Building a Kingdom as a Kobold

Someone's shouting before I even open my eyes. Not a nightmare, not this time. Real—close, desperate, boots thudding up the corridor, Bitterstack's voice barking orders with a kind of anger that only means one thing: the worst has started.

I lurch upright. The main hall is a mess—cots, ration crates, a half-eaten loaf, and over a dozen kobolds jammed together in various states of fear and half-dressed panic. Tinker is at the window with a broken relay unit, trying to get a signal. Bitterstack's at the door, counting heads, shoving a lantern at a trembling Gen-2 who nearly drops it. Around them, young and old, veteran and greenhorn, press together in a swirl of nerves and noise.

"Up, move, now!" she snaps. "Keep it tight, keep it quiet. Anyone runs, I'll string you up myself!"

The world outside is chaos: shadows moving, glass breaking, the signal bell jarring in bursts, sometimes cutting out mid-note. I can't see the walls but I can hear them—something hammering at the far side, metal groaning. The only light is what Tinker managed to cobble together, flickering and thin.

[Alert: Perimeter Breach — North and West]

[Notice: Communication Delay — Manual Relay Required]

[Warning: Defensive Priority Updated — Leadership Required]

I grab the nearest stick—table leg, doesn't matter—and check the cots. Most of the Gen-2s are trembling, pressed together for warmth and nerves. The youngest huddle at the center, flanked by older kobolds—some who've fought before, some who have never held a blade but still plant themselves in the way of danger. One of them's crying, barely making a sound. Another grips a kitchen knife with both hands like it might turn into a sword if he holds on long enough.

Tinker glances at me, eyes wide and teeth bared. "Signal's trash. I can bounce a pulse off the kitchen post but I don't know if anyone's listening. The system's cycling error codes."

He tries to sound clever, like this is just another invention problem, but his hands are shaking. I want to tell him it's fine, but I can't lie that well. Not tonight.

The pounding grows louder. Bitterstack kicks over a crate to block the main door. "Nobody opens this unless it's me. If you have to run, you take someone with you. Don't look back. Got it?"

Nods. Shaky, but there. They listen to her, not just because she's loud but because she's the one who always knows what to do with fear—turn it into orders, turn it into motion. All around, kobolds—named or not, Gen-2 or old hand—shift together, watching us, waiting for cues.

I count heads again—habit. At least thirty in here: a handful of Gen-2s, some half-awake for the first real battle, some older kobolds from kitchen or forge or farms, their bravado stripped bare. Last week, some of these kids were arguing over who got the best shift in the kitchens. Now they're lined up behind ration crates like soldiers who've already seen too much.

[Notice: Status Unavailable. Please Try Again Later.]

[Error: Threat Recognition Subsystem Overloaded.]

Tinker groans, kicking the relay. "Just once I'd like a warning that doesn't come after the disaster starts."

Bitterstack's voice cuts through the noise. "Listen up. The main hall's solid, but if that back wall gives, we're open. Tinker, with me. Everyone else: find a weapon, buddy up. If you see a shadow, you yell first, swing second."

The pounding shifts. Something heavier. A scraping noise. I risk a look out the side window. Shadows moving—monster shapes, not charging, but organized, searching for weak points. Not the mindless waves from before. These ones are probing, waiting for a signal.

A Gen-2 named Mottle grips my arm. "Where's Splitjaw? Shouldn't he—" His voice breaks. He's young, brave when there's someone older to follow, but lost now.

"Splitjaw's at the gate," I lie. "And Quicktongue's getting help. Our job's to hold here. We keep the little ones safe."

He nods, not quite believing, but it's enough to keep him from bolting. I watch the others—nervous, but trying, looking to me and Bitterstack, doing what they've practiced but knowing practice isn't enough.

Tinker swears, then flashes a small, shaky grin. "Relays are cycling but the kitchen beacon might work. If I set off the alarm, everyone'll know we're in trouble. Might bring help. Or bring more trouble."

Bitterstack grabs a frying pan and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with me at the main entry. "If it's trouble, we give it a bigger headache."

Something slams the door. Dust falls from the rafters. I see two Gen-2s flinch but they hold position. Mottle clings to his stick, another kid—small, scrappy—hides behind a crate but keeps one eye on the windows. Behind them, an older cook sharpens a cleaver and mutters under her breath, ready for whatever comes next.

We brace for the next hit. My heart's pounding, but I make myself smile at Tinker. "You get that relay working and you're a hero. If not, at least you'll die interesting."

He laughs, a thin, desperate sound.

A monster shadow moves past the window—then stops. It taps the glass, deliberate, as if it's counting us. My grip tightens. Bitterstack glances at me and nods. We're in this together, however it breaks.

The system chimes again, useless.

[Notice: Unknown Enemy Formation Detected]

[Defensive Structures: Stress Exceeded]

Someone starts to cry—a Gen-2, finally losing the last of their courage. Bitterstack snaps, "Don't waste it. If you have to scream, scream loud enough to scare them back."

We wait. The next impact makes the walls shudder. There's a choice coming, I can feel it. Break out, or hunker down and hope someone's coming.

No time left for nerves. Only action.

---

The next hit shakes the whole hall. Cracks splinter up the plaster near the back wall; dust trickles from a ceiling beam. Someone yelps. Bitterstack's tail lashes, but she holds the line, voice loud and clear: "Nobody moves unless I say. Shields up—whatever you've got. Mottle, to me. Tinker, sound that beacon now or never."

Mottle hesitates, looking from me to Bitterstack. I jerk my chin at them, and they scramble over, still gripping their stick, eyes wide but steady now. "You know this hall," I say quietly, "You run messages if the line breaks. No heroics. Get people out if it goes bad."

They nod, a little too fast. "I can do that. I won't run—unless you say."

Tinker grits his teeth, fiddling with the relay. There's a pulse of light, a brief static buzz—then the kitchen beacon shrieks out, loud enough to set every kobold in the building flinching. The monsters hear it too; the shadows outside pause, uncertain.

I don't wait. "Bitterstack, hold the door. Everyone else, windows. If they get through, bottleneck them." The older kobolds get it first—one shoves a heavy bench across a side window; another starts tossing out every pot, pan, and stool that might serve as a shield or club.

A fist—bigger than any kobold's—slams into the main door. The wood groans but holds, just barely. I shout for the smallest to get down, gesture Mottle and another Gen-2 to the back exit. "Ready to run on my word," I whisper. "Not before."

Tinker gets another system alert.

[Defensive Priority — Manual Override Engaged]

[Warning: Enemy Numbers Exceed Recommended Threshold]

"Could have told us that before!" Tinker yells, but his hands are steadier now, body braced to take another hit.

The next impact splits the lower frame. Cold air rushes in, then a monstrous claw. I plant myself beside Bitterstack, every muscle tensed. "Now!" I bark. She swings her pan with a crack that makes the thing hesitate. I ram my stick down on the claw, teeth bared. The crowd behind us surges—a dozen voices raised not in panic, but in defiance. Mottle jabs their stick through the gap, aiming low, catching something soft; a snarl echoes back.

It gets brutal, fast. The monster pushes in—a mossbeast, eyes shining with strange intelligence. Its movements are too controlled; it checks for traps, avoids the splintered door edge. Bitterstack growls, "It's learning," as she smacks it again. I shout for the others to flank; one of the older kobolds trips the beast with a bucket, another hurls a bag of flour into its face. Mottle leaps in, stabbing again, this time not shaking.

I lunge for the opening, grip the mossbeast's arm, and wrench it sideways—feeling every inch of strain, but refusing to give. "This is Ashring," I snarl, "Not your feeding pit." The beast roars, claws raking my shoulder, but I twist, slam the door with my own weight, and Bitterstack kicks the thing's snout so hard it yelps and retreats.

It's not over—more shadows press up at the window, probing. A younger Gen-2 screams as claws rip through the shutters. I throw myself across the bench, knock the beast's hand aside, and yell, "Bitterstack, rally left! Mottle, with me—shield the little ones!" Mottle grabs the smallest, hauls them back, then dashes to the side to block another breach.

Tinker's still fighting with the relay. "Backup's coming—I think. Or at least someone heard us!"

We're running on instinct. An older cook rams a poker into a monster's leg; a farmhand throws a lantern, setting fur alight. I slam the bench forward, push back another snout, and bark, "No one dies here tonight!"

For a minute, maybe two, it works. The monsters snarl, press, but we give as good as we get. I move from breach to breach, patching holes, swinging whatever I can grab. Every kobold follows the rhythm: someone fights, someone covers, someone pulls the wounded clear. Even the youngest do their part—fetching bandages, calling out directions, refusing to let anyone be left behind.

[System: Emergency Defense Protocol — Satisfactory]

[Morale: Volatile, But Intact]

[Critical Alert: Secondary Breach Detected — Back Wall]

We all freeze as the back wall shudders. There's a new sound—crunching, as stonework starts to fail. Mottle's the first to react, grabbing two kids and herding them toward the side exit. Bitterstack's yelling, "Brace it, brace it—" but we know we can't hold if it goes.

I sprint for the weak point, shoving a crate into place, then yell for everyone to fall back to the hallway. "Go! Now! Mottle, lead the way!"

Tinker grabs his toolkit, hauls a weeping Gen-2 under one arm, and bolts. Bitterstack backs out last, swinging her pan until the last possible second.

We tumble into the hallway just as the wall gives—the monsters pour in behind us, but the bottleneck slows them. I stand at the end of the hall, battered, bloodied, roaring for everyone to run, to live, to keep Ashring's name alive.

Mottle's already at the front, guiding the shaken, shouting for order. For a second, we lock eyes—me and the kid who was terrified not ten minutes ago—and there's nothing but pride in that look.

We flee down the passage, the sounds of battle echoing behind. The fight's not over. But neither are we.

The system flickers, a last message as we run:

[Leadership Confirmed. Group Status: Mobile. Next Objective: Survive.]

And under it, my own thought—louder than the panic, louder than the system:

No one here is giving up. Not tonight.