Snow whispered under their boots, each step swallowed by the heavy quiet of the forest. The boy's tracks cut sharp through the white, reckless and hurried, no attempt to hide his passing. Branches sagged with the heavy snow fall, and the last veins of daylight bled red along the horizon.

Auren crouched low, brushing his fingers across a fresh impression. The wind swirled faintly around him, tugging at his cloak, carrying with it the faintest scent of sweat and fear. He closed his eyes, let his breath slow, and murmured: "The wind remembers. It carries the shape of those who pass. He's close, but…" His eyes opened, narrow and hard. "…he's not wandering. He's following our march."

Ferin stood nearby, his hounds restless, ears flicking as they whined low in their throats. The hunter bared his teeth, not in a smile but in irritation. "Of course he is. Fool boy's chasing strength he's not ready for." He crouched, pressing his palm flat to the snow where the boy had stumbled, feeling the faint pulse of intention through his Dao—the Hunt thrummed in his blood, a whisper of pursuit. His eyes snapped toward the shadowed line of the trees. "He wants something inside that dungeon. I can feel it. The Hunt doesn't lie."

"Can you sense how far?" Auren asked, straightening.

Ferin shook his head, tugging lightly on the dogs' leads. "Not far. But his trail's hot. Wind's shifting, though. If we don't catch him before dark, he'll vanish into the stone's shadow, and then—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening. "Then he's as good as dead."

Auren exhaled slowly, his own Dao humming through him, whispering of movement, of fleeting things. He could almost hear the boy's ragged breath carried on the wind ahead of them. "He's desperate," he muttered. "You only run this straight when you're running toward something—or away from everything."

Ferin gave a sharp nod. "Then we'd best decide which before the dungeon swallows him."

They moved again, faster this time, the boy's trail a clear thread through the snow, the forest closing darker around them with every step. They didn't even bother tracking him anymore and just ran as fast as they could for the dungeon.

The longhouse was restless with motion. The recruits filed through Illga's forge in a steady line, the ring of hammer against steel and the hiss of quenching filling the air. Weapons—still rough, still green—gleamed with fresh edges as they passed from her anvil to waiting hands.

Master Olrick's face was pale beneath his beard as he wrung his hands. "If he's gone where I think he's gone…" His eyes flicked toward the dark treeline. "He's nearly sixteen. A boy that age, half-grown with mana stirring, will do anything to claim a stronger class. Even throw himself into death."

Lira leaned forward, her tone calm but edged with worry. "He's not wrong. Ambition drives harder than hunger at that age. If he thinks blood and risk can force the system's hand…" She trailed off, frowning. "Then he may believe the dungeon is the only place to prove himself."

Harold's jaw tightened. "And that's where he'll die."

Daran stood with arms folded, broad frame filling the doorway. His recruits gathered behind him in twos and threes, clutching sharpened axes, hafts of spears, battered shields. His voice cut flat and even. "Platoon's ready on standby. If it comes to steel, we'll move." He glanced sideways at Harold. "But dragging half-trained men into a dungeon chase will bleed us worse than the boy's mistake."

The door pushed open, and Rysa came hurrying in, a satchel clutched to her chest, glass vials clinking within. "I brewed what I could." She stumbled to a halt, catching her breath, eyes wide as she caught the mood of the room. "Burn salves, coagulants, two flasks that'll make a man run like fire's behind him—but don't drop them or we'll all be coughing smoke." She tried for a grin, but it faltered.

Then Kelan appeared, dust still clinging to his stone-scorched hands. "What about Hal?" His eyes fixed on Harold. "If we're walking into the dungeon's teeth, can we expect backup?"

Harold didn't answer at once. He felt the tether—faint and distant, Hal's presence pulsing somewhere far beyond the valley, out in the wilds where the brand tugged him. The bond was there, but thin, stretched taut.

Finally Harold shook his head. "No. Hal's gone to answer a call of his own. We won't have him tonight."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the ring of Illga's hammer in the forge outside and the low mutter of recruits readying for a fight.

Harold's gaze swept the circle, then settled on Kelan and Lira. "You've run that dungeon twice now," he said, voice low but carrying. "How far have you come? Halfway through Tier Two by now?"

Kelan nodded, jaw set. "Close enough. My shaping bites deeper with each fight. I can hold one of them on my own now."

Lira straightened beside him, pale but steady. Her voice was quieter, but no less sure. "I'm the same. But it's not just me anymore." She lifted a hand toward the shadows near the wall, where five undead kobold berserkers stood silent, axes strapped across their backs. "They rally to me. And they're not green recruits—they died seasoned. With them, I can hold a line."

Before Harold could answer, Daran's voice cut in, flat as the edge of a whetstone. "Levels don't change the truth. They're still lacking." His eyes narrowed. "Without the Dao to match, those gains are only numbers. Until they step into the Squire tier with their Qi, they won't strike as hard as they need to. They'll keep pace, maybe even survive. But they'll never dominate."

The words landed heavy, and Harold frowned, the knot of responsibility tightening in his chest. It was what it was. They were growing fast—but still not fast enough.

Kelan's chin lifted stubbornly. "Even so, I'll hold my own." His hand tightened around the haft of his pickaxe, stone dust still fresh along the metal. "Let them come."

"And I won't be alone," Lira added, her kobolds shifting faintly, their firelit eyes unblinking. "Whatever happens, they'll stand with me."

Harold let the silence stretch, then turned slowly to Daran. The firelight caught the hard planes of the Tier 4 warrior's face, casting him half in shadow, half in gold. "If this comes to a dungeon chase," Harold said, each word deliberate, "then we'll need every resource we have. This isn't the time to hoard strength. Daran Holt—will you take my Brand?"

The weight of the words settled like a stone dropped in water. Even the recruits fell quiet, eyes darting between them. To be offered a Brand wasn't a trifle. It was a bond that tied soul to soul, guiding a man's future path.

Daran's face hardened further, the lines around his mouth deepening. He didn't answer at once. Instead, he stood, arms crossed, staring at Harold for a long, cutting moment. The fire cracked. Rysa shifted uneasily. Still, he didn't move.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp as steel on stone. "I've seen the way it's changed the others. Guided them. Sharpened them. I don't trust it—not yet. But if it gives us even a sliver of an edge against what's waiting in there…" His voice lowered. "Then I'll take it."

Harold stepped forward, lifting his hand. The fire in his chest flared as he summoned the Brandwright's power, the oathmark rising like silver flame in his palm. He invoked it with all the solemnity it demanded, the heraldry of his class thrumming in his bones. "I offer bond, and oath, and guidance," he intoned, the words carrying weight older than himself. "Take it, and walk your path sharper than before."

The silver light leapt from his hand toward Daran—only to sputter and break, dissolving against the man's chest as though striking an unyielding wall. The glow flickered once, then vanished.

The silence that followed was absolute. Harold stood frozen, breath short, as the truth sank in.

"Too high," he muttered, his voice hollow in his own ears. "You're too high a tier."

Daran's eyes narrowed, but he gave no sign of surprise. Only a faint shrug, almost weary. "So it seems."

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Around them, the recruits shifted uneasily, and the fire crackled on.

The silver glow sputtered and died against Daran's chest. For a long moment the only sound was the fire snapping and the faint shuffle of boots.

Rysa blew out a sharp breath and muttered, "Well—guess not everyone fits into Harold's collection. Maybe the Brand's picky. Or maybe it just knows better than to tie itself to a grumpy old wall of muscle." Her attempt at levity cracked under the strain, voice a little higher than usual, but she managed a quick, almost desperate smile as she fumbled with the vials clinking in her satchel.

I let her words hang, then exhaled, slow and heavy. "So be it," I said, my voice even. "Not everyone can carry my mark. That's fine." The weight in my chest was real, but I forced myself to square my shoulders and accept the truth.

From the back of the room came a murmur—low, uncertain at first, then firmer. One of the new sergeants stepped forward, spear resting easy in his hand. His scarred face was calm, his tone steady. "Then give it to me, Calamity. If it strengthens me, it strengthens the men under me. I'll take it."

The other two weren't far behind. One barked, "Don't you dare leave me behind on this," and shoved forward, hand on the rim of his shield. The third, axe slung across his shoulder, added with a crooked grin, "If there's power to be had, best spread it across all three of us. We're here to make soldiers out of green recruits, not fight each other for scraps."

Their voices overlapped, sharp with eagerness, edged with the rivalry of veterans still measuring their place. From the corner of my eye, I caught Daran watching them—not with jealousy, but with something harder, colder. Appraisal.

The firelight danced across the spearpoint, the axehead, the curve of the shield as they crowded closer, waiting.

The three sergeants stood before me, their eagerness sharp as the steel they carried. The glow of the fire painted their faces in lines of resolve, but also rivalry. I felt the familiar tug of the Brand stirring inside me, hungry to be placed—but I only had two slots left. One was already promised to the commander I hadn't yet found. That left one.

My eyes lingered on each in turn:

The spearman

—rigid, disciplined, a man who could form the spine of a line and hold it.

The axeman

—fierce, brash, with a strength that inspired others to match him blow for blow.

The shieldbearer

—solid, unshakable, the kind who would break his back before he let the man beside him fall.

I could almost see how each would shape the recruits differently under their lead. One path gave me reach. Another, raw ferocity. The last, endurance.

The weight of the choice sat heavy on my chest.

I turned to Daran. His recruits straightened reflexively as my gaze left them, waiting for his word. "What do you think?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "You've seen them more than I have. If I only give one Brand, whose hands do I put it in?"

For a moment he didn't answer, his jaw working as his eyes flicked over the three men. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, as if he knew exactly what I was asking—not just for advice, but his experience.

Daran's eyes cut to mine, flat and unwavering. "None of them."

The three sergeants stiffened, their protests already rising, but Daran's tone was iron. "They've earned their stripes here, yes. But a Brand from you?" He shook his head. "That belongs on the shoulders of the commander when you finally choose one. Until then, these men serve best as fighters, not as leaders. Let them bleed beside the recruits, not above them."

The axeman opened his mouth, the spearman bristled, and the shieldbearer took half a step forward—but Daran's glare silenced them before a word was spoken. "Form the platoon," he barked. "Edge of the plateau. Now."

They moved, grudging but obedient, the weight of his command undeniable.

Daran turned back to me. "Gather everyone willing to fight. We'll need every edge if this runs into the dungeon."

It wasn't long before others came.

Brenn pushed through the press, his lumberman's frame looming tall, axe slung across his shoulder. "If it fells trees, it'll fell men," he said gruffly. He bent down to kiss Maela's cheek, her hands clutching at his sleeve for just a moment before she let him go.

Rynar came next, adjusting his robes with a wry look. "I'm no warrior, but I've tricks enough to keep someone standing—or make someone else stumble. Little magics, but better than nothing."

And then, hobbling quick as his old legs would carry him, Master Olrick appeared, beard bristling as though he'd already worked himself into a fury at being left behind. "You think I've survived this long just to hide with the children? No." He tapped the head of his cane, faint sparks fluttering at the motion. "I can bolster your people. Stiffen their backs, sharpen their strikes. It may not last forever, but sometimes a heartbeat is all the difference."

I swept my eyes over them all—the platoon forming at the edge, Brenn's axe gleaming in the firelight, Rynar with his careful hands, Olrick standing straighter than I'd thought possible—and felt the knot in my chest tighten. The brothers were already standing with the platoon with small throwing axes they found somewhere hanging from them. The miners were standing near but still alittle aways. If they were willing to fight Id need to focus more on learning about them. They deserved that much at least. Finally Illga came out of her forge with a large warhammer with a spiked tip. The beaded female dwarf with her assistants already looking like blacksmiths after only two days with her.

The settlement had come out to fight.

We were walking into shadows with too many unknowns. But for the first time, it felt like we were walking as more than fragments.

The recruits were already moving, falling into rough lines at the plateau's edge when a sudden shout cut through the noise.

"Master Daran!"

Four smaller shapes bolted from the longhouse—the children he'd brought with him. Their steps slipped in the ash, but they didn't slow, tears already streaking their dirt-smeared faces. Before anyone could stop them, they barreled into him, clutching at his legs and waist, their voices a jumble of fear and pleading.

"Don't go—" "You said you'd stay—" "What if you don't come back?"

For a moment, the stone-hard wall of muscle stood frozen, every scar and line of discipline carved into his frame holding fast. But slowly, stiffly, his arms lowered. He bent, rough hands settling on their backs, pulling them in against him.

His jaw worked, but no words came. Just a long, shuddering exhale, like a man remembering the weight of everything he'd sworn to protect. One by one, he squeezed them close, resting his broad palm on each small head.

"You'll be here when I return," he said finally, voice low, steady, but softer than any of us had ever heard. "And I'll be back. That's a promise."

The children clung a moment longer, then, reluctantly, peeled away—ushered back by Olrick with quiet murmurs. Their eyes stayed locked on him, even as they disappeared into the longhouse.

Daran straightened, the mask snapping back into place. But the shine of wetness at the corner of his eye betrayed him, just for an instant. He turned sharply to face me. "Form up. We've wasted enough time."

I nodded, with an understanding he didn't know I had. "Then let's move."

And with that, the band of soldiers, recruits, craftsmen, hunters, and mages turned toward the dark stretch of valley that led to the dungeon, leaving the warmth of the fires behind.

I turned to the group that formed there in uneven lines. The hesitation on their faces was plain. They had all heard the stories of how brutal the dungeon was. In many ways it would be better if they didn't go after the fool child. It would cost less, less material, less effort, just less lives. But it would cost all of them a little piece of their humanity. Or in Illgas case whatever it was for Dwarves.

No leaving the child wasn't the answer but at least some of these people wouldn't be coming back.

"I won't lie to you. What waits ahead is not victory, it's not some shining triumph. It's ruin. It's the kind of darkness that eats men whole. Some of you will never walk out of it. That's the truth.

But the Dao doesn't open in comfort. It doesn't sharpen us with ease. It cuts us against stone, breaks us against storms, until what's left is the truest shape of who we are. The ones who fall tonight… they'll find peace quicker than the rest. But the ones who come back will return stripped bare, raw, closer to the marrow of themselves. Better. Stronger. Not clean, never clean—but real.

I've walked that path. I've done what I had to, things I'll never wash away. But every step dragged me nearer to what I am meant to be. That's the only gift the darkness offers: the chance to see who we are when nothing else is left.

So go with me now. Into the teeth of it. Into the storm. If the grave takes us, let it choke on the truth of what we've become. If it spits us back out, we'll rise carved sharper than any blade, closer to our Dao than we were before. And that is worth bleeding for. And maybe we save this fool child.

"I may have only known you all a few days but he is one of our own. Just as you all are, and I would do the same for any of you."

I looked at Daran at the head of the group, "Lets go".

The recruits shifted, their faces catching the firelight and the weight of my words. Some pale, some burning with that reckless hunger only the untested carried. Spears and axes clinked against shields, the sound rough, uneven, but enough.

Daran stood like a wall at the head of them all, his presence anchoring their fear into something harder. He met my eye as I finished, the faintest nod—acknowledgment, not agreement, but that was enough.

The night was cold and brittle around us, the wind knifing down off the peaks, carrying the ash's faint tang. Behind us, the fires of the longhouse burned steady. Ahead, the valley stretched into shadow.

"Move out," Daran barked, voice cutting like steel across the plateau.

Boots struck the ground, one after another, recruits falling into line, veterans sliding into their places with weary familiarity. The sound grew into a rhythm, the pulse of resolve beating against the silence of the ashen steppes.

I walked among them, not above them, the haft of my axe heavy in my hand. Every step was a reminder—the weight of the Brands on my soul, the cost of dragging them all into this storm.

But when I glanced to the side and saw the hard set of jaws, the flickers of pride, the sparks of Dao waiting to ignite, I knew one thing with bone-deep certainty: we would not walk alone into the dark.

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