Calamity Awakens

Night fell like a held breath over Lionheart, and the city shifted to the rhythm Harold had bought for it. Lanterns winked in windows, braziers guttered to a lower light, and in alleys and taverns the first whispers of tomorrow's fight began to inflate into wagers. The cordon held: patrols and static guards. The nobles had their own diviners that kept watch and the slow, officious shuffle of municipal power. Outside that cordon, things moved that were meant to look like accident and rumor. The cities guard was chasing rumor and shadows.

Kelan left first. He went like a small avalanche, earth and muscle and patient thought. Harold watched him go, shoulders hunched against the wind. Kelan's crew—two scarred laborers who smelled of smoke and battle. They were freed slaves that survived the battle thanks to Kelan and they immediately volunteered to help. They carried their gear for battle, mainly there to watch Kelan's back. Kelan looked back once, a single hard nod, then disappeared beneath the compound's east wall where the old drains began.

Within the courtyard, Rysa made the compound smell of grease and mischief. She'd already claimed the old wainhouse as a workshop, hauled in barrels of pitch and a rattle of tin, and was barking orders at two retainers that volunteered to help. "Set the fire to low," she told them. "We want smoke and sound, not a funeral pyre. Add the magnesium at the end" Her grin was the kind that promised trouble and then apologized in advance.

Jerric was a bundle of nervous power. He scrawled runes on scrap wood, chatted with Ferin about the best lanes for a summoned skittering horde to cause a crush but do no real harm and damage. He had already summoned another mimic but dismissed it when he found it had no real skills for theft. He was discussing with Ferin about what other options he could use.

Cael Brennor and his Ashen Blades melted into taverns and backrooms like dusk sliding behind shutters. They were the showmen, hired to seed rumor and shape appetite. Matriarch Marroween had given them a list: certain pubs, certain courtiers who liked to bet with coin not questions, the gambling houses where nobles took less than noble chances. Cael and his people worked the rooms like a man reading pockets—whisper, prod, make the story bigger than the fact. "We were there," his men would say. "We saw the frost wolf claw a man in half! We heard Calamity laugh as the line broke." The story smelled better than the truth; it drew money and his people drank for free.

One pair in particular were more successful than all the others combined. One had a class and dao related to shamanism and nature. The other was some kind of bard but oddly he had a Dao related to Aura. The problems started when the bard refused to sing for a tavern that asked for it and just sat at the bar asking for a drink. The shaman next to him. They laughed and joked amongst themselves for a while. Telling small inside jokes that had the shaman waving his hands and letting illusionary animals fall from his hands that distracted patrons and employees alike. As the night wore on the Bard became more and more lively but it really took a turn for the worse when Toren and Torick walked into the tavern and seeing the odd pair immediately walked over and tried to join them. What started as then would probably live in the city just as long as the Calamities mark would.

The bard sat hunched at the bar, nursing his drink like it might hide him. The shaman beside him was louder, easy with his laughter, flicking his fingers to let sparks and little illusion-animals hop across the counter—rabbits made of green smoke, birds of red flame that fluttered an instant before winking out. They weren't performing so much as keeping themselves amused, and the tavern had given them space.

That space evaporated when Toren and Torik shouldered their way inside. Dirt and grime still clung to their boots, and their grins said they'd snuck past Holt with the skill of children stealing sweets. They spotted the odd duo instantly.

Toren jabbed a thumb toward them. "No. You're Cael's boys, aren't you? Didn't see you when he was giving out assignments. What's your excuse?"

The bard didn't look up. "We didn't feel like marching in lockstep with axe-swingers."

That got both brothers bristling. Torik stepped closer, voice edged. "Axe-swingers? That's rich, coming from a man hiding in the corner of a bar. What do you even do—sing your enemies to death?"

The bard's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer.

The shaman chuckled instead, his accent thick, voice amused. "He does not sing for those who don't deserve it. And you—" his eyes swept the brothers like a measuring scale—"don't deserve it."

That nearly set Toren off. He leaned forward, fists tightening. "Say that again, feathers."

The shaman's teeth flashed in a grin. "Feathers. Yes. You notice quickly."

The bard muttered suddenly, "At least he's right about one thing: you don't deserve it."

The beautiful elven bartender came over then, her long braid swinging over one shoulder as she set drinks down with a firm clatter. She leveled a glare at each of them in turn. "If you're gonna fight, take it outside. I've just polished these floors."

All four men glared at each other, tension taut as bowstrings. Then Torik squinted, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Least there's one beautiful woman here."

The bard muttered into his cup, "She's half the reason we're here. Brews a mean brew."

The shaman gave a single nod, serious as a priest. "Strongest drink this side of the valley. I approve."

Toren barked a laugh. "You came here for the bartender? Gods, you're worse than I thought."

The bard shot back, sharper this time. "Why did you sneak out? I thought all your people had a job tonight."

That got the brothers' grins back. Torik lifted his mug in mock salute. "Because sometimes you need to live, book-boy. Not hide in the corner quietly."

"Book-boy?" The bard finally looked up, eyes flashing. "I'll have you know I read three languages—"

"—and he won't shut up about it when drunk," the shaman cut in, grinning.

The brothers blinked. Then Toren tilted his head, curious despite himself. "Languages, huh? You know any drinking songs?"

The bard frowned. "…Why?"

"Because if you do," Torik said, leaning forward, "we can get this place dancing till dawn."

The bard hesitated, lips pressing together. Then, grudgingly, "I know one."

Torik leaned in, eyes narrowed, grin tugging at his scarred face.

"On the count of three, say what you'd risk getting banned from the tavern for if it meant five minutes with her."

"Starting a tavern brawl just so she'll have to throw me out!" shouted Toren.

"Starting a tavern brawl just so she'll have to throw me out!" shouted Salcido the shaman.

The silence after was thick, broken only by the clatter of a dropped mug from some bystander who'd been eavesdropping. Then the four men blinked at each other.

Torik's face lit like a torch. "Did we just become best friends?"

Then Keeney the bard slowly brought his mug into Torik's, grinning for the first time that night. "I think we did."

The shaman gave a whoop, illusionary foxes bursting from his hands to race across the rafters. Toren immediately tried to wrestle one out of the air like a drunken hunter, and when he landed flat on his back, the bard finally—finally—opened his throat and sang.

It wasn't just singing. The notes carried on his Dao of Aura, draping the whole tavern in a warm, golden pulse that made every patron feel alive, daring, and halfway immortal. Laughter thundered, mugs slammed, someone dragged a fiddle out, and within minutes the whole place was a riot of song and stomping feet.

The party spilled into the street, the bard still singing, his voice rolling like a tide over Lionheart's night. The shaman's illusions danced along rooftops—bears, hawks, wolves—while Toren and Torik arm-wrestled half the city guard in the open square. The aura wound through everything, lifting spirits and drowning the fear of tomorrow in a tide of reckless joy.

While the streets near the taverns boiled over with drunken song, the Ashen Blades worked the city like men who had done this sort of thing before. They didn't slink or vanish into smoke — they bribed doormen, leaned on stablehands, and asked the right questions in the right taverns.

The lower-ranking priests were easiest. A purse of silver pressed into their palms, a reminder that there would be work for them elsewhere if they wanted it — safer work, even. Some followed willingly, eyes down, muttering prayers under their breath. Others needed a firmer hand, wrists bound and cloaks drawn up to cover their faces as they were hurried out into the alleys.

It was the higher clergy who stiffened their spines. One senior priest flat refused to leave, voice rising in outrage as he called for his guard. The Blades moved quickly: a scuffle, a guard captain slammed into the wall with a knife under his ribs, the priest gagged and bundled out before his cries drew attention.

By the cathedral's upper halls, resistance hardened. These priests had paladins assigned to them — men and women sworn to Shadow's service. They were trained, armored, and ready to defend. The clashes were short but brutal. The Blades fought with the ugly efficiency of professionals who knew they were outnumbered if they lingered too long. One paladin went down choking on his own blood, another left with her helm stove in by a mace swing, and a third was dragged unconscious into the snow by his allies to keep him from rallying others.

By the end, three bishops and over a dozen clergy were in the Blades' custody. Some cowed, some furious, a few silently praying for vengeance. A trail of dead and wounded paladins marked the price of the night. His wounded were being treated by Lira but none of his people had died.

When the last group was dragged into the compound courtyard — their fine robes torn, chains of office askew — Cael gave his report in his steady, unadorned tone.

"The Cathedral's anointed are here. Some willing, most not. The paladins resisted and paid for it. But the city guard hasn't realized what's missing yet. We did it quiet enough."

Jerric crouched in the alley looking out onto one of the main streets in the city, his stick scratching lazy circles in the dirt. Each rune glowed faint, green and greasy, until ten small figures popped into being with wet little snaps. Goblins — not the kind to win battles, but the kind to ruin evenings.

"Go on," Jerric whispered, grinning wide. "Down there. Make it noisy."

The goblins cackled, stubby legs pumping as they tore down the main street. One vaulted a fruit cart, another bit into a string of sausages and dragged it shrieking down the cobbles. A third snatched a torch and jabbed it at passersby, giggling as cloaks smoked. The city guard erupted in alarm, whistles splitting the night as armored men gave chase, stumbling over overturned stalls and furious merchants.

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By the time the guards formed a cordon, the goblins had scattered into alleys, knocking over barrels, smashing windows, even pelting a patrol captain with stolen cabbages before vanishing into smoke. Jerric doubled over laughing, clutching his side at the echoes of curses rising across Lionheart.

Then his face sobered. He slipped into the alleys, weaving with the ease of a boy who had lived half his life in them. Shadows hid him as he whistled low, a sound only half a dozen pairs of ears were trained to hear.

They came out one by one — the orphans, the half-starved gutter children, and the shoeless street urchins he'd met in the days before. A boy with eyes too big for his head, a girl carrying her baby sister, twins with matching scars who didn't speak.

Jerric stood taller than he felt, his voice steady. "Come on. I've got food, and a place you won't freeze tonight. You don't have to beg here anymore. Just follow me and don't look back."

They followed. Past the taverns still singing, past the guards still cursing goblins, through streets they'd learned to haunt. Jerric led them sure-footed toward the hidden sewer grate Kelan had cracked open.

The children slipped one by one into the tunnel's dark mouth. Jerric went last, pausing only once to glance back at the streets of Lionheart, glowing with lanterns and noise. He felt the pull of it — his old world — and then turned his back, vanishing into the tunnel that led to Harold's compound.

The tunnel mouth scraped open, stone and brick shifting like teeth. One by one, the children clambered up, blinking against the torchlight of the compound. They looked smaller here — all knees and ribs, faces pinched by hunger, but their eyes carried the hard brightness of survivors.

Lira was the first to move, skirts brushing the dirt as she dropped to one knee, arms outstretched. "Easy now," she said gently, voice warm as spring. "Come on, little ones. You're safe." The girl with the baby stumbled into her arms, and Lira guided them both close, one hand glowing faint with life mana as she checked the infant's breath.

Harold stood just behind her, a bowl of food still in his hand from earlier. He didn't speak at first. He just watched the thin, scarred line of children file out of the darkness behind Jerric. His shoulders tightened, then he sighed through his nose and offered the nearest boy his bowl. The child grabbed it with both hands and wolfed it down, unashamed.

"You brought them?" Harold asked at last, his tone carefully even as his gaze flicked to Jerric.

Jerric's chin lifted, eyes sparking with pride. "Im still going back out for the list you gave me" he grinned crookedly.

From the raised balcony, Matriarch Marroween watched. Crimson eyes half-lidded, unreadable, she leaned against the railing like a queen on her throne. For a moment she said nothing, letting the sound of children eating and Lira's gentle words fill the courtyard.

Then her voice carried down, low but carrying. "You risked much, boy." Her gaze slid to Harold, sharp as a drawn blade. "And yet you would burden yourself with mouths that do not fight. Curious."

Harold met her eyes without flinching. "Jerrick was once one of them, and he has one of the most powerful Dao's and classes I know of. Some of these people will be diamonds in the rough if given the opportunity." he said, voice flat but edged with iron. "And, given time, they'll perform better than any levy this city can raise.."

The Matriarch's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close.

Lira turned her head then, her cheek brushing against Harold's sleeve. "They already fought enough just to get here," she said softly.

The courtyard settled in that truth. Children ate, wolves padded close to sniff curiously, and the strange company of calamity and vampire Matriarch stood in shared silence.

Jerric crouched low in the shadows outside the minor noble's compound, his grin hidden under the hood he'd tugged low. The walls weren't tall, not compared to the keeps he'd seen since coming to Lionheart. A house like this screamed small power, loud mouth. Perfect target.

He pressed his palm to the gate's lock. "Alright, your turn."

With a flicker of mana, the slime oozed forth. Barely Tier 2, it was hardly more than a quivering ball of translucent muck, but it gurgled happily as it spread over the iron lock. Metal hissed. In moments, the gate clicked loose, the slime dripping away with a wet burp. Jerric wiped his hand clean on his trousers and moved inside.

The wards were another matter. A faint shimmer rippled across the compound walls, quiet and patient — the kind of thing that would sing out the moment a stranger stepped wrong. Jerric crouched again, summoning with a low whisper. A shaman appeared — not flesh, but smoke and bones, curse qi hanging around it like fog. Its hollow sockets glowed faint green.

"Rot it a little," Jerric muttered.

The shaman rasped, pressing crooked fingers into the ground. Cursed mana bled into the formations, worming through the careful patterns of light and script, turning sharp lines into blurred edges. The shimmer pulsed once, twice — then stilled. The ward slept.

Jerric's grin widened. "Good boy."

He slipped inside like he belonged there. Shoes silent, breath shallow, his eyes darted over shelves, cabinets, and the open study. Trinkets went first: a dagger with faint etchings, a pouch of sealed coins, rings that glittered faintly. Then scrolls stacked in careless disorder — contracts, maps, maybe a ledger or two. He swiped them all.

The spatial ring Harold had given him hummed as each item disappeared with a faint ripple of light. "Never thought I'd have pockets bigger than my head," Jerric whispered, barely stifling a laugh.

Through the still halls he moved, a shadow among shadows. Every door he cracked, he looked twice — once for traps, once for anything shiny. By the time he reached the noble's personal chambers, his kobold shaman reaching out to make sure everyone slept, his ring was already heavy with stolen wealth.

They led them in with hands bound and robes torn—an awkward, dishonored procession down into the narrow chamber Kelan had hollowed beneath the compound. Torchlight guttered off wet fabric and trembling faces as the clergy were uncoiled from their wrappings and pushed into the room like packages laid upon a table. The air inside smelled of smoke, damp stone, and something older: the faint, bitter tang of sacrament burned in fear.

Harold stood with Lira at his shoulder. Kelan's bulk filled the doorway; Holt flanked the entry with her team and weapons ready. Hal's presence sat like a cold wind behind them—larger than the other wolves, a living mountain of white fur and frost. Matriarch Marroween and Elder Cassian watched from a step above the little pit, eyes taking in every man and woman who'd been dragged in.

The Matriarch stepped forward as if drawn by a thread. She paused at the edge of the group, crimson eyes fixed on one wrapped figure more stubborn than the others. "Is that…?" she asked softly, not to anyone in particular.

Cassian's jaw tightened. "Bishop Elowen," he said. His voice had a memory in it—one that tasted of old councils and older oaths. "Tier Four and Shadow-blooded. The Cathedral's weightier name." He looked at Cael, "how did you capture her alive?"

Marroween's hand brushed the bands around the wrapped figure where the cloth left gaps for eyes and mouth. She pulled the bindings back with a single, sure motion.

The woman beneath was still more than a priest—her shoulders were slim, armor hidden beneath cassock, the braided wire of office like a halo gone sour. When the linen fell away she didn't cry. She only stared, the cold light of a bishops calm in her face. For a heartbeat she simply measured the room, then her mouth twisted into a thin, humorless smile.

"You should not be here," she said, voice like slate scraping. It wasn't a question.

At the rear of the chamber, Hal shifted and the Shadow Wolf—new, stranger, more umbral than before—had changed in shape as well as size. It moved like a shadow with teeth: its outline hazed at the edges, black as night but edged with frost from Halvor, as if dusk itself had been sharpened. It rose on silent limbs and swept forward at the bishop with a stalking intent that made the hairs on the back of Harold's neck stand up. The brand sung to him of opportunity here if he could just claim it.

The bishop's eyes flicked to it. A hand went to the hilt at her hip—habit, not hope. She moved like a trained thing, a baron's reflex, and for a second she leapt. The chamber blurred as she turned into shadow and shoved past Kelan's shoulder. Sliding toward the narrow shaft that led up—toward the city, toward flight.

Hal reacted in a heartbeat. Frost coming from his maw and he leapt, the umbral stalker flowed into the gap between chamber and tunnel like a liquid shadow, lashing a paw forward. The bishop struck the wolf with a shoulder and shoved past—metal ringing on bone and fur—but the contact warped her control. Hal's frost covered paw raked her sleeve; the shock of impact and something darker—an animal's authority—tore at her step. She stumbled, grit flying. For a sliver of time she would have been free, but the disruption cost her momentum.

Marroween closed the distance with a single, long stride and seized the bishop by her throat. Her fingers were cold and unyielding, the grip of a new ascended Duke who had spent centuries binding recalcitrants. She dragged the priest back to the center of the chamber and pushed her into line in front of Harold. It was a deliberate, public gesture: you stand here, and here you will account.

The bishop's face flamed with the heat of rage and something older: a wounded, sacred fury. She spat words like flint.

"You should not be here! Your god was cast down. Sanctioned. The pantheons have said no more Calamities—no more monsters to ride the world's bones! No more of the chaos you create! You mark our cathedral with your blasphemy and call it sanctified? The Shadows will hunt you where you hide, and they will find you. They will tear out your heart and name and hang them where the city can see. You brought this doom upon yourself—anointed men and women slain—and you will pay for your sacrilege!"

Her voice rose; the chamber swallowed it then sent it echoing back, brittle and raw. Around the room, some of the younger clergy of Shadow shivered but did not shout. Cassian's face had gone paper-thin; even the Matriarch's eyes flickered, a minute of temper passing like a cloud across frost.

Harold looked at the woman who had just condemned him—at the braided wire of her office, at the blood on her sleeve where Hal's paw had brushed—and he felt the whole room contract into a knife's edge. The silence afterward wasn't peaceful. It was waiting: for his answer, for the Matriarch's response, for whatever blade or oath or word would next be drawn.

Harold's laugh was a dry thing, small and cold in the packed chamber.

"I don't care for your threats," he said, his tone carrying like steel dragged over stone. "I've had better leveled against me. Yours? Mewling. Like a child throwing stones."

The bishop's eyes flared with anger, her shadow aura rising like a tide, but Harold's voice cut across it again, weary yet edged. "In another life…" He sighed, slow and heavy. "In another life, I did all that and worse. It doesn't scare me anymore. But threaten those I protect—" His jaw clenched, silver eyes burning as he stepped closer. "—and you'll learn why they called me the Butcher. Why a world feared me. Why in one night, I ended a war that involved millions. When you die here tonight, go tell your vaunted pantheon: Harold Greyson is coming. And Im bringing Verordeal with me."

The bishop spat blood and shadow, twisting her wrist in a sudden snap of strength—but Marroween's gauntleted hand clamped down like iron, dragging her back to her knees. "You will not move," the Matriarch hissed, crimson eyes burning with both fury and grim restraint.

Then the shadows in the room shifted.

From the corner, where no light seemed to cling, a shape peeled itself free—the Umbral Stalker. It didn't growl. It didn't need to. Its presence was enough; every priest and guard in the chamber felt their pulse stumble, something about the wolfs presence made their blood surge and the brand on the Umbral Stalkers face brightened in the dimly lit room.

The bishop's aura flared violently, her bloodline power dragging shadow into armor, into jagged knives—but the matriarch disrupted it with her own much stronger Dao. She tried to dart, to vanish into the wall of night itself, but the creature was there already, intercepting. Its body wasn't frost, it wasn't fire. It was absence—until it wasn't, absence that bit, absence that devoured the shadow in her veins.

Harold felt the brand burn in the wolf's chest. Not Hal's steady frost, but the new thing—alien, hungering, vicious. It wanted the bishop's lineage. Her shadow-blood called to it like marrow to a starving dog. Harold pressed his will down through the brand, focusing on the aspect of the brand that drives his brands to bloodline opportunities. "Take it," he muttered under his breath.

The Matriarch hauled the bishop forward, forcing her still just long enough. The stalker struck, not with flourish but with terrible efficiency. Black jaws closed over her throat and she tried to resist, but the stalker yanked, drinking her blood down, dragging the power out of her bones. Her scream was sharp but short, cut off as the wolf tore through the tether she had to her god and claimed the power for his own.

The chamber erupted in chaos. Priests surged to their feet, shouts mixing with prayers, but they died just as swiftly. Kelan stopped holding up the roof above them, sharpening it into knives and crushing the ceiling down upon them, while the stalker finished its bloody feast. Shadows writhed across the floor, then fell still.

When it was over, silence pressed down like a weight. The clergy were corpses. The bishop's body was a husk, her shadow-blood devoured. The Umbral Stalker padded back to Harold, breath misting as if it had run for miles, and sank into its place at his side.

Harold swayed, his hand clutching the edge of the table. The backlash of manipulating the Brand hit him like a hammer—his veins buzzing, his soul aching with strain. But he kept his gaze steady. He knew if he had chosen another class he wouldn't have had as much control over the Brands as he does now. Able to emphasize an aspect of it for a short time.

Marroween's crimson eyes glinted, pride and unease mingling in her gaze. "You did it," she murmured. But you also woke up something old. The city will feel this. Perhaps the whole land. The church here wasn't the only one but it was the biggest in the region. The influence they had was immense. They have repeatedly tried to force my family into their arms."

"Tommorow I will eliminate their influence from the Catherderal. They've cast their shadow long enough." Harold said, looking at the Matriarch.