The Bloodnight compound stirred before dawn, the great hall lit with guttering torches as word spread like wildfire. A patrol had not returned.

Lady Marrowen stood at the head of the table, her crimson gaze steady as a retainer dropped to one knee, armor spattered with mud and worse. His voice was tight, controlled only by fear of her presence.

"We found them, Lady. Eastward. Captain Thevas and his men."

The hall grew very still.

"They were slaughtered. Bodies hacked, stripped bare. Their weapons, their armor — all gone. Even their boots. Only corpses left, scattered through the farmland like carrion. Whoever did this knew how to kill quickly… and how to leave nothing useful behind."

A hiss ran down the table, fangs bared, elders muttering curses.

Dorian surged to his feet, fists clenched. "An insult. They butcher our own and pick them clean like thieves in the dark. Mother—"

"Silence," Marrowen said, voice soft but sharp enough to cut the air.

The retainer bowed lower, his words tumbling out. "We searched the ground. There were wolf tracks. They circled the patrol, drove them inward. But there were other signs — crossbow bolts, deep cuts from steel. It was no beast-pack alone. This was an ambush. Coordinated."

Dorian's eyes burned, his voice rising. "The Calamity."

The room seethed with fury, the elders pressing in with sharp questions and accusations. But Marrowen only stood in silence, her hands resting on the carved edge of the table.

When she finally spoke, the room stilled.

"Honor demands we answer this blood with blood," she said, her voice cold as stone. "They think us prey. They will learn we are hunters still."

Lady Marrowen extended her hand, palm open. An elder unrolled a heavy parchment across the table — a map inked with the sprawl of the surrounding forest and the city walls.

"Show me," she commanded.

The mud-stained retainer rose, leaning forward with a trembling finger. He pressed it against a stretch of trees to the east, just beyond the outer sweep of their usual circuits. "Here, Lady. Between the ridges. Their bodies were scattered across this ground."

Marrowen's crimson eyes narrowed. "And the wolves?"

The retainer hesitated, then answered carefully. "At least a dozen. Perhaps more. Large prints, and strangely the one set of large prints were wet. These moved with purpose."

A hush passed down the table. The elders knew what that meant.

Dorian's jaw flexed, his fangs bared. "The Calamity's beasts."

Marrowen's gaze stayed on the map. "Perhaps." Her fingers tapped once against the marked point. "Or perhaps something more. We will not assume."

She turned her head slightly. "Send for a diviner. I want the ground read before it cools. Every blade of grass, every drop of blood. Let the land itself tell us what steel and teeth cannot."

One of the younger captains bowed sharply and hurried out.

Marrowen straightened, her voice carrying across the hall. "We will not be blinded by rage. They butchered our retainers, yes. But if the Calamity seeks to lure us into his snares, then we will know exactly where and how he lays them."

Her gaze swept the elders, steady and merciless. "Honor will be answered. But not in ignorance. Reduce the frequency of our patrols but double the strength of our retainers. We swore an oath to them just as they swore one to us. One of our Blooded tier 3's will lead all these patrols with their retainer captains."

Marrowen's eyes lingered on the map a moment longer before she shifted her gaze toward her son. Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the hall.

"Dorian. What are these disruptions I am hearing about in the city?"

Dorian, still standing with his fists braced on the table, snorted. "Disruptions? It's nothing, Mother. Just a handful of troublesome tribesmen—foreigners with strange tattoos—stirring up trouble in the markets. They got into a scuffle, and a fire broke out in one of the slave pens. A nuisance, nothing more. Certainly nothing that concerns our fight with the Calamity."

The elders muttered, a few nodding, others frowning.

Marrowen's hand slammed against the table, the sound cracking like a whip. The chamber fell silent.

"I told you," she said, her voice ringing cold, "to report anything out of the ordinary to me. Not just what you deem worth my attention." Her crimson eyes burned into him. "You are heir to this family, Dorian, not some reckless footsoldier. Your arrogance blinds you."

Dorian stiffened, jaw tightening. "It was nothing—"

"Describe them to me," Marrowen snapped, her tone brooking no delay.

Dorian's lips pressed thin, but he obeyed. "One young man and one young woman. Tall. Scarred. Tattoos across their shoulders, in patterns I didn't recognize. But the words beneath them read: All things end. They carried themselves like fighters, though poorly armed. No coin, no backing. Ragged clothes, and the stink of the wilds on them. The only notable thing was that the woman used the Dao of Life… and claimed to be a healer."

The hall fell still at that word.

"Tribesmen with strange markings who can spark fires in the heart of the city are never nothing, Marrowen leaned back in her chair, crimson eyes fixed on her son. Her face was carved from stone, but her voice carried the chill of steel.

"Not when the Calamity walks in our shadow… and especially when they wear tattoos that say All things end."

The words struck like a hammer in the hall. Elders shifted in their seats, mutters rippling low, unease threading through even the oldest among them.

Marrowen's gaze swept the chamber, steady and merciless. "I want them captured. Today."

The command landed like a blade through the table. Elders shifted, a few baring fangs in approval, others glancing sidelong at Dorian to see if he would protest. None dared.

Marrowen leaned forward, her hands clasped before her. "Alive. I will look into their eyes myself. If they are nothing, then nothing will be lost. If they are more…" Her crimson gaze sharpened. "Then we will have answers before the Calamity strikes again."

She straightened, her voice ringing across the chamber. "Send our highest tier retainers into the city. Quietly. No banners, no open force. Bring them back here before the sun sets."

There was no hesitation. The captains and elders rose, bowing stiffly, the scrape of their chairs loud in the stillness as they filed out to obey.

Marrowen remained seated, her eyes still locked on Dorian.

Her son looked away first.

The morning light filtered through the palisade, catching on fresh-hewn logs and the sheen of steel along the wall. Harold stood at the center of the compound, his palm resting against the rough stone he used as anchor.

"Open," he muttered.

The portal flared to life, light splitting jagged in the air. For a moment, the settlement valley shimmered on the other side — smoke from the forge curling upward, children chasing each other between the longhouses. Then shapes came through.

Brenn stumbled out first, carrying a basket almost too big for him, Meala at his shoulder with another. The smell hit the yard immediately — roasted meat, baked bread, wrapped together in neat, steaming loaves.

"Mind your step!" Meala snapped, cuffing Brenn as he wobbled. "If you drop one, you're baking more by sundown."

The soldiers nearest the portal cheered, the cheer growing louder as the smell spread. Hungry hands darted to help relieve the pair of their burdens, laughter sparking through the line for the first time that morning.

"Meatbread!" one of the axe brothers whooped, already tearing into his half-loaf. "Saints bless you both!"

"Saints had nothing to do with it," Meala shot back, hands on her hips, though her mouth twitched at the corners. "And don't come begging when you burn your tongue."

Even Daran cracked the faintest grin as the men passed the loaves down the line.

Harold let the moment stand, the cheer and warmth filling the yard, before he finally spoke. "Good timing," he said, his voice calm, steady. "They'll need the strength today."

As the baskets emptied and the soldiers spread along the wall with steaming loaves in hand, Meala broke away from Brenn and stalked across the yard toward Harold. Her skirts snapped at her heels, her eyes locked on him with the kind of fire that had made even Brenn's booming laugh quiet more than once.

"Harold."

He straightened slightly. "Meala—"

She jabbed a finger into his chest before he could finish. "Don't you 'Meala' me. Olrick told me about your harebrained scheme. And one of the children chosen for it had the bright idea to ask my fool to join. Do you know how I found out? Because he hasn't shut up about it since yesterday."

Harold's jaw flexed, words forming — "It isn't—"

"Quiet," she snapped, sharp enough to cut him off cold. Her eyes blazed crimson in the morning light, her voice low but seething. "If anything happens to him out there — if you so much as let one hair on his head get singed — I will end your Calamity here and now. And you won't be coming back."

The words hung between them, heavier than steel. Around them, the cheer of meatbread still carried on the wall, but no one dared look their way.

Harold held her gaze, unreadable. He didn't argue.

Meala jabbed him once more in the chest, then spun on her heel, marching back toward Brenn — who was already trying, and failing, to look invisible behind a loaf of bread.

Harold let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face as Meala's words lingered like a fresh bruise. Of all the battles he'd fought, it was the women in this valley who left him feeling most cornered. When he closed the portal it was with relief.

He stood there a moment longer, shoulders heavy — until the crunch of boots and the low rumble of voices pulled his attention to the gate.

Sergeant Holt strode in at the head of her squad, shield on her arm, helm under her other, the ten crossbowmen falling in behind her in tight formation. Their armor was dusty, their faces drawn, but every man still marched.

Harold straightened, the weight on him easing, the spark of something sharper pushing through the fatigue. He stepped forward to meet them.

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"Sergeant," he said, voice steady. "Report."

Holt stopped a few paces from Harold and snapped a crisp salute, the crossbowmen behind her falling still.

"Enemy retainer patrol located and destroyed," she said, voice clipped, steady despite the fatigue in her frame. "Ten men out, ten men back. No losses."

Harold's eyes narrowed slightly. "Casualties?"

"Wounded, but none serious," Holt replied. Her mouth tightened. "Their captain wielded a vicious fire Dao. Every strike burned through the shield — left damage that lingered even after the blow was turned. But…" She drew in a slow breath, her voice firming. "Figuring out how to meet it, how to hold against it, let me step into peak Squire. I held him long enough for the crossbows to put him down."

Harold's brow rose. He said nothing, but his gaze sharpened, measuring.

"The rest of the squad made gains as well," Holt continued, her tone tinged with the faintest pride. "Not all breakthroughs, but levels across the board. They fought well. The ambush worked clean. We stripped what we could and got out before another patrol could respond."

She lowered her arm, standing tall despite the soot that still streaked her shield. "Orders, sir?"

Harold let the silence hang a beat, his gaze moving over the squad. Tired faces, singed armor, soot marks and bandaged arms — but all of them still standing. All of them sharper than they'd been yesterday.

"Well done," Harold said, voice carrying. "You went out, you struck, and you came back alive. That's the work. That's how we bleed them."

A ripple of relief and pride moved through the squad. Shoulders straightened. One or two even let themselves grin.

Then a low voice cut through the air.

"You made gains?"

Daran stepped from the edge of the yard, broadsword across his back, eyes like sharpened steel. He stopped just short of Holt's line, his gaze sweeping across the crossbowmen. "Perfect."

The squad's relief faltered, unease rippling through them as his words settled.

"Then let's test it," Daran said, voice flat. He tapped the hilt of his sword. "Step into the yard. All of you. If you truly advanced, it'll show. If not…" He shrugged. "Better we find your weakness here than out there."

A hush fell across the compound, the crossbowmen glancing at each other — more than one paling. They'd just survived fire and steel, only to walk into Daran's merciless gaze.

Harold folded his arms, watching. He didn't intervene. Because Daran was right.

Harold didn't linger. As Daran's voice barked the first name and a nervous crossbowman shuffled forward, Harold turned away, breaking the seal on one of the steaming loaves Meala had left him. The scent of roasted meat and bread filled his nose as the first clash of steel rang out behind him.

He chewed in silence, eyes narrowing toward the treeline.

Hal.

The bond stirred instantly, the frost wolf's awareness brushing against his own.

I need you to send packs back toward the ambush site, Harold pushed, his thoughts measured, sharp. Make them visible. Let them be seen moving in and out of the farmland. Let the Bloodnights think we're circling their dead. But no contact. No fights.

Images flickered back through the bond — wolves padding between the stumps, ears pricked, their howls echoing faintly across the trees.

Make it loud, Harold added. Make it obvious. They'll shift their weight that way. I need them thinking we're over there, not here. Just one more day. And Hal, go with them please. They are gonna have to shift here and that makes me nervous. They might pressure you.

Hal's assent came as a low, rumbling growl in Harold's chest, the frost wolf's pride pressing warm against his thoughts.

Harold swallowed the last bite of bread, brushing crumbs from his fingers.

Behind him, a man yelped as Daran's sword knocked his spear clean from his hands.

Harold didn't turn. He didn't need to.

The morning light slanted through broken boards high above, filtering into the cavernous ruin where Lira and Kelan crouched. Dust hung in the air, catching in the sunbeams. Their hiding place was an abandoned tannery on the city's edge, its vats long dry, its stink buried under years of rot. Perfect for keeping fifty ragged souls out of sight.

The freed huddled in clusters — men, women, children of every race — their faces hollow but alert, clutching stolen scraps of bread, blankets, and each other. They had made it through the night without discovery, but the silence of it all felt as heavy as the chains they had once worn.

Kelan sat on a toppled beam, rubbing soot from his face with the back of his hand. His jaw was tight. "Saints, Lira. Fifty. You didn't just crack a cage — you opened three more. You didn't just free them — you scattered the pens. The whole market's still smoldering."

"I couldn't stand there," Lira snapped, voice low but fierce. Her hands were still faintly stained with life qi from healing cuts and burns among the rescued. "Children in collars. Old men chained to posts like cattle. You think I could just walk by? Pretend I didn't see?"

Kelan looked at her, his mouth opening… then shutting again. No argument came.

He let out a harsh breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You left me no choice. Charging in like that — I had to back you or watch you die."

Her anger softened, though her voice didn't waver. "Then thank you for backing me."

His gaze shifted over the huddled masses, shaking his head. "Fifty mouths. Fifty targets. They're not trained, they're not equipped. And you don't even know if they're the kind of people Harold can use." He gestured sharply. "I'd be willing to Brand builders, architects, formation masters… people who can make a fortress stand. But them?" His voice dropped, harder. "You don't know if they'll ever be anything more than mouths to feed."

Lira met his glare, her chin lifting. "Then I'll find out. I'll test them. If Harold trusted me with this, then I won't waste that trust second-guessing who deserves saving."

Kelan rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling hard. "Saints damn it, Lira… you may have just painted a target on all our backs."

She didn't flinch. She looked at the fifty hollow-eyed survivors — and said, softer but no less certain: "Then we'll protect them. All of them. Because if we don't they'll go right back into those cages."

Kelan's eyes swept the huddled groups again, his voice low and grim. "We need to know what we've got. Fighters. Dao users. Builders. Anyone who can actually help the settlement. Fifty is a burden unless we turn it into strength."

Lira nodded, her expression set. "I'll test them. See who has life or death affinities, anyone with healing talent. Potion makers, herbalists, alchemists. Even apprentices."

"And I'll sort the rest," Kelan said. "Ask about trades. Builders, formation scribes, blacksmiths, tanners. Even the ones who know how to dig ditches are worth keeping." His mouth twisted wryly. "Better a ditch than dead weight."

Before Lira could respond, a soft voice interrupted.

"If you'll have me… I can help with that."

They both turned. An older woman stepped out from the clusters of freed, her frame wrapped in a torn cloak. Her face was marked with bruises and soot, but her beauty was unmistakable — fine features, pointed ears, the faint luster of elven grace dulled but not broken.

She bowed her head slightly, though her eyes were steady. "I was a courtesan, once. For nobles in the city." Her voice caught, bitterness threading through it. "Until I angered one I shouldn't have. That's how I ended up in chains."

She drew herself taller, despite the bruises. "But I know people. I know how to read them, how to sort their strengths, how to make them believe they still have worth. If you'll let me, I'll help you organize them. Give these souls something to hold onto."

Lira blinked, then glanced at Kelan. He was watching the elf carefully, suspicion warring with calculation in his eyes.

Lira stepped closer, her eyes softening as she studied the elf's bruised face. "We'll take your help. These people need someone who can give them order. Someone who can remind them they aren't broken."

The elf bowed her head once more, relief flickering behind her composure. "Then I'll begin." She moved toward the clusters, already speaking in gentle tones, touching shoulders, asking names. The air shifted — not much, but enough. The huddled no longer looked like prey waiting for the next chain, but like people listening for the first time.

Kelan watched a moment, then exhaled. "Fine. That's one problem handled." He turned to Lira, voice low. "Now for the bigger one: getting fifty people out of a city that will have half its guard looking for them by nightfall."

Lira's lips pressed thin. "You have something?"

"I'll tunnel us under the wall." His answer came without hesitation. "Cleanest way. No gates, no bribes, no patrols sniffing us out." His gaze shifted toward where the looming stone of the city walls cut the sky. "But the city isn't a fool. Their walls are warded. Anything that tampers too long leaves a mark—sometimes a sound, sometimes worse. We'll have to be fast, before the stone cries out."

He rolled his shoulders, already drawing in mana, his Dao pressing into the ground beneath his boots. A low vibration carried through the earth, steady, like breath waiting to be exhaled.

"When you say go," he muttered, eyes fixed on her, "I'll punch the tunnel. One shot. Quick and clean. But your people have to be ready to move the moment I open it. No stalling. No second chances. And im gonna have Harold pop his Brandflare, I think it'll disrupt the formations in the walls enough that i can punch cleanly through."

Lira crouched beside one of the children, brushing a bit of soot from his face as she listened. When Kelan finished, she looked up at him, her eyes steady.

"Then I'll send word to Harold," she said. "When we break out, I want a force ready on the other side of that wall. Escort, cover, whatever he can spare. These people won't make it through the woods alone, not with the Bloodnights tightening their patrols and the city snapping at our heels."

Kelan grunted, the earth still humming faintly under his boots. "Fifty frightened strangers aren't going to move fast, Lira. They'll be as loud as a herd of oxen. You'd better pray Harold has something waiting, or else we'll crawl right out of one trap into another."

She didn't blink. "Then he'll be there. He gave me this chance, and I won't let him down."

For a moment, their gazes held — Lira's quiet fire against Kelan's weary pragmatism — before he finally shook his head and returned to gathering his qi.

Harold was bent over the bark-map, charcoal scratching new lines, when the bond stirred. Not Hal's steady presence — lighter, sharper. Lira.

Harold.

The voice wasn't sound but pressure, threading through his chest. He stilled, closing his eyes. I hear you.

Images bled through — the crush of the city, the stink of smoke, the hollow eyes of fifty souls huddled in a ruin. Bruised faces, children clutching each other, frightened men and women of every kind. Kelan's earth Dao pressed heavy underfoot, the slow pulse of a tunnel waiting to be cut.

It wasn't the plan, her thought pressed, edged with steel. I know you sent us to recruit, to look for Brands. But I couldn't walk past the cages. I broke the pens. And when they scattered, these fifty chose to come with us. Now they're ours.

Harold's hand tightened on the table until the bark cracked.

Fifty? he sent back, flat.

Her answer carried no hesitation. Fifty. They swore to me. I won't abandon them now.

The tether pulsed stronger. We're hidden for now, but we can't hold this place. The city is out looking for us. Kelan will tunnel under the wall when I give the word. We'll need you ready on the other side — soldiers to cover us, If not, we won't make it back.

Harold exhaled slowly, the weight of her words pressing against the already-crowded map before him. Patrol routes. Ambush sites. And now fifty frightened strangers.

He dragged a hand down his face. "Gods damn it, Lira."

The bond waited, taut and insistent, for his answer.

Harold's fist closed on the table. No time to brood. He turned, voice sharp.

"Daran!"

The knight broke from drilling a pair of crossbowmen, striding over at once. Holt glanced up, but Harold waved her back down — this wasn't her fight.

Daran came to the map and planted his gauntleted hand on the table. "What's happened?"

"Recovery mission," Harold said flatly, already dragging his charcoal across the bark-map to mark the city wall. "Lira and Kelan lit half the slave market on fire and walked out with fifty freed. They're holed up in the city now, planning a tunnel. We're bringing them out."

Daran's brows rose, but he didn't argue. "Who do I have?"

"Ferin and Auren and your whole platoon," Harold said. "You three lead. Take the wolves for screens. Stealth as much as possible — shadows, silence, whatever it takes. You go loud only if the freed slaves are engaged, not before. Lira and Kelan can hold their pursuers until they cant."

Daran's eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the edge of the map. "You want the Calamity's strength hidden."

"Yes," Harold said, his voice iron. "The Bloodnights are still feeling us out. If they glimpse how much force I can really bring, they'll come harder, faster. I want their eyes blind until it's too late."

Daran's mouth tightened, but he nodded once. "Understood."

Across the yard, Ferin was already rising, his hounds alert. Auren adjusted his bowstring, eyes flicking toward Harold with calm readiness.

Harold leaned forward, pressing a finger hard into the map where the city wall cut across. "You meet them here. If Kelan gets the tunnel through, they'll pour out along this line. Cover their retreat, get them into the trees, then bring them home. Quiet if you can, bloody if you must — but all of them come back. I'm recalling Hal and his packs, this is more important, he will meet you."

The three men nodded, grim-faced.

Harold stepped back, jaw hard. "Move."

Then his eyes narrowed, and he added, voice sharp enough to carry across the yard:

"Actually—take the brothers with you. If I see those knuckleheads do one more stupid thing, I'll kill them myself."

Daran's mouth twitched, though he managed to choke the smile down into a grunt. Ferin gave a low snort, shaking his head, while Auren muttered something under his breath about trouble magnets.

Across the compound, the axe-wielding brothers perked up at the mention of their names, half-excited, half-confused, before realizing they'd just been voluntold.

Harold gave them a look that brooked no argument. "With them. Now."

The brothers glanced at each other, then whooped as if he'd handed them a prize instead of a death sentence, jogging off to fall in behind Daran's squad.

Harold rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, "Saints save me from idiots with axes."

But his eyes stayed sharp on their backs until the last of them slipped into the treeline.

Harold stood in the yard as the strike group disappeared into the trees — Daran's steady stride, Ferin's hounds padding silent, Auren's bow slung loose, the brothers whooping under their breath until Holt barked them quiet.

Then the compound felt… thin.

He had just sent their sharpest edge into the city. What was left here now was minimum force — Jerric tinkering with kobolds in the woods, Kelan gone, Lira gone. If the Bloodnights pressed today, really pressed, there'd be no miracle wall strong enough to hold them.

Harold dragged a hand down his face, the old ache in his gut gnawing. Gods One day. Just one more day.

The hope was all he had left — that the patrols would chase ghosts in the eastern woods, that Hal's packs would keep them chasing shadows, that the wall would look fiercer than it was.

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