Building a Kingdom as a Kobold-Chapter 65: We Built One Thing That Works and Now Everyone Thinks We Know What We’re Doing

Chapter 65: We Built One Thing That Works and Now Everyone Thinks We Know What We’re Doing

The forge didn’t explode overnight.

That was the first sign things were getting out of hand.

By the time I limped over to check if anyone had accidentally invented pyromancy again, there were elves.

Not a lot of them. Just enough to count as a problem. Five in total, which is the exact number of engineers you need to make a kobold extremely nervous. Two were sketching the frame. One was peering underneath with a magnifying crystal. One was asking questions at a speed no one could answer. And the last one just stood there, watching Tinker like he was about to sprout wings.

Tinker looked like he was dying.

Not in a dramatic way. In the slow, quiet way someone does when they realize everyone is taking them seriously and there’s no way out.

He was trying to explain something about airflow control and mineral memory in mosscrete layering. His tail was doing that thing where it wrapped around his leg like it wanted to leave without him. The prototype was still running. Somehow. A soft, low flame pulsing like it belonged there.

I didn’t say anything.

Relay was sitting nearby with a bark slate and three colors of dust-chalk, scribbling diagrams that I’m ninety percent sure weren’t technically possible. Glare had taken up a position behind the forge, cloak draped dramatically over one eye. He kept nodding every time Tinker said something that sounded vaguely important.

Cinders wasn’t visible, which meant she was either preparing food or preparing to correct someone with a spoon. Flick was somewhere worse.

The elves were polite. In the terrifying way polite people are when they’re studying you.

One of them finally turned to me. I hadn’t moved. Maybe they didn’t realize I was eavesdropping.

"You’re the Sovereign, yes?"

That’s a cursed sentence.

I nodded anyway.

"This construct—he built it from scrap?"

"No," I said. "He built it from not sleeping and thinking too hard about failure."

There was a pause.

Then the flame stabilizer made a soft chime. Not the forge. The stabilizer node. One of the elves hissed and pulled back like it had bitten her.

The system picked that exact moment to wake up.

[Prototype Configuration: Logged – Ashring Adaptive Variant]

[Flame Signature Linked – Cultural Pattern: Inception Detected]

[Craft Role Registered – Identity Seed Established]

[Pending Classification: Trait – Forgeborn (Unconfirmed)]

The flame flickered toward Tinker. Just slightly. Like acknowledgment.

He blinked at it.

Relay dropped his chalk.

Glare whispered, "It begins," and was ignored.

The elves went completely still. Then one of them stepped back and asked if Tinker would be willing to review older schematics recovered from their archive vault. He said yes without looking at me. His paws were still trembling a little, but he didn’t drop the tools.

No one cheered. No one clapped. We’re not built for that.

But the way the squad stayed close, the way no one spoke too loudly, the way Cinders set down a warm ration plate on the edge of the work table without comment—it all said the same thing.

He did it.

And the forge was still running.

---

Okay.

So nothing exploded.

That’s suspicious.

I didn’t want to be the one to say it, but someone has to. Tinker’s forge held steady for a full night, half a day, and then some. The flame still hasn’t made any ominous noises, the pressure ring hasn’t melted, and no one’s spontaneously combusted trying to touch the housing.

Which means the situation is about to get worse in an entirely different direction.

Because now it’s official.

People think we know what we’re doing.

Tinker hasn’t left the forge. I’m not sure he remembers how to stand. He’s still in the same soot-marked apron he wore during the final stabilization pass, sitting next to a pile of tools and ritualistically poking at a cooling plate like it owes him an explanation.

He’s not in shock. He’s just... still.

That kind of stillness only happens after something important goes right. When your brain hasn’t caught up to the part where you’re allowed to feel things.

Cinders walked by an hour ago and dropped a warm ration bowl in his lap. No comment. No eye contact. Just food delivery kobold protocol. He flinched. Ate two bites. Then resumed staring at a copper joint like it was going to tell him the meaning of fire.

Glare tried to declare the forge sacred. He even waved a moss-flag. Tinker didn’t stop him. That counts as approval now, apparently.

Relay has redrawn the worksite three times and keeps muttering about "forgebud clusters" like that’s a real term. I’ve stopped correcting him. It’s safer that way.

I sat nearby for most of the afternoon.

Didn’t say much.

Didn’t need to.

Because sometimes it’s not about marking the moment with words. It’s about letting the silence be full of presence, not absence.

Letting someone own their success before the world tries to take it from them.

Late afternoon drifted in. The air took on that heavy quiet it gets when the day is done but no one wants to admit it.

Tinker finally looked up.

"Still stable," he said.

I gave him a sideways look.

He was trying not to smile.

"Don’t say it like that," I told him. "You sound like you expect it to start screaming."

He shrugged. "Maybe I do."

"Did you test the mossflow regulator this morning?"

"Yes."

"The flame intake?"

"Twice."

"Backup pressure gauge?"

"Flick swapped it out before breakfast."

"...Flick touched something critical?"

"He claimed it was fine. Also he did it with gloves this time."

I stared at him.

He stared back.

And then, very quietly, he said, "I think I want to make a smaller one."

That was the most dangerous sentence I’d heard all week.

Thirty minutes later, Relay had drawn up three possible designs for a "relay-compatible mobile flamecraft station." Cinders was arguing with him about materials, while Glare insisted that it needed a name that "sings with myth." He suggested "Ashling’s Embercall."

Tinker gave him a look that said no, but also, I’m too tired to fight you.

Progress.

I leaned back against the mosscrete wall and let the noise happen. It wasn’t bad noise. It was settlement noise.

We were shaping things. Just a little.

But enough.

That’s when I noticed it.

A shift in the breeze. A slight drag on the air. That silence before something touches the edge of awareness.

I straightened and scanned the treeline.

Kobold.

Moving slow. Covered in dust. Pack slung tight. Shoulders hunched like he’d carried something heavier than weight.

Didn’t run. Didn’t call.

He crossed the ward line with steady steps and didn’t look away.

I stood.

The others hadn’t noticed yet. They were still buried in blueprint arguments and philosophical design debates.

But I saw the scout’s eyes.

He didn’t speak.

He was from Ashring.

And he was alone.

For now.

I took one step toward him.

Behind me, the forge let out a soft tick.

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