I wake up staring at stone.
Which is weirdly comforting, actually. Not the "soft, warm morning sun" kind of comforting, but the "nothing exploded while I was unconscious" kind. Low standards are still standards, okay?
The grave's still there. Still glowing. Dimmer than before, like the warmth it gave yesterday ran out of reasons to keep trying. That makes two of us.
No sign of the kid. No new tokens. No bones. Good news, probably.
I roll over. Bad choice. Every muscle complains. My joints crack like bad luck charms and something in my shoulder is definitely not aligned. This kobold body is not made for sleeping on stone floors. Or stress. Or anything, really.
System's quiet. No pop-ups. Which should be good, but now I miss them. I've gone full trauma-bonded with my tutorial interface. Wonderful.
My stomach grumbles. Loud. Rude.
Okay. Breakfast time. Mission: eat something that won't poison me.
Options: zero.
I scrape together the leftover bug shell from yesterday and nibble a bit of the leg chitin. It tastes like regret. Still, the bitter edge feels duller now, like my body's adjusting.
[Digestive Adaptation: Pitback Crawler — 21%]
[Warning Level: Minor Irritant]
Yay. I'm evolving. Into a trash compactor.
There's movement near the tunnel.
I freeze. Heart hammering. Claws twitch.
It's the kid.
He steps in slow, like he's expecting to see blood or teeth. Instead, he sees me awkwardly gnawing on yesterday's leftovers. A real majestic sight.
We stare at each other. Again.
I push the remains toward him. A peace offering. Kind of. Not a lot to share, but starving kobolds can't be picky.
He kneels by the token ring. Not inside. Not touching. Just near.
Then he does something weird.
He taps his chest.
Then points at me.
Then back at himself.
Oh.
He's trying to communicate.
I sit up straighter. Tap my own chest. Mimic the gesture. Point at him.
He nods, slowly.
[Nonverbal Imitation: Identity Signal Attempted]
[Thread Triggered: Linguistic Mimicry (Gesture-Based) — 3%]
Okay, we're caveman-ing our way into language. That's fine. That's good. Words are overrated anyway.
He reaches into his sling again and pulls out a dull shard. Carves something into the dust beside the grave. Two curves. A jagged stroke through them.
I have no idea what it means.
But he touches it.
Then taps his chest again.
I get it.
It's not a name, maybe. Not yet. But it's his mark. His symbol.
I look at it. Then grab a scrap of charcoal-like bone from the fire ring and draw something next to it.
Mine is worse. Lopsided. Half a spiral, with a messy X through it. I have no idea what it's supposed to be.
But I tap it anyway.
He snorts. A short, sharp exhale. Almost a laugh.
I grin back.
We're inventing language by drawing nonsense in the dirt. Brilliant. Cultural genius over here. Someone give me a title. Kobold of Scribbles. Lord of Janky Symbols.
The moment lingers.
Then he stands. Looks toward the tunnels. Still doesn't speak. But the tension in his posture says enough.
We're not alone out there.
He glances at me.
I glance at the grave.
And we both understand without saying anything:
This place? It's real now.
And maybe we'll have to protect it soon.
---
We leave the chamber in silence.
Not the awkward kind. The survival kind. The kind where every footstep is a gamble and every sound might be your last. The kind that tastes like stale breath and unfinished fear.
The kid walks ahead of me. Light-footed. Familiar with the tunnels, or maybe just less traumatized by them today. He glances back every so often, checking that I'm still there. Not leading. Not following. Just… together.
We're not hunting for anything specific. Just moving. Ears up. Eyes scanning. Breath shallow.
A collapsed corridor becomes a tunnel. A tunnel becomes a pit. A pit leads to something old.
We find it half-buried beneath what might have been an altar or a really big table. Stone slabs cracked open like someone took a chisel to ancient history. Shards everywhere. Scorched symbols on the wall. Blackened. Warped. Still recognizable.
Fire.
The kid crouches beside a half-burnt clay bowl. Holds it up. Ash spills out. We both stare at it like it's a priceless relic. Which, to be fair, down here? It might be.
I grab a piece of the scorched wall and squint. There are marks—more fire symbols, maybe? My claws itch.
[Data Fragment Identified: Fireheld Glyphs – 8%]
[Imitation Available: Fire-Handling Protocol (Prototype)]
[Materials Required: Flint-like Shard | Kindling | Structure]
We don't say a word. Don't need to.
We start collecting.
Bits of moss. Threads of old cloth. Bone splinters. Anything that might burn without killing us.
The kid hands me a dull stone. He keeps the flintier one. I watch him strike it against metal—nothing happens.
I try. Sparks.
Tiny. Weak. But real.
We drag it all back to the chamber. It takes two trips and some near-slips through tunnels with questionable flooring. By the time we settle again, my arms are shaking and I can't feel three of my toes.
We stack the pieces. Build a ring. Like the grave, but different. Wider. Hungrier.
The first strike sends a spark. It dies.
Second strike? Nothing.
Third? My knuckles bleed.
The kid tries. Fails. Growls softly. Not angry—just focused.
Then he brings out the softest thing we found. Some kind of dried moss or fur padding. Drops it gently into the ring.
I strike again.
The spark hits the bundle.
And this time—flicker.
[Prototype Construct: Communal Flame — Level 0 Initiated]
[Effect: Minor Warmth | Morale Stabilizer]
[Bond Thread Triggered: Cohort (Seed Stage)]
The fire isn't big. It's barely a whisper. But it glows. It lives.
We both sit down in front of it. Exhausted. Shivering. But smiling. Just a little.
He leans forward and mimics the sound I made yesterday. That half-laugh, half-bark wheeze that passed for joy.
I snort. He copies it again. Louder.
We end up laughing. Ugly, wheezy, tired little kobold laughs. Like we're not one cough away from collapse.
He draws his mark in the dirt again. Points at me.
I trace mine beside it. He taps it. Nods.
Then he tries to draw one for me. It's awful. I love it.
We sit in the glow of our ridiculous fire, surrounded by makeshift tools and scratchy half-symbols and maybe the dumbest excuse for a society ever invented.
But it's real.
Ours.
Something rustles in the tunnel.
We both freeze.
Not a gorrak. No snarl. No stink of predator breath.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
More than one.
[Incoming Presence Detected – Unknown Kobold Signatures]
[Thread Conflict Potential: Medium]
The fire crackles. The grave glows. The kid reaches for a rock.
I don't stop him.
But I do stand up.
Because I built this fire.
And now I have to decide if I share it.
Or fight for it.