The first light bled across the trees as the scouts pressed forward, shadows slipping between the trunks. They moved quick, bows drawn, eyes sharp. For a moment, it seemed they would sweep the way clear.

Then the crossbows sang and the arrows punched through armour..

A storm of bolts hissed from the brush, slamming into the lightly armored levies the nobles had thrust upon the Bloodnights. Men toppled, some screaming, some silent, their bodies riddled before they even reached the first snare. The forest answered each volley with the crack of hidden traps — nets snapping upward, pits swallowing half a file, small explosions flaring bright as soldiers stumbled onto cursed wood.

The levies buckled. Another push was ordered. Another line surged forward, only to meet the same fate. Bolts cutting them down, traps shredding their order until no noise was heard.

By the third push, even the elders scowled. Do none of these levies have a perception skill that can stop these traps? The cost was mounting, blood spattered across the thick roots, and the line had not moved 300 paces.

At the center of the column, the Matriarch stood with her elders, her gaze narrowing as she listened to the cries drifting back from the treeline. "This will not do."

Her voice was cold, measured, but it carried. "We need to change the field. The traps are too heavily seeded, too well prepared. This Calamity is not a fool — he's shaped the ground itself against us."

"Can we go around?" Elder Brannwich asked, his jaw set.

"Yes," another Baron answered. "But it will take time. Not with the sun already rising and uncertain allies behind us."

The Matriarch's eyes sharpened, crimson glinting like coals. "Then we burn it."

She lifted her hand, fingers slicing through the air. "Bring the fire-users forward. Let them scour a path. I want this stretch of forest ash and smoke until we break through."

The order rippled down the line. Already, figures cloaked in fire-qi strode from the column, their eyes glowing faintly as heat shimmered around them. The wolves howled again from somewhere deep in the trees, the sound eerie in the cold morning.

From the top of the watchtower, Harold watched the smoke rise. At first it was thin, a single gray thread curling above the treeline. Then more followed, thickening into a dark smudge against the pale dawn sky.

The acrid bite of burning pine and brush rolled across the wind, sharp even at this distance.

Harold leaned his forearms on the wooden railing, eyes narrowed as he traced the line of fire spreading through the forest.

"So," he murmured to himself. "She can adjust. And she does have a price she is unwilling to bear."

Below, the wolves growled uneasily at the scent. Soldiers along the wall shifted, some tightening their grips on spears and crossbows, others spitting into the dirt as the smoke thickened.

Harold didn't move. He let the flames climb, let the air darken, and simply watched.

From the tower, Harold caught sight of movement at the treeline. Through the haze of smoke, three figures emerged at a jog — Ferin first, his bow still in hand, eyes scanning even as he retreated. Auren followed, his quiver light, every step purposeful. And behind them trudged Jerric, cloak singed, his expression tight with the effort of holding composure.

The kobolds were nowhere to be seen.

Harold's jaw tightened as he tracked them across the open ground toward the fort. Ash drifted on the breeze, smoke clawing at the sky behind them.

So. The forest had claimed its toll.

He let the silence stretch, the wolves' low growls rising beneath the walls as the three approached the gate. Only when the sentries pulled them inside did Harold finally exhale.

Smoke still smeared the horizon when Auren, Ferin, and Jerric crossed the yard toward the watchtower. Harold leaned over the battlements, his voice carrying down to them.

"Well?"

Jerric craned his head back and called up before Auren could speak. "You should've seen it! Traps snapping, wolves howling, bolts everywhere—I even picked up a stealth skill out there! Silent Steps! They never saw me!" His words tumbled over one another, quick and breathless.

Ferin blew out a hard breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Good job, kid," he muttered, but the tone was all exasperation, not praise. "You're supposed to shoot, not chatter."

Auren cut in, his voice steadier as he tilted his face up toward Harold. "We accounted for roughly forty during the skirmish this morning. That's counting what the traps took. Add the march here, where another forty or so were bled out, and the total stands near ninety dead before they've even touched the fort."

Harold's eyes narrowed as the numbers sank in. "And the quality?" he asked.

"Majority levies, mostly Tier 2 but some Tier 3," Auren answered. "Not the Bloodnight retainers. Those are holding back, letting fodder walk into the teeth first."

Harold let the fort hear his reply, voice ringing out across the walls. "Eighty down. Before the walls are even tested."

The axe brothers, perched halfway up the tower steps, whooped loud enough to rattle the planks. "Ha! Eighty! That's a tally worth drinking to!"

Sergeant Holt was on them in an instant. She cuffed Toron — the scarred one — across the helmet with her shield rim, then smacked his brother Torik hard in the chest, staggering him back into line. "Quiet down! You'll cheer when the Calamity says so, not before."

The two shared a look, smirking even under the rebuke. Taron leaned closer to Torik, voice pitched just loud enough for Holt to hear. "Wish she'd hit me again."

Holt's eyes cut back so fast it was a wonder his head didn't roll off then and there. "Say that louder, and I'll oblige," she snapped, but the corner of her mouth twitched — whether in anger or amusement, no one could tell.

The brothers grinned, spirits unbroken. Around the yard, whispers rippled through the ranks, the kill count spreading like fire through dry grass.

From above, Harold watched it all, unreadable, smoke still climbing in the distance.

The smoke rose thicker now, drifting in gray coils above the treeline. From the watchtower's crown, Harold watched the glow of fire spread through the forest, torchlight bleeding into daylight. Daran stood beside him, broad-shouldered and silent, his arms resting against the battlements as he scanned the haze.

Below, the sergeants barked orders, their voices carrying across the yard. Buckets and barrels were dragged up, the well was drawn from, lines of men forming to haul water onto the walls. The vampires had demonstrated their willingness to use fire, and Harold wasn't about to let them steal the advantage here.

"Do you think the next ploy will work?" Daran asked at last, his tone level but his eyes sharp. "You've bloodied them twice. They'll come harder, and they'll come different."

Harold's gaze stayed on the smoke. "It worked this long. But no plan survives their Matriarch. She sees the price of blood clearer than her men, and she pays it without hesitation. If she's burning the forest, she's already decided the traps cost her too much."

Daran grunted. "So the next blow comes straight."

"Or crooked enough to look straight," Harold said. His lips curled into that thin, grim smile. "Either way, we're ready."

Below, the wolves paced along the walls, ears pricked at the smell of smoke. The sergeants drove the men harder, water sloshing from barrels, shields reinforced with wet cloth. Every eye turned toward the treeline where the first true assault would break.

Rysa was still bent over the clay-bricked oven Kelan had shaped for her, flour dust smearing her cheek, the fire inside snapping with impatient heat. She muttered under her breath as she worked, shoving trays of dough inside with the precision of a battlefield surgeon.

"Not enough rise, too much ash in the draft, if I had proper grain we wouldn't be wasting half of it, and if someone hadn't scared off Meala—"

Auren leaned against a nearby post, arms folded, eyes flicking between the oven and the forest smoke curling beyond the walls. His sigh carried further than he intended. "You do realize the timing, don't you? We're on the edge of a siege and you're… baking."

Rysa shot him a look, hair falling across her face as she shoved the oven door closed. "People fight better with bread in their bellies. Or do you plan to feed them your complaints?"

Auren rolled his eyes skyward, muttering something that sounded a lot like "every damn time".

Kelan, walking past with another load of water buckets for the wall, caught the exchange and hid a smile. "Best not to argue with her, Auren. I made the oven for a reason."

Rysa stuck her tongue out at both of them, already turning back to her work.

The fire had eaten deep. By midmorning the underbrush lay flat and black, the trees charred to brittle husks. Through the smoke the fort finally showed itself — a wall of timber and stone braced behind its trench, the earth humming faintly with a craftsman's claim.

The Matriarch stood at the new edge of the forest, her robes brushing ash, and said nothing. She watched. The cries of burned levies and the stink of curse-qi still drifted behind her.

Her elders gathered, voices sharp.

"The trench is wide," Brannwich said, spitting smoke. "No ladder will cross that clean and its just far enough no but the tier 3's maybe the talented 2's and above will cross it with just a jump. It must be filled."

"Filled, or bridged," another countered. "But their earth user has bound the earth. Every log we throw, he will fight us for."

"We burned out half their snares," one of the Barons pressed. "We should push now."

The Matriarch's gaze cut to him, calm and cold. "And waste another hundred bodies to discover what else the Calamity has seeded? No."

She lifted a hand. "Diviners. Show me the safe lines."

The robed seers stepped forward, faces drawn, their palms lowering toward the ash. Guards moved ahead of them, weapons ready, sweeping the charred ground for tripwires or sigils.

The forest was silent save for the crackle of smoldering wood.

Then it moved.

From blackened hollows, from treetops scorched but still standing, from pits shielded from the flames, the kobolds sprang. Tier Ones, small and ragged, their hides smeared with ash — creatures the diviners had dismissed as no threat.

They came shrieking, not with discipline but with fury. Spears jabbed, crude blades hacked, teeth snapped. The guards cut them down in moments — but it wasn't their purpose to win.

Each kobold carried what they shouldn't have: talismans and vials, gifts from Lionheart City.

The first detonated in the middle of the guards, fire and shrapnel shredding men before they could even cry out. A second hurled himself directly at a diviner, the blast swallowing both in smoke and blood. A third leapt from a tree, his arms wrapped tight around another talisman as he crashed into the circle of robed seers — the explosion ripped the clearing open, tearing bark and flesh alike.

When the smoke thinned, two diviners were nothing but scorched remains. The third lay writhing, half-burned, his breath bubbling through broken ribs. The guards who survived staggered back, ears ringing, their blades slick with kobold blood.

The Matriarch's aura flared hot, so sharp even her elders stepped back. For a heartbeat her fury was naked — fangs bared, crimson light blazing in her eyes, power thickening the air until the levies behind her shrank in terror.

Then she exhaled. Slowly. The crimson dimmed, her face smoothing back into cold control.

"Reckless little vermin," she said, voice like a blade sliding home. "And a Calamity's hand in their madness."

Her eyes swept the blasted clearing, the ash still glowing with embers. "We underestimated his reach. That mistake is over."

She turned to her elders, her voice measured again. "We build. Not tomorrow — today. Causeways, mantlets, tortoises. Every axe swings until the ground shakes with it. I will not waste another life on ash and guesses."

Her gaze lingered on the broken body of the surviving diviner. "We will need to wait for the remaining retainers to reach us. This will not be a simple siege. If none can be spared, then we will bleed the ground the slow way."

The camp stirred uneasily, soldiers already breaking ranks to drag timber forward.

The Matriarch remained where she stood, the smoke swirling around her heavy plate. Ash clung to the blackened steel, streaking it gray, but she did not brush it off. Her gaze lingered on the blasted ground where her diviners had fallen.

The Calamity had fought with snares, with wolves, with poison she had not seen before. He fought in ways beneath her station, ways unworthy of a duel — but always with precision. Always to bleed her strength.

And yet something in those kobolds unsettled her more than the traps.

Simple creatures. Tier Ones. Vermin by her reckoning yet they should have scattered at the first sign of flame. Instead, they had hidden, waited, and thrown themselves into fire carrying weapons far beyond their station.

Her eyes narrowed, the memory of the explosions replaying. Vials that shimmered like bottled fire. Only one family could make a vial that shimmered like that in the region.

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The nobles.

The Matriarch's lips tightened, a flicker of cold fury passing across her features. "So," she murmured, voice low enough only her nearest elder could hear. "Even vermin are armed by Lionheart's hand."

Brannwich glanced at her sidelong but said nothing. He knew better than to speak when her mind turned inward.

The Matriarch exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting the smoke curl from her helm vents. He fights unconventionally. But it is the hand behind him that troubles me. If he can command wolves and kobolds like that none of the beasts in the area can be trusted.

Her gaze shifted back to the fort through the burned trees, her thoughts sharpening. The Calamity could bleed her forces. Lionheart, though—Lionheart had chosen to arm him. They would pay for this.

The last echoes of the explosions still drifted across the blackened wood when the gates opened on silent hinges. Wolves loped through in disciplined silence, their eyes catching the torchlight as they slipped past the palisade. The final twenty came last, led by one of Hal's frost wolf lieutenants, their bodies brushing the timbers as the gate slammed shut behind them with a heavy thud. The fort's garrison exhaled as the howls outside faded into the deeper woods — Hal and the bulk of his pack had gone to hunt.

From the tower's crown, Harold watched the enemy reorganize. The Bloodnights spread outward like spilled ink, sentries pushing lines into the charred trees, elders barking commands sharp enough to carry even at this distance. Where there had been momentum, now there was caution — a camp forming, a perimeter stretching wider with each heartbeat.

Daran grunted beside him. "They're tightning the net around us. No escapees."

Holt nodded, her shield rimmed in sunlight as she gestured to the new lines. "Perimeter's sloppy for now, but give them a day and no one gets through it."

Harold's mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "The ploy paid off. I knew she wouldn't accept more losses after the trapped wood. She'd send her best scouts to examine it — and they'd have to step forward, exposed. Her carefulness makes her predictable."

He leaned on the railing, eyes fixed on the smoke-cloaked enemy camp. "Even with us bottled up in here, we still have the initiative."

Below, the wolves that remained within the walls padded into formation, their low growls echoing against the timber. The sound mingled with the distant calls of Hal's hunters as they vanished into the ash, already circling for the next strike.

Harold straightened, the smoke from the burned woods rolling in the breeze around the fort. His voice carried low but certain, pitched so only those close on the tower would hear.

"Daran, let's prepare the next surprise. They'll be busy building for the next day at least. I'll be expecting some skirmishing from their higher tiers in the evenings and mornings."

He glanced down at the walls where sentries leaned on their spears, eyes flicking toward the fire beyond. "Have the watch stay behind the crenellations. I don't want any of them losing their night vision staring into flames. They need their eyes sharp when it counts."

"Done," Holt said immediately, already making a note to pass the order along.

"Rysa should have the flares ready by tonight," Harold continued. "When they press, we'll light the sky and blind them instead. Make sure every squad has a signal."

Finally, Harold's gaze shifted to Daran, holding steady. "And I need you close to the wall from now on. If they push, you're the only one who can meet their Tier Fours head-on. No one else can stall them."

Daran's jaw tightened, but he gave a slow nod, no hesitation in it. "Then that's where I'll be. Let them come."

The wolves below let out a long, low howl that carried up to the tower. Out beyond the charred wood, Hal answered, his cry threading into the rising smoke.

The stairs creaked, boots scuffing against stone. Harold turned as Jerric appeared first, crossbow slung across his back, ash still smudged in his hair. Behind him, Lira climbed steadily, her staff tapping lightly with each step.

The moment she reached the top, she didn't hesitate. She slipped past Jerric and closed the space between them, throwing her arms around Harold's shoulders. Her cheek pressed into his, warm against the chill of the morning air, before she leaned back just enough to plant a kiss on his jaw.

Harold stiffened for half a heartbeat, then let the tension slide away. For a brief instant, the weight of fire, siege, and smoke gave ground to something simpler.

Jerric groaned loud enough for all of them to hear, rolling his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Seriously? We're on a tower. They're right there." He jabbed a thumb toward the distant vampire camp, as if the enemy themselves ought to be offended by the display.

Daran's mouth twitched, though he said nothing. Holt cleared her throat pointedly, but didn't turn around, her shield angled toward the field as if nothing at all was happening.

Lira ignored them all, her smile soft but stubborn as she lingered against Harold's side for a heartbeat longer before finally letting go.

The brief warmth hung in the cold air, fragile and stubborn as the flame in Rysa's oven.

The embrace barely broke before a wolf whistle drifted up from the tower level below. Torik's voice followed it, gleeful as a boy caught in mischief. "Oi! Careful, Calamity, you'll start a family before the siege even begins!"

A chorus of shouts and laughter rose from the soldiers nearby, the tension of the looming battle cracking into rough humor.

Then Rysa's voice rang out from where she was crouched over her flares, sharp and entirely too loud. "Make sure to grab him by the hair, Lira, men like that don't admit it but it works every time!"

The laughter doubled.

Elira, helping Rysa sort powders into clay tubes, didn't so much as glance away—she just fixed Daran with a look that could have cut stone. Daran endured it without a twitch, though his jaw flexed once before settling again.

Harold let it ride for half a heartbeat, then his expression hardened, command settling over him like a helm. The tower stilled almost instantly.

"How much of the poison have you and Rysa managed?" Harold asked, his voice crisp.

Lira straightened, smoothing her robes though the faint smile still clung to her lips. "Enough for tonight's surprise, and enough that every archer worth the name gets two vials. Auren and Ferin will have five each."

Harold nodded once, satisfied.

Jerric nearly bounced on his toes, unable to keep it in. "Perfect! That's perfect! I've got just the monster in mind for tonight. It's going to go flawlessly. I leveled enough off those kobolds blowing the diviners sky-high that I can finally modify my summon skill!"

He grinned, eyes shining with youthful fire. "You're going to love it. Trust me—this one's going to make them panic."

The soldiers glanced at each other warily at the boy's excitement, but Harold saw the truth in it: the kid was brimming with dangerous confidence.

Harold dragged a hand down his face, half a sigh, half a laugh he refused to let slip. He tried to hide the gesture, but his palm still brushed across his brow before he looked back at Jerric.

"Alright," Harold said, voice steady but resigned. "Show me the skill."

A pale shimmer spread before them, text flaring into view:

Skill: Bonded Dungeon Summon

Tier: Variable

Type: Summon The bonded summoner may call forth a monster tied to the dungeon they have bonded. These monsters retain their dungeon sapience, and will reserve a portion of the summoner's mana based on the summons power. The summoned monster's strength scales with the mana and qi invested into the summoning, but cannot exceed the summoner's Dao tier.

Skill Modifier Gained: Dungeon Graft

Applies To: Bonded Dungeon Summon

The summoner may graft one trait, skill, Dao affinity, or bloodline fragment from a different dungeon-bound monster onto the summoned creature. This temporary fusion may alter the summoned form, enhancing its abilities beyond its natural essence. The cost of the summon may increase or decrease based on the compatibility of the graft chosen.

Jerric's grin stretched wide as he watched the lines fade. "Told you. Perfect. Tonight's going to be different, you'll see. This one isnt strong on fighting but for what you want it will be perfect."

Harold only shook his head, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest twitch. Different was exactly what he expected.

Harold let the skill text fade, the glow dying back into the torchlight. He fixed Jerric with a look that cut through the boy's excitement but didn't dull it.

"Just make sure it works, Jerric. This is one of the pivotal ploys I need to play that vampire Matriarch out there. I'm counting on you tonight."

Jerric straightened, chest swelling despite the grime on his face. "It'll work. I swear it."

Harold gave a single nod. "Good. Then let's go over the plan…"

The siege camp bustled in the half-light, axes biting into blackened trunks, carts creaking as timbers were dragged into order. Already crude mantlets were taking shape, wooden frames bound with rawhide and ash. Pits were dug for forges, smoke rising thin as threads where the first fires caught.

The mimic stood at the edge of it all, eyes scanning the rhythm of work, every detail catalogued and ordered. They moved with urgency, but not precision. Too many levies spent their strength poorly, too many retainers shouted instead of cut. He counted the gaps, the overextended lines of supply, the patrol arcs barely finished. Weaknesses and opportunities.

Beneath that clinical eye was another thread: the bond. A faint tug in his marrow, tied first to his summoner. Jerric's command whispered through the link — blend in, bide your time, strike when you can. The dungeon pulsed through that bond as well, a vast echoing will behind the boy's fragile spark. It was what gave him form, what steadied him.

And then there was the other thread, strange and unfamiliar. It ran not to Jerric, nor the dungeon, but to the man in the tower — the Calamity. Distant yet heavy, like being watched even when unseen. The mimic did not understand it, but he accepted it. Orders were orders, bonds were bonds.

He flexed his hand, feeling the knife hidden up his sleeve, the vial of life poison burning faintly against his skin. Clinical, cold: Tier 3 vampires and below would die the moment his blade so much as kissed them with the vial. His task was not glory, not chaos — it was mathematics. As many as possible, one cut at a time. And no one must know until it was far too late.

A retainer barked at him, waving him toward a line of levies hauling timber. The mimic smiled warmly, adjusted his borrowed shoulders, and strode over. His voice was light, friendly, easy. "Guess I picked the right group to tag along with. You lads look like you know what you're doing."

The levies chuckled, one clapping him on the back. The mimic laughed with them, settling into the rhythm of work. He joked, he strained, he wiped sweat from his brow like any other. They liked him. They would not look too closely.

Inside, his mind kept counting. Paths. Targets. Patrol rotations. And always the reminder: blend in, bide your time, strike when you can.

The first howl rippled through the trees.

The levies hauling timber stiffened, eyes darting to the ash-darkened woods. Another howl answered, closer this time, the sound prickling against nerves and memory both. Shouts went up along the camp perimeter as officers tried to steady the line.

The mimic tilted his head, listening. He was told of that voice. The Alpha — the cold one. The wolves pressed the camp, not to kill, but to remind them they were prey.

The levies muttered curses, spat into the dirt, quickened their pace. The mimic laughed along with them, forcing his mouth into a grin, teeth flashing just enough, his voice light and teasing. "Don't worry. Wolves only howl when they're too far to bite."

The men chuckled, some nervously, some grateful. They were supposed to like him.

But inside, it was strange. The laugh didn't feel like a laugh. The warmth in their eyes didn't ignite anything inside him. He copied it anyway, replaying the pattern like a song learned second-hand. Emotions were awkward garments, ill-fitted to his frame, but he wore them well enough.

Another howl tore through the dusk. This one snapped closer, sharper — a promise of teeth. The camp shifted uneasily, guards running to reinforce the sentries, officers swearing at men to hold their lines.

The levy in front of the mimic flinched, nearly dropping his end of the log. "Gods damn it, they're close—"

"Move it!" a retainer barked, snapping his whip through the air. "Get those timbers inside before the beasts cut you apart!"

The party lurched into motion, shouldering their loads, boots crunching fast across the ash. Logs scraped against blackened stumps, men stumbled over roots, but fear drove them faster. The mimic ran with them, his stride steady, the weight of his burden perfectly balanced.

More howls rose around them, overlapping now, a chorus of pursuit. Shadows flitted at the treeline — pale eyes, gleaming teeth, the flash of fur darting in and out of sight. Wolves darted in from the flanks and a retainer yelped as one almost grabbed his leg, and the group surged forward in a panic.

The mimic joined the chorus of curses, his voice a perfect echo of their fear. "Almost there! Just hold—just hold—"

The siege camp loomed ahead, a half-formed skeleton of barriers and earthworks, torches burning at its edge. Guards waved them in frantically, shields raised against the dark.

The levies stumbled across the line, dragging their logs onto the growing piles. The mimic dropped his burden with them, hands on his knees, panting just enough to match the others. His borrowed face glistened with sweat, his smile crooked with exhausted relief.

Around him, the men laughed shakily, clapping shoulders, glad to have survived another trip into the wolves' jaws. The mimic laughed too, friendly and warm, but inside his mind ticked on — clinical, cold. He was inside now.

The logs clattered onto the growing piles, and the work party dispersed into the ordered chaos of the camp. Orders snapped back and forth—fetch more timber, brace the mantlets, dig here, haul there. The mimic fell into step without hesitation, his face open, his tone easy, his laughter perfectly placed in the rhythm of men pretending fear didn't gnaw at their bones.

He carried, stacked, braced. He offered quick jokes—light ones, harmless ones—that made levies grin and loosen shoulders. They liked him. Of course they did. That was the point.

Inside, his mind was a different thing entirely. His eyes slid across the camp, noting patterns, measuring distances.

The retainers clustered closer to the command fire, the sheen of their armor brighter, their orders sharper. They did not move logs. They did not dig trenches. They watched. The mimic marked their faces, one by one, their voices, the way they leaned on weapons. Each would need a different approach.

Beyond them, the real lifeblood of the camp sat under heavy guard: the blood-supplies. Barrels marked with the sigil of the Bloodnight family, hauled under canvas awnings, flanked by high tier sentries whose eyes flicked toward them more often than the shadows. The mimic lingered just long enough to fix the layout in memory. Four barrels high, stacked in threes. Easy to reach in chaos and maybe ruin. They were preparing a better shelter for them so it would have to be soon.

He moved on, smiling at a levy hauling rope beside him. "If they stack those logs any higher, we'll need wings to lift the next one." The man chuckled, offered a tired shrug. Another friend made.

All the while, the mimic's clinical tally built. Where the vampires rested. Where they fed. Which sentries were lax as dusk deepened. Which men already stumbled from exhaustion and would make the perfect shield for his knife to hide behind.

The camp had begun to settle into its rhythm: levies grunting under loads, retainers prowling with clipped voices, the air thick with ash and sweat. The mimic blended in as smoothly as breath, carrying, stacking, laughing, always friendly, always watchful.

From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the elders pause by the command fire and tentl. An old Baron, that felt like fire, with pale hair bound back in a cord, his gaze lingered longer than it should have. His crimson eyes tracked the mimic—not the group, not the work, but him.

The mimic felt it at once. Predatory and suspicious. His dao of body may not be as strong as others but it enhanced his senses others could only wish for. The elder's head tilted slightly, as though sniffing the air, as though measuring the way the mimic moved.

"Boy," the Baron said at last, his voice low but sharp, cutting across the clatter of work. "You lift too easily for Tier Two shoulders. And your eyes… they look everywhere but the task in front of you. And…" He sniffed once, the faintest curl of his lip showing teeth. "…you don't smell like the rest of them. Why?"

The levies nearby froze, glancing between them nervously.

The mimic smiled—warm, sheepish, perfectly human. He shifted his grip on the log, deliberately overbalancing it, forcing himself into a stagger that ended in a grunt and a clumsy recovery. "Habit, my lord. Logging camps before the levy came calling. You learn to work easy if you don't want your back broken by thirty." He patted his chest as though embarrassed. "As for the eyes, well… wolves out there've been feeding too well. I'd rather not be next."

The Baron's gaze lingered, narrowed, but the explanation rang true enough to the ears around them. A few of the levies nodded quickly, murmuring agreement. The tension eased. The elder turned away, though his suspicion had not vanished—it only stepped back into the shadows.

The mimic bowed his head respectfully, hiding the flick of his hand as he slipped into the cluster of tools. One of the Lionheart vials rested there, wrapped in cloth against his palm. His insurance. If suspicion returned, if the wolves' harassment gave him cover, he could shatter it among the levies—or better, among the retainers.

He gave a nervous chuckle, eyes dropping as if embarrassed. "As for the eyes—wolves out there howl like they mean to take my throat. Hard to keep them off my mind."

Then, with just the right mix of deference and self-deprecation, he added: "And the smell… I'd wager chopping trees leaves its mark different than tilling mud. My apologies if it offends, Lord Baron."

Around them, a few levies chuckled softly, tension easing. The answer rang true enough, the deference softening the edge of suspicion.

The Baron's crimson eyes lingered, weighing him, but after a long moment he gave a dismissive sniff and turned back toward the command fire.

The mimic bowed his head lower in respect, hiding the flick of his hand as he slipped a cloth-wrapped vial inside his tunic. Insurance.

When he straightened, his face was all gratitude and good humor again. Inside, the calculation continued. Blend. Cut when the moment comes.

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