "This is how you hold a mountain. Not with walls. With full stomachs."

"The first lesson of any siege," Nabil agreed, appearing as if from the shadows. He had a way of moving that seemed to disregard the solidity of the Vault's architecture. "You have made your first true move on the board, Keeper. You have declared you are not a raider sitting on treasure, but a steward planting seeds."

Lyra wiped her hands on a cloth. "The invitations went out this morning. Via every open channel and secured diplomatic pouch Finn could hack or bribe."

"The reaction?" Kael asked.

Nabil's expression turned wry. "Predictable. The Iron Citadel has acknowledged receipt with cold formality. The Timber-Fang Alliance has sent a curiously worded reply asking about 'shared forestry management techniques.' The River-Singers sent a poem. It is, I believe, an acceptance. The Celestial Peaks sent back a single glyph. My lore-keepers are deciphering it, but it is not a refusal."

"And the smaller clans? The ones bordering us?" Lyra pressed.

"A mixture of fear, curiosity, and greed. They will come. If only to see if the stories of the med-pods are true." Nabil's gaze grew sharper. "Which brings us to your second harvest."

They moved from the agricultural sector to the medical wing, a stark, white room adjacent to the entrance chamber. Two of the portable med-pods hummed quietly. In one, a Crimson Paw warrior who had taken a plasma burn to the chest was sleeping, his wound a fading pink web under the blue light. In the other was not a soldier, but a young Northern hunter, barely more than a boy, who had been found half-frozen after the battle, his leg shattered. He was awake, his eyes wide with terror and wonder as the nanites in the pod swarmed over his mangled limb, rebuilding bone and sinew.

Lyra approached his pod. The boy flinched, then stilled as she placed a hand on the transparent lid. "What's your name?" she asked, her voice gentle through the speaker.

"T-Torin, ma'am," he stammered.

"You'll walk again, Torin. Without a limp. When you're healed, you can leave. Go home. Or stay and learn. The choice is yours."

The boy stared at her, tears welling in his eyes. He was a prisoner of war being shown more mercy than his own commanders likely ever had. He was her second harvest: a story. A story of healing that would travel back to every Northern hearth and hovel, far more effective than any broadcast.

As they left the medical wing, a commotion at the main entrance drew them. Grynn was there, his voice a snarling argument with a Silverfang sentry.

"—my people are on half-rations of this slime while yours get the last of the real meat! I see the distributions!"

Kael moved, a sudden avalanche of calm authority. "The distributions are equal, Grynn. By weight and nutritional value. Check the logs."

Grynn whirled on him, his face a mask of resentful pride. "Logs can be faked. My wolves have keen noses. They smell roasting venison from your side of the camp."

The accusation hung in the air. Favoritism would fracture the fragile alliance faster than any outside attack.

Lyra stepped forward before Kael could answer with force. "Then let's settle it with a feast," she said, her voice clear.

Both men looked at her.

"A feast of the harvest. Tonight. We cook the first full batch of the fungal protein. Everyone. Silverfang, Crimson Paw, Southern Clans, surrendered Northerners who swear a temporary oath of peace. We all eat the same thing, from the same pots. Prepared by a mixed crew." She looked at Grynn. "Your best cook. Ours. A Southerner. Let them work together. Let everyone see it, smell it, taste it. If it's good enough for an Alpha, it's good enough for a warrior."

It was a masterstroke. It addressed the accusation not with denial, but with radical transparency and shared experience. It would bind them through a common, humble meal.

Grynn, wrong-footed, could only glare. "It's… grey mush."

"Then your cook's job is to make it taste like victory," Kael said, a hint of a challenge in his tone. "Or are Crimson Paw only good at tearing things down, not building them up?"

The gauntlet was thrown. Grynn's pride, the only currency he truly understood, was engaged. He snarled, "My cook will make your wolf-chefs weep with envy." He stomped away, barking orders to his subordinates.

Nabil chuckled softly. "You weave with rough thread, Keeper. But the pattern emerges."

The evening feast was an event born of necessity that blossomed into something strange and profound. Great cauldrons were set up in the lee of the ice ridge, away from the constant wind. The grey fungal protein, diced and seasoned with hardy glacial herbs and precious salt from Southern stores, was simmered into a thick, fragrant stew. The scent, savory and strange, drew everyone from their duties.

They ate in mixed groups, not by pack. A Silverfang veteran shared a bowl with a young Crimson Paw warrior, both too tired for posturing. Southerners showed Silverfang how to use flatbread to scoop the stew. A few of the surrendered Northern hunters, under watchful eyes, ate with silent, stunned gratitude.

Kael and Lyra ate from the same central pot, served by Grynn's glowering cook and a cheerful Silverfang elder. The stew was hearty, earthy, more satisfying than its origins suggested.

As the meal wound down, with a sense of communal fullness replacing the edge of hunger, Lyra stood on a crate. The chatter died. All eyes turned to her—the half-breed, the spy, the Luna, the Keeper.

She didn't give a speech. She told a story.

She told them of Corin, the archivist, dreaming of his sister. She told them of the Great Schism not as a myth, but as a family betrayal that had poisoned generations. She told them of the purpose of the Vault—not as a trophy, but as a promise to those sleepers. A promise of a safe awakening.

"We are not just guarding a mountain," she said, her voice carrying on the cold, still air. "We are keeping a promise made ten thousand years ago. And we are making a new one. To each other. That full bellies matter more than pure blood. That a healed enemy is better than a dead one. That the future we build in this mountain's shadow will be for everyone who chooses to help build it."

She looked at Grynn's sullen face, at the curious Southerners, at her own weary, proud pack. "This stew. This 'grey mush.' This is the first brick. It's not glorious. But it's solid. And there will be more. Medicine. Knowledge. Security. A place. For all of us."

She stepped down. There was no roaring cheer. That wasn't the tone. Instead, a low, thoughtful murmur spread through the crowd. A Crimson Paw warrior nodded slowly to the Silverfang veteran beside him. A Southerner began a soft, rhythmic clapping that was taken up by others, a sound like gentle rain on stone.

It was acceptance. Fragile, wary, but real.

Later, in their private quarters deep within the Vault—a simple room Lyra had configured near the command center, with a real bed and a window that looked out onto a holographic simulation of a forest—Kael pulled her into his arms.

"You were magnificent," he murmured into her hair.

"I was scared," she admitted, her body finally relaxing against his. "I thought Grynn would throw his bowl at me."

"He might have. Until you appealed to the only thing he respects more than strength: survival. You showed him a path to survive and keep his pride. That's a language he understands." He held her at arm's length. "But the real test comes in three days. When Ronan returns. And when the first envoys start arriving."

She nodded, the weight settling back. "The Frost-Scar and Ice-Maw. If they accept Ronan's offer…"

"It will send a shockwave. It will prove our model works. If they refuse…" He didn't finish. They both knew. It would be a sign of weakness, and Varek's opportunistic wolves would be at their throats.

"We need a show of force that isn't aggression," Lyra said, her mind turning to the Vault's schematics. "The shield emitters… we have the blueprint. We can't make many, not yet. But what about something… visible? A demonstration of the mountain's passive defense."

Kael's eyes glinted. "What are you thinking?"

"The energy grid. The Vault's perimeter shielding is down, but the projection matrix is intact. We could, for a few minutes, reactivate a section. Not to block an attack, but to… make a statement. A curtain of light in the sky, visible for miles. A harmless but undeniable display of power on the eve of the convocation."

It was a risk. It would consume power. It might scare some clans away. But it would also quell any thoughts of a quick, easy raid.

"Do it," Kael said. "The night before the envoys arrive. Let them see that this mountain doesn't just heal. It defends."

They stood together, looking at the holographic forest, a memory of a world they were fighting to make real. Outside, their people, a ragged coalition of former enemies, slept with full stomachs for the first time in days. Deep in the mountain, 8,427 souls dreamed on. And in a medical pod, a Northern boy named Torin slept without pain, his body healing, his mind perhaps beginning to change.

The harvest was in. The foundation was laid. Now, they had to build the walls high enough, and the welcome wide enough, for the storm that was coming to see not a target, but a sanctuary. And a warning.

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