Harold stood with the Matriarch and her elders just beyond the compound gates. Holt's squad formed a loose line behind him, crossbows slung but ready, while Lira, Kelan, Jerric, and the other Branded gathered close. Hal pressed steady against Harold's side, his breath misting in the morning chill, while some of his pack bounded in the yard with the children—two of the larger wolves letting squealing boys and girls ride their backs as if they were shaggy ponies. Laughter clashed strangely with the tension in the air, but Harold let it sit. They needed the sound.

He looked to the Matriarch, her barons and elders arrayed like a black tide around her. "I'll be expecting the nobles to make some kind of move," he said, voice flat. "They won't sit idle while you tighten your grip here. Either on the march to the arena, or during the duel—they'll test us."

The thin elder inclined his head. "They will. They can't afford to let us consolidate any power. They'll try to bleed you before you root too deep."

The broader one folded his arms. "They'll choose subtle hands."

The Matriarch's crimson eyes flicked toward Harold, steady and calm. "Then we deny them both. This duel is already spectacle enough. Whatever they plan will not matter." Her cloak shifted as the breeze tugged at it. "Remember—we are not here to rule this city. We are here to strip from it what it has denied us. When the work is done, we will not stay."

Her elders nodded in grim accord, like judges confirming a sentence.

Harold tightened the strap across his chest, the haft of his axe resting easy at his shoulder. "All the same," he said, "I don't like waiting for their hand. Let's move the timeline forward. We march in ten minutes."

Holt gave a curt grin and signaled her squad. The Branded gathered close, children clinging to wolves for one last playful ride before being coaxed off. The ashen pair padded to Harold's flank, eyes burning faint silver.

The Matriarch gave one short nod. "Then let the city watch. Word will spread and the city will follow to the arena.."

That was all it took to send the courtyard into motion. Holt barked sharp orders, her squad scattering to gather bolts, spears, and the heavy shields left stacked by the walls. Lira moved quickly among the children, pressing cloaks into small hands, tying scarves tight, checking faces with a healer's eye. Kelan shouldered a crate as if it weighed nothing, stacking it onto a cart already creaking under bundles of cloth and sacks of bread.

Jerric cursed as he fumbled with a chest of stolen baubles, trying to cinch the straps before Ferin silently leaned in to knot them tight. The boy flashed a grin that didn't hide the weariness in his eyes. Rysa snatched up a satchel of dried herbs and, without missing a beat, stuffed an apple into a girl's palm.

Hal's pack moved restlessly, padding in circles as if they could sense the tension. One of the larger wolves gave a low whuff when the last of the laughing children slid from his back. Even the ashen pair stood alert now, tails stiff, eyes bright.

The Matriarch and her elders did not rush. They stood like the eye of the storm, barons and retainers forming around them in perfect, practiced formation.

"Five minutes," Holt called, voice carrying.

Harold slung his axe into place and tightened the strap across his chest. The courtyard was a mess of boots, laughter, grumbles, and the clatter of steel—but it fell into order quickly, like a blade sliding into its sheath.

He looked once at the Matriarch, once at his people, then gave the word.

"March."

The gates swung open, and the procession spilled into the streets—wolves padding, children clinging to cloaks, soldiers moving with spears steady. The city turned to watch as the Calamity and the Matriarch walked side by side toward the arena.

The gates groaned open, and the column spilled into the streets. The morning air was still heavy with the sour tang of last night's revelry—ale on stone, smoke in the air, the faint sound of laughter lingering like an echo. People turned to stare as the procession wound forward: wolves padding beside children, soldiers moving in a hard spine of spears and crossbows, and the Matriarch flanked by her barons like a queen carved out of midnight.

They didn't march fast. The pace was deliberate, steady enough that Lira, Elira, and Rysa could peel away in turns. Jerric groaned when Lira yanked one of his sacks, muttering about "his treasures," but the boy couldn't argue. He handed over a purse and two silver lockets, and the women slipped into stalls as the column moved, bartering quickly with wary shopkeepers.

Wool cloaks for the youngest, boots that didn't leak, dried fish and bread by the sack. From another stall they hauled a basket of soap and combs, simple comforts that made the children's eyes light when they were passed out. Every time the women rejoined, something new was added to the pile on Kelan's broad shoulders or to the carts dragged along at the rear.

At one turn, the crowd ahead stirred. A pair of familiar faces ducked in—a groggy bard whose lute hung half-tuned at his back, and beside him a tall, wiry shaman figure painted in ash and beads. They slid easily into line with the stragglers of the group, and with them came Toren and Torvik, grins wide as they tried to pass like nothing was amiss.

They didn't make it three steps.

Holt's voice cut across the formation like a lash. "You two."

The brothers froze. Holt stalked forward, spear haft cracking the cobbles with every stride. Her fury was something to behold—lean, lithe muscle moving like it wanted a fight.

"Slipping in after a night's carouse?" she snarled, eyes blazing. "You think I didn't see you vanish while the rest of us worked? You bring strays into my line, hungover and painted, like you're strutting back from festival games?"

The bard blinked, swaying, and the shaman only grinned faintly, teeth white against the ash.

Holt slammed the butt of her spear into the ground hard enough to startle the wolves. "You'll answer for it when Harold says, and if you think for a breath I'll let you slack in my ranks, I'll gut the smug right out of you myself."

The brothers wilted under her glare, muttering something about being "exactly where they needed to be," but Holt was already turning, fury radiating off her like heat.

As she stalked away, Torvik called after her with a grin that dared death. "I love when you're angry with me!"

Holt froze for the briefest instant, shoulders taut, before she kept walking. The crackle in the air promised retribution later.

The soldiers behind her smirked into their collars, some biting knuckles to keep from laughing aloud, all of them grateful it wasn't their heads catching fire. Even Jerric, half-dozing on his feet, lifted his brows in quiet amusement.

The column pressed on, the city parting around them as the arena's spires crept higher against the morning sky.

The column wound deeper into the city, their pace slow but deliberate, with wolves padding close and children tugging on new cloaks that still smelled of dye and wool. The crowds thickened as they went, word running ahead of them like wildfire—the Calamity, the vampires, the duel at noon. Every corner seemed to sprout more eyes, more whispers, more measuring looks.

Ferin had been part of the shadows, as always. Sometimes a rooftop. Sometimes a back alley. Never in one place long enough for most men to notice. But gradually he edged closer, slipping through the formation until he fell in step with Harold and the Matriarch.

He didn't raise his voice. His words were barely breath, but sharp enough to cut through the noise of the street. "We're being hunted."

Harold's eyes flicked, but he didn't turn his head. "Where?"

Ferin's jaw tightened. "Can't tell. Their dao… it's related to the Hunt. They know how to mask. Could be above us. Could be in the press of the crowd. Not archers, though. Doesn't feel like ranged work. More like blades."

The Matriarch's crimson gaze slid to Ferin, cool and unreadable. "You're certain?"

"As certain as I can be without drawing their strike," Ferin murmured. "They're close. Waiting for an opening."

Harold shifted his axe higher against his shoulder, slow, steady, as if it were nothing more than a weight adjustment. To anyone else, it looked casual. But his voice was low steel. "Then they'll learn what happens when the hunted turns."

Hal's growl rumbled low, ears pricked forward. The ashen wolves mirrored him, heads high, nostrils flaring. Children pressed tighter against their flanks, sensing the change even if they couldn't name it.

Harold's tone was quiet but left no room for argument. "Elder Cassian—flush our hunters out."

Cassian inclined his head and stepped forward, spreading his arms slightly. A ripple of pressure moved out from him, subtle but sharp, like the whole street had been scraped raw. The crowd along the road flinched, muttering as they backed away, eyes wide as though they'd just caught a glimpse of something hungry in the shadows.

"Hal," Harold went on, his hand steady on the haft of his axe, "put your Stalker to work. I want these assassins found."

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The frost wolf gave a short huff, and from the rear of the formation padded the Umbral Stalker. Its coat was black shot through with veins of deep violet, the kind of color that lived in places lamplight never reached. Eyes burned like twin coals, sharp and unblinking. It was no phantom—it was muscle, fang, and claw, but every step seemed to drag threads of shadow along with it, making the alleys darker, the corners deeper, as if the world bent to its presence.

The Stalker padded ahead, nose close to the ground one moment, head lifting the next, gaze cutting through the press of bodies. Its movements were steady, patient, and utterly certain—this was not prey running from light, but a hunter comfortable in every shade of dark.

Still, the column did not break stride. Holt's soldiers kept their crossbows shouldered, children were ushered along by Lira and Rysa, and the Matriarch's barons walked like iron statues. But under the steady rhythm of boots and paws, the hum of the city had changed—edges sharper, whispers thinner, like the crowd itself was bracing for the first strike.

He tightened the strap across his chest and leaned toward the Matriarch. "They're still with us," he said low. "Let them. So long as they follow, we know where they are."

Her crimson gaze flicked his way, unreadable. "And if they strike?"

"Then they strike in sight of everyone. No alleys. No excuses."

The Matriarch's mouth curved in the faintest suggestion of approval. "Practical."

So they moved, slow and deliberate, through the widening streets toward the arena. Lira, Elira, and Rysa broke from the line in turns, bartering quick and sharp for bread, cloaks, boots, and meat for the wolves—coins and trinkets pressed into merchants' hands, all stolen from nobles who now trailed in bitter silence somewhere behind them. Kelan bore the weight of new bundles without complaint, carting them as easily as if he carried logs for a homestead.

All the while, Cassian's aura searched. The Stalker prowled. Hal kept his head high, ears twitching at the sound of shifting footsteps on rooftops. The children, sensing more than knowing, clung tighter to the wolves' fur, their laughter fading to quiet questions and nervous giggles.

The city gathered around them like a living wall, whispers turning to shouts as word spread: the duel, the Calamity, the vampires, all marching through the streets in broad daylight.

By the time the arena's great crown of stone rose before them, the weight of unseen hunters was still there—hovering at the edges, patient, waiting. Harold rested his hand on his axe haft, steady.

They were funneled through a side gate into a stone compound tucked against the arena's flank—a roomy courtyard with stout walls and a low row of chambers meant for visiting challengers. The arena master, a thin man with too many rings on his fingers, bowed them in and gestured with theatrical efficiency. "Private access, honored guests. You'll have space to prepare and a direct entrance to the pit."

The Matriarch's elders split off at once with Daran, moving like blades of grass in a wind—quiet, practiced—circling the compound, checking thresholds, probing doorways with the kind of small motions that find hidden pins and poisoned threads. Daran took to the shadows willingly, knife at his hip, eyes scanning for anything that didn't belong.

The Matriarch stood near the gate, the heir beside her, face still flushed with rage though he kept the worst of it tamped down. She kept a hand lightly on his shoulder, not gentle but unmistakably in control. He bit his lip and watched Harold like a man watching a fire he intends to dive into.

Harold crossed the courtyard and set his palms on a barrel, the motion casual enough to look like rest. "We wait one hour," he said. "Then we go in. I don't want any surprises in the streets—if their agents are moving, let them follow us in plain sight. The arena is a controlled place. No civilians, no stray knives in alleys. One hour." He looked at the Matriarch. "After I finish with your heir, I'll consecrate the cathedral. It's too risky to do it while their agents still crawl the city."

The heir let the words land and snapped like a struck wire. "Consecrate? I'll carve you open in front of everyone first. I'll rip your heart and—" He lunged verbally, venom sharp enough to draw looks.

The Matriarch's hand fell across his mouth in a movement taught and absolute. Her voice was cold and public. "We do not drink from men," she said, eyes on him like someone naming a law. "We are not caverns for covens." He stilled, fury folding into humiliation.

He spat through his teeth. "You'll see. I'll end you."

Harold shrugged, a small, tired motion that didn't pretend at bravado. "Then make it quick," he said. "I've got work to do after."

The arena master shuffled forward, voice thin with the need to be useful. "Private quarters will be ready. Guards at the gate. You'll have privacy until the bell. And can I say Calamity, i've grew up on stories of your kind…It is a pleasure to meet you."

Holt tightened her spear strap and checked her men. Lira walked the line of kids once more, counting, adjusting. Hal nosed at Harold's hand and settled near his boots.

The Matriarch inclined her head toward Harold, faint approval in the gesture. "One hour," she repeated. "Then the stage is yours."

"Come Arena master, I'm curious about your work here. Explain to me your process running this place until the fight starts. Is that your actual class? Arena Master?" Harold said talking to the thin man.

The thin man blinked as if caught off guard by the direct attention. His jeweled fingers fidgeted, one ring clicking against another before he straightened his robe and gave Harold a nervous smile.

"Yes, honored one. Arena Master is the name of my class," he said, voice thin but practiced. "Though in truth it is less combat and more… orchestration. I keep the games moving, the coin flowing, and the crowds safe enough to come back for the next spectacle. The system grants me skills to manage risk, balance wagers, even nudge the odds when the blood runs too freely. I… arrange contests. Pair fighters of equal measure. Ensure healers are in place. Make sure the sands are raked clean so no one slips on yesterday's gore."

His hands fluttered like wings as he spoke, then settled against his sides. "When challengers arrive, I record them in the ledgers. Skills, levels, cultivation paths—whatever they allow me to know. The crowd comes for theater, not just blood, and my class helps me weave both."

Harold studied him, expression unreadable. "So you're less a fighter, more a stagehand with teeth."

The man swallowed but managed a nod. "If the stage is not ready, then no battle matters. People don't remember who bled if the sand was too muddy to see."

Behind him, Holt muttered under her breath, "Sounds like a glorified juggler." One of her soldiers smirked.

The Arena Master flushed but kept his smile plastered on. "Call it what you will. Without me, chaos turns to riot. With me, the city calls it tradition."

The Arena Master gave a thin smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, clearly more comfortable in rehearsed explanations than under Harold's blunt stare. Still, he smoothed his robe and inclined his head.

"And where do you get your fighters from? how do you stop skills and attacks from flying past the arena itself into the stands?" Harold asked, getting to the real purpose of his questions.

"Fighters come from everywhere," he said. "Mercenaries, condemned criminals, foreign wanderers with more pride than sense. Some are volunteers chasing coin or fame, others are bought in chains by patrons who wager on them. Nobles, especially, like to send their retainers into the sand—it's a chance to prove loyalty and strength in front of the crowd."

The Arena Master's jeweled fingers clicked against one another as he considered how best to answer. At last, he leaned forward, tone quieter but steadier now that he was on familiar ground.

"The barrier isn't my doing," he admitted. "It comes from the arena itself. Old work—formation lines carved into the foundation stones, reinforced with enchantments that drink mana like thirsty men. They're layered deep, far deeper than the sand anyone sees. Rated to withstand strikes even from peak Tier 4 Barons. That's why the nobility trust it. Why they come with their children to watch and wager without fear."

He gestured toward the high stone walls looming behind him. "When the match begins, the formation activates. Every blow, every shard of flying steel or burst of Dao crashes against the barrier and folds back into the sand. The crowd hears the roar, sees the flash, but nothing passes. If the walls weren't fed, this place would have been rubble centuries ago."

Harold ran a thumb over the edge of his axe, thoughtful. "So the stands sit in safety while the sand eats the fire."

The Arena Master allowed himself the faintest of smiles. "Exactly. The arena is a crucible, not a slaughterhouse. Chaos within, order without. Without that barrier, no amount of guards or healers could keep this tradition alive."

Behind Harold, Holt muttered low, "Let's hope your lines don't crack today."

The Arena Master's rings clicked again, but his bow was sharp and practiced. "They won't. Not unless gods themselves choose to meddle."

Daran stepped up out of the shadows, wiping his palms on his cloak. "Area's clear," he said, voice low. He glanced left and right—the elders' sweep had done its work—and then he tugged Harold by the elbow, pulling him a pace aside.

Elira drifted nearer, curiosity bright in her face until Daran caught her with a look and shook his head. She took the hint and melted back, hands folded as if she'd never been closer.

Daran didn't bother with pleasantries. "I hope you know what you're doing, Harold." He kept his voice soft but the words were solid. "That heir—he's strong. Stronger than the Matriarch was, all things measured. In a straight fight he's built for this. His class, his Dao—it's meant for hitting and not stopping."

Harold let that sit a beat. The heir's heat and swagger had been obvious from the moment they'd met; Daran's assessment was the kind you only get from someone who'd watched the small details.

"This is a duel, not a scrap in an alley," Daran added. "No tricks, no chaos. Judges, witnesses. You get one opponent and an audience that remembers everything." He gave a small, hard smile. "You've got tricks, you've got brands. But remember: this isn't just blades. It's theater. Don't lose the play because you tried to break the stage."

Harold met his eyes and let out a short, dry breath. "I know."

Harold's mouth pulled into that thin, knowing line of his. "The challenged sets the terms of the duel," he said quietly. "He'll allow class skills—he has to. It's the only way he regains his standing in the family. He needs to show off his power, prove he's worth the bloodline that spawned him."

Daran's brow furrowed. "And the problem with that?"

Harold shifted the weight of his axe, voice even. "The problem is it allows me to exercise my class. The Brands, Tactical Recall—they're part of it. As soon as the duel starts, I summon Kelan, Lira, and the others. My fight isn't just me in the sand—it's all of us."

Daran studied him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "That's a loophole, Harold. A clever one. But it cuts both ways."

Harold only nodded once, eyes steady. "Then let him cut. He won't get through what stands with me."

Lira approached and stole Harold gently into a side chamber off the main hall, away from the bustle of soldiers tightening straps and the low growl of wolves restless at the scent of battle. The room was quiet, lit by a single brazier. She didn't let go of his sleeve until the door shut behind them.

Her eyes found his, soft but steady. "It's almost time," she said. "I know you're playing this close to your chest. You're calm because you've already thought ten steps ahead. But still…" she hesitated, then shook her head, "still I worry."

Harold exhaled through his nose, tried to shrug, but she stepped closer and stopped him with a hand against his chestplate.

"I've enjoyed getting to know you, Harold," she said, voice low and sure. "You're a better man than you suspect yourself to be. Whatever mask you wear, whatever edge you keep sharpened—I've seen past it. I trust what's there."

His throat worked, the words sticking heavier than he expected. For a moment, the axe at his back felt like the lighter burden.

"We'll fight him together," Lira went on. "Kelan, the others, me. You're not walking out there alone, no matter what the crowd thinks they see. And when it's done—when we've settled this—we'll figure us out. Whatever that means."

Harold leaned his forehead briefly against hers, the armor cold but her warmth cutting through it. "Deal," he said, voice rough but certain.

She smiled then, small and true, and pressed her lips to his cheek. "Good. Now let's show them what a Calamity really looks like."

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