Dawn crept pale across the camp, but the Matriarch sat in shadow. The campaign tent was plain, its canvas stained with ash, the only adornment the heavy banner of the Bloodnight family hanging behind her chair. Its dark fabric shifted faintly in the draft, a reminder of lineage and power.

The elders gathered close, their voices subdued until the first stepped forward, his fury plain. "Matriarch," he began, bowing stiffly, "two of our blood were slain in the night. Not levies. Not fodder. Family." His teeth flashed as he spoke, hands tightening into fists. "Each struck by a single cut. The healers tell us the wounds carried the same life poison we have faced before. Their blood blackened before they could even cry out."

A murmur rippled through the tent, sharp and bitter. "Cursed trickery," one elder muttered.

The Matriarch's gaze flicked across the circle but she did not rise. Her plate creaked softly as she adjusted, the red in her eyes dim but unwavering.

Another elder stepped forward before the outrage could build higher. "Matriarch, the skirmishers made their probe at first light. Their arrows and bolts harried the walls, but the defenders returned fire with unnerving precision. One of ours fell—arrow through the throat, whether by skill or fortune. The rest took minor wounds, but nothing the healers could not mend." He paused, his tone more measured. "Their ranged fighters are disciplined. It was not chance alone."

The first elder's voice cut in again, hot as iron. "But they do not stalk our walls in the night. They stalk our tents. Two of our blood struck down in their sleep. The Calamity poisons the heart of our camp while we prepare our siege. How long before more fall?"

The Matriarch raised her hand, and the tent fell still. Her voice, when it came, was calm and cold, filling the space like steel drawn from its sheath.

"He seeks to wound us with fear as much as with blood. Each loss cuts deeper when it is kin. That is why he chooses them." She let her gaze sweep across the elders, her expression unreadable. "But fear is a blade that dulls when struck against iron."

Her eyes drifted back to the banner swaying faintly above her. "He has made his move. Now we will make ours."

The banner of the Bloodnight family stirred faintly in the smoky draft of the campaign tent. The Matriarch sat forward, gauntleted hand resting on the arm of her chair, crimson eyes fixed on the men who had followed her for decades.

"We hold seventeen Barons," she said, her voice steady, low. "Four High, the rest Mid and Low. Enough to tear those walls down in an afternoon."

Elder Brannwich gave a slow nod, his lined face grim. "True. A charge with all seventeen could end this siege before it begins. Their trenches and snares might bite, their archers might sting, but the walls would not stand."

Another elder shifted, folding his arms. "But the Calamity has killed Barons already. Two in the woods, another poisoned. He bleeds us one by one. What happens if he bleeds us half at once?"

The Matriarch's gaze flicked to the banner behind her. Its weight was heavier now than cloth alone. Lionheart City. Nobles who resented her family's power but relied on it nonetheless.

"If I lost eight Barons," she murmured, "half of what we hold, would I still be Matriarch? Could the Bloodnights keep their place at Lionheart's table? Or would the vultures circle, whispering that the Calamity has broken our fangs?"

Silence thickened the tent.

Brannwich's voice came like gravel ground beneath a boot. "Seventeen Barons at once is no ambush. He cannot match that. Even with poison, even with wolves, even with tricks. Brute force has its own truth. But if we pay the price…" He trailed off.

The Matriarch's gauntlet curled slowly, the plates rasping together. "Sometimes, there is nothing brute force cannot answer. But status is as sharp a blade as any. If I shatter my strength to take this fort, Lionheart may see not triumph, but weakness. We would win the ground and lose the game….unless…"

Her eyes lingered on the tent wall, as if she could see through to the distant fort where the Calamity watched from his tower.

The Matriarch's eyes narrowed as she leaned back in her chair, the banner behind her shifting faintly in the stale morning air.

"Our boon," she said slowly, "will not be measured simply by victory, but by the quality of it. By how we perform when we strike down the Calamity before us. He cannot face us directly—so he fights with snares, poison, and wolves. But now…" Her fingers tapped against the chair's arm, each rasp of steel deliberate. "Now he has angled us into the very thing he cannot match. A direct fight and I wonder why..he dares us to spend our strength where he has none."

The elders listened in silence, their eyes fixed on her.

"If I break the fort with brute force, we will win," she continued, her voice low, steady. "But if I lose half my Barons to do it, Lionheart will call it weakness, not triumph. Her gaze turned sharp, cutting through the tent like a drawn blade. "Leave me. I have much to consider."

The elders began to bow, but she raised her gauntleted hand once more.

"One more thing. We have an infiltrator—likely more than one. The poison in our camp proves it. Someone here is not who they claim to be." Her voice hardened, iron wrapped in ice. "I want everyone in this camp verified. Every levy. Every retainer. If there is a face here that is not known, run them down. I want a report by midday on the progress of our siege preparations."

She let the weight of her command settle, then added, "And check our supplies. The Calamity's hand may already be in them. I will not have him strike us from within while we prepare to face him without."

The elders bowed deeply, the tent falling into uneasy silence as her words settled. When they left, only the banner remained, its shadow long across the Matriarch's armor.

The morning sun bled pale gold across the treeline, its light catching on the smoke that still rose from the charred woods. From the fort's tower, Harold watched the haze while the camp beyond stirred, the faint clang of hammers and the low roar of voices carrying on the wind.

Beside him, Lira poured steaming tea into a battered clay cup, the scent of herbs cutting through the tang of ash. She handed it over without a word, her fingers brushing Harold's as he took it.

He sipped once, the warmth steadying him, then glanced toward Daran. "Good job driving off the skirmishers. That kid with the distance and bow Daos is good. That was a clean shot."

Daran leaned his elbows against the crenellation, arms crossed loosely over the haft of his hammer. "Tirren," he said. "He's been forced to grow quickly. Not long ago he was hunting vermin to try to feed the orphans he was with. Now he's putting arrows through womp rats. Pressure makes some men crack. It's hardened him instead."

Lira smiled faintly as she cupped her tea in both hands. "Better hardened than brittle. We'll need more like him before this is over."

Harold let his gaze drift back to the vampire camp, where movement crawled like ants over wood and canvas. "Today won't be a quiet one. They'll spend the morning building, fortifying, trying to shake off last night's knife work. It's strange…" He exhaled slowly. "My Brand on Jerric seems to overlap with his summons a little. I can feel that thing moving around their camp. It's an emotionless thing. I was worried when Jerric first pulled it through, but I think I'm more worried about the dungeon itself. The variety of monsters it must have in its depths must be astounding."

He lifted the cup again, took another sip, and continued. "By evening, I expect they'll test us again. Not a rush yet—unless that shifter was more successful than I thought—but sharper skirmishing. Probably a few Barons probing the walls to see how we answer."

Setting the cup down on the parapet, Harold rubbed his thumb along its rim, steam curling into the morning air. "We keep the men tight to the crenellations. No skylining. I'll need to see Kelan soon for a progress report. We've had that lava user down there for almost a week now—they should be about ready. I know he's been in that trance, but it needs to be soon."

Daran's heavy brow furrowed. "If the lava user's near done we can end this without the fight we are worried about. Harold gave a slow nod. "Exactly. Every day we buy here turns their numbers into a liability instead of a strength."

The wolves howled faintly in the distance, their voices rolling across the fort like a challenge. Harold's gaze lingered on the rising smoke from the enemy camp, his jaw set.

"Riddle me this, Daran… why do our people's Daos and affinities seem more varied? Almost sharper than theirs."

Daran didn't answer right away. He shifted his stance, resting both hands over the hilt of his broadsword, eyes narrowed on the lines of the vampire camp. "Daos and affinities run in bloodlines. That's part of how the nobles keep their grip. Superior affinities, superior resources to train them, and the power of family to reinforce it. The Bloodnights are no different—they've built their whole strength on heavy armor classes, the brute resilience of their blood, and the natural vampire Daos: shadow and blood."

He frowned slightly, thinking aloud. "Strangely, though, I haven't seen the darker ones among them. No hunger. No death. Sorry, Lira."

Lira only sipped her tea, lips quirking faintly. "None taken."

Daran continued. "What's stranger still is their retainers. By rights, they should be varied—scouts, mercenaries, wanderers. But they're not. Less variety than they ought to have. Which makes me think Lionheart City keeps a sanction on them. A leash. Only certain classes, only certain Daos allowed. It would explain their formation over there. If they had true combat engineers, those siege engines would already be standing taller and stronger than the crude frames they're cobbling together now."

He glanced back toward the valley behind the fort. "On the reverse… there's something about this place. About being around you. It's made it easier to connect to Daos, somehow. That girl, the one who touched the Dao of Winter at thirteen—that's unheard of. And you don't force them into ranks they don't fit. You let them fight in line with their classes, their Daos. That makes them proficient. Dangerous. Where the Bloodnights would smother talent under rank and file, you sharpen it."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Harold let the silence hang a moment, then nodded once. "That was about what I figured. But I wanted to hear it confirmed. After all this I want to reorganize our structure some and we will need to recruit heavily. That is partly why I decided on the course I have."

Harold let the silence stretch, steam curling from the forgotten cup on the parapet. At last, he exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl.

"I need to see Kelan," he said, straightening from the wall. His gaze stayed fixed on the vampire camp a moment longer, the smoke twisting like a banner above their works. "It's time we pushed their Matriarch some."

Harold turned from the parapet, tea cup still warm in his hand. Before stepping away, he leaned down and brushed a small kiss across Lira's cheek. "Thank you," he murmured. Her smile lingered as he straightened, the steam curling between them.

He carried the cup with him as he descended the tower, boots steady on the worn steps. Holt fell in at his side, shield shifting into place as naturally as breath. Below, Toren and Torik closed ranks, one with his usual grin, the other quieter but no less ready. The rest of the detail moved in behind them, forming a protective knot without a word spoken.

The fort bustled lightly with movement as they crossed the yard—sentries changing positions, wolves pacing near the walls, soldiers tightening straps and checking weapons. Men nodded as Harold passed, then bent back to their duties, the weight of the siege never far from their shoulders.

Kelan was not hard to find. He sat cross-legged at the edge of the trench, hands pressed firmly to the earth. Mana and qi rolled off him in waves, bleeding into soil and stone alike. His presence radiated weight, an immovable steadiness that pressed against the air. Dust stirred faintly with each deep pulse of his breath, as though even the ground shifted in time with him.

The detail slowed instinctively, giving him space. Kelan's eyes were closed, his face set in calm determination, every line of him like carved stone. He looked less like a man at work and more like a mountain waiting to rise.

Harold didn't speak right away. He stood with his detail, sipping quietly from the cup while the steady rhythm of Kelan's qi filled the air. The ground seemed to hum beneath their boots, the breath of earth pulled in and out through Kelan's body.

It didn't take long. Kelan's eyes opened, slow but sharp, and he exhaled like a bellows easing at last. His shoulders rolled forward as he braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself upright. A groan escaped him, half stiffness, half weariness, the sound of stone grinding in its socket.

"Suppose you're here to know how it goes with that surprise we've got brewing," he said, voice low but steady, as if pulled up from deep within the ground itself.

Harold tipped his cup slightly in answer, the steam curling in the space between them. "Yes and no. I dont care about how far along you are with it…I want it revealed to the host out there. I need to pressure them to make moves before they are ready."

"Suppose you're here to know how it goes with that surprise we've got brewing," Kelan said, voice low but steady, as if pulled up from deep within the ground itself.

Harold tipped his cup slightly in answer, the steam curling in the space between them. "Yes and no. I don't care about how far along you are with it… I want it revealed to the host out there. I need to pressure them into making moves before they're ready."

Kelan's eyes narrowed, weighing the thought. Then he gave a slow nod, voice like gravel. "We can release a little pressure with small holes across the front. It won't let it flow, but the smell will escape. If they've got anyone with a perception worth a damn—and they do—they'll notice. They'll know something's coiled under their feet, waiting."

Harold allowed himself a thin smile. "Good. Let their imagination go to work."

Kelan grunted, settling back down cross-legged. "I'll see it done."

Before Kelan could lower himself back into his trance, a sharp call rang out from the wall.

"Contact! Movement on the treeline!"

The voice was rough, carrying the tone of authority—Sergeant Varik, the spear sergeant, shouting down from his post. The alarm rippled across the fort, soldiers hustling toward the ladders and platforms, crossbows clattering as they were hauled into position.

Harold's head came up at once. From the yard, he could see nothing beyond the stone. He balanced his cup and started for the tower with quick strides. Toren and Torik fell in behind him, along with the rest of the detail, boots drumming against the packed earth as they moved.

The climb was swift. When Harold reached the top, the picture opened before him.

Through the morning haze, a wall of broad shields pressed out of the treeline. They moved with deliberate discipline, the line closing ranks with each step. Behind them shuffled crossbowmen, their weapons low and ready. A pair of archers paced under the same cover, bows already strung.

At their center, steady and unmistakable, walked a Baron. His presence pressed outward like a cold weight, each motion precise, each gesture guiding the shield wall's advance. Even at distance, Harold could feel the authority that bound the formation together.

He rested his hands on the crenellation, eyes narrowing. "A Baron at their head. Not probing with shadows this time—they're measuring us with discipline and steel."

Harold's eyes locked on the Baron at the heart of the advancing shield wall. Calm, steady, the linchpin holding their formation together. He reached out through Oathsense, his intent brushing against Rysa like a ripple in still water. Rysa. Pass it along. Auren and Ferin are to target the Baron with poisoned arrows. Soldiers to skirmish the shield wall, keep them occupied.

Rysa barely glanced up from her work. She had one hand in the oven with her long-handled paddle, shifting loaves before they burned, while the other absently stirred a bubbling pot on the coals. "Ferin, Auren," she called over her shoulder, her tone calm, almost bored. "Baron. Poisoned arrows. Get yourselves on the wall."

The two men stiffened immediately, exchanging a glance. Neither hesitated. They slung their quivers higher and jogged for the nearest ladder, boots pounding against the packed earth. By the time they reached the parapet, soldiers were already bracing crossbows against the stone, loosing volleys at the advancing shieldbearers.

Auren and Ferin ducked into the gap between two crenellations, drawing their bows in unison. Vials clinked faintly as they dipped their arrowheads, careful with the slick sheen of life poison coating the steel. Their expressions were tight with focus, movements economical—there would be no second chances if they missed.

Below, the shield wall closed ranks under the hail of bolts, the Baron's presence steadying them, his voice carrying like iron.

Up above, the hunters prepared to break him.

The wall thrummed with tension as the first volley loosed. Crossbows cracked in staggered rhythm, bolts rattling against the vampire shield wall below. Some thudded deep into wood, others skipped wide, but the steady rain kept the formation from closing ranks as smoothly as their commander wished.

Auren and Ferin crouched low between crenellations, bows drawn, the glint of poison shining faintly on their arrowheads.

Auren's breath slowed, his wind Dao circling around him, sharpening his focus, bending the air so the shaft would fly straighter, faster. His skill Power Draw made the string creak, the arrow vibrating with pent-up force. His second skill flared—Double Bow, Double Arrow—the mana-heavy weave splitting his single arrow mid-flight into two identical missiles, both dripping with the same lethal poison.

Beside him, Ferin murmured a hunter's prayer, his Hunt Dao flaring like a hawk's cry. His skill tightened the world around the Baron, guiding his arrow's path, refusing to let it stray. Almost at Tier Four, but not yet—the tension of his unfinished Dao made his focus sharper still. His breath synced with his pulse, with the rhythm of the Baron's steps below.

"On me," Ferin muttered. Auren gave the faintest nod.

They loosed as one.

Auren's arrow split in flight, twin streaks tearing the air, guided by wind and raw power. Ferin's shaft followed a half-breath later, his Dao bending the world until the Baron's defenses seemed already pierced.

Below, the Baron barked an order, his shieldbearers shifting to cover—but the arrows flew truer than their eyes could track.

And while the clash on the wall held every gaze forward, the danger came from behind. Ten vaulted the rear wall in a blur of claws and steel. Tier Three knights, vampires, fast and hungry, dropping like predators into the heart of the fort. Their blades hissed as they came down, their snarls echoing across the yard.

But they did not fall on an empty rear.

Kelan was already rising from the dirt, hammer in hand, the ground beneath him splitting in angry lines. Toren and Torik charged with him, axes raised, their grins sharp and reckless. Around them, the reserve squad of escaped slaves surged forward, looted weapons and armour but their fury honed by weeks of drills and scars older than chains.

The two lines met with a sound like thunder. Steel rang against steel, claws raked shields, men cried out in the press.

One slave was slashed across the chest, staggering back—Lira was there in an instant, life mana surging from her palm to knit flesh before the wound could fester. Another vampire drove a slave to the dirt, longsword flashing, only to be ripped away by Toren's axe in a blow that broke spine and rib alike.

Kelan waded into the melee like a force of nature. His hammer rose and fell, each strike breaking a vampire's guard, each step driving the enemy back. The heavily armoured vampires unable to stop the even more heavily armoured mountain that crushed them. Stone cracked under his boots, the ground itself bending to his will. A vampire tried to vault past him, only to be caught mid-air by a ripple in the earth and slammed down where Kelan's hammer was already waiting.

The tide turned in blood and fury. The slaves, bloodied but unbowed, pressed harder with the brothers at their side. Lira darted through the chaos, her presence the difference between a man standing and another body on the ground.

But not all of the infiltrators had been swept into the melee.

One remained apart. A long, gaunt figure who hadn't drawn blade nor claw. He stood upright at the edge of the chaos still on the wall, red eyes unblinking, watching. His gaze slid over the yard, over the trenches and walls, over the wolves pacing behind the gates. He observed with the stillness of a serpent in tall grass—measuring, recording, learning. Forgotten in the clash, but dangerous in his silence.

From the tower, Harold's eyes swept the chaos breaking out below. The clash was furious—steel against steel, Kelan's hammer thundering, Toren and Torik fighting shoulder to shoulder, the escaped slaves holding the line with raw grit. Lira darted among them, her staff flashing with green light as she kept men on their feet.

But Harold's gaze caught something else. One figure who didn't move like the rest.

Harold's jaw tightened. He reached through Oathsense, his voice sharp in Lira's mind. Lira—kill the watcher. Now.

She spun instantly, staff lifting as life mana surged bright around her. But even as the power gathered, the watcher's gaze snapped up toward the tower. For a heartbeat, Harold swore their eyes met—cold red against his own.

Then the figure moved. Faster than the others, his form blurred into the smoke. By the time Lira loosed her spell, the watcher was already gone, slipping over the wall like a shadow melting back into the forest.

Harold's fist clenched on the crenellation, knuckles whitening. "Damn it."

Below, Kelan smashed the last vampire into the dirt, the hammer's echo rolling across the yard. The fort had held—but the watcher's absence left a bitter taste in the air.

Harold tore his eyes from the place where the watcher had vanished, forcing his focus back to the front. The skirmishers were already falling back, their shield wall sagging under the weight of crossbow fire.

And there—the Baron.

He was struggling, his great frame hunched as he clawed at the shaft buried deep in his shoulder. His shieldbearers clustered close, shifting to cover him as they pulled him back. Discipline, but fraying.

On the wall, Ferin was already moving. He darted along the battlements, weaving between men bracing their crossbows, dodging hands and shoulders as though he belonged in the chaos. His bow was in hand, arrow already nocked, but he didn't loose. Not yet. He ran, searching, eyes sharp, breath even.

He slid into a gap between crenellations, bowstring pulling taut. Still he waited. The shieldbearers shifted, tightening their cover around the Baron.

The world seemed to narrow around him. His Hunt Dao sharpened, every movement of his prey laid bare. His class skills layered on top, strength flowing into his draw, patience forged into precision. For the first time, they meshed perfectly—not two tools, but one.

Ferin felt the moment.

He loosed.

The arrow hissed, cutting the distance in a blink. One shieldbearer stepped sideways to adjust his stance—just enough to open a sliver of space. The shaft streaked through it, thwacking home into the Baron's temple.

For a heartbeat, he remained upright. Then his knees buckled, the life poison flooding straight into his brain. He collapsed in the dirt, his shieldbearers scrambling in shock as the crossbowmen broke and fled back into the treeline.

The wall erupted in shouts, a raw cheer rising from the soldiers who had seen it.

On the tower, Harold allowed himself the faintest smile. "Well struck, Ferin."

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