Calamity Awakens

Through Oathsense, Harold sent a firm pulse down the threads—stand down.

Hal slowed immediately, padding back a few steps, frost dissipating from his paws. The two ashen wolves peeled away from the woman, their hackles settling though their eyes never left her or the man shielding her.

On the plateau, Harold exhaled through his nose. The bowman was dangerous—he'd proven that. Letting him live meant risk. But the fight in him had shifted the instant the woman fell; whatever bound them ran deeper than unit loyalty. That could be a chain to pull later. Or a weakness to use.

He pushed the thought aside for now. "Bring them in," he murmured.

Kelan met his gaze from the rim and gave a short nod. He grabbed the bowman's dropped weapon, slinging it over his own back before gesturing for him to move. The man obeyed, keeping the woman close as they began the trek back toward the plateau.

Hal and the wolves fanned out as escort, keeping their distance but never letting the two out of sight.

In the distance, dust rose from the fortress gates—Harold's eyes narrowed as the sally force began to move, the hundred-strong column spreading into a wide formation to sweep the Steppe.

Oathsense threads tightened. Harold sent a quick series of directional pulses, steering Kelan's group along broken terrain and low ridgelines, staying well clear of the Marauders' path.

The fortress force pushed out into open country, scanning for signs of the calamity. They didn't know it yet, but their quarry was already slipping away into the rocks.

From the plateau, Harold took one last look at the Marauder sally force pushing farther into the Steppe. Luckily he saw no calvary. Though the terrain wasn't suited to them here.Then he turned west, angling toward a low, broken ridge where the shadows ran deep even under the high sun.

That was where he'd spent the last of his Build Points earlier in the day—reinforcing a narrow cave mouth until it could take a battering and still hold. From the outside, it looked like a jagged wound in the rock. Inside, it was dry, defensible, and big enough for all of them to hole up for the day and night.

He moved fast, circling ahead of Kelan's group so he'd be there when they arrived. The wind carried the faint sound of boots and claws on stone—his people coming in, bringing with them the two prisoners.

Bowman's POV

The walk was tense. Every time one of the wolves' eyes slid toward him, he found his grip tightening on his wife's arm. She leaned into him, her breathing steadier now but still fragile.

The man leading their escort was silent—broad-shouldered, clad head-to-toe in plates of stone that shifted and ground softly as he walked. The jagged armor made him look less like a man and more like a piece of the canyon given legs. He never spoke, never glanced back, and never let the bow slung over his shoulder drift out of reach.

When they rounded a bend, and started to climb up to a large plateau. The climb was brutal and he circled the wind to cool down as a cave came into view—dark, narrow, cut deep into the ridge. The air was cooler here, shadows clinging to the mouth like a living thing. A light flickered from the inside hidden by a turn in the cave.

And standing just inside those shadows was another man.

Taller than most, lean under the weight of his light armor, one hand resting casually on the haft of a heavy axe. His eyes went straight to the bowman then he glanced at the stone man. His stern face fell away and a smile appeared as he saw the snowy wolf pad into view with the other two wolves following him. The Ashen wolves had caused problems on their approach through the steppes.They were notoriously fickle, their mood shifting like the fire they represent. How this man tamed two of them he would love to know. Their brand on the side of their face for some reason is slightly dimmer than the one on the snow wolf variant.

The bowman felt the weight of that gaze. It wasn't the look of someone deciding whether to kill you—it was the look of someone who'd already decided how.

"You're the one who called surrender," the man said. His voice was quiet, measured, but it filled the space between them.

The bowman tightened his hold on the woman's arm. "I am."

The man stepped forward until the light caught on the faint, burned mark carved into the back of his hand. "Then let's find out if you meant it."

He moved to a jutting stone in the cave wall and sat, the axe still in his grip as though it belonged there as much as his arm. Small sparks of lightning crawled across his knuckles, snapping faintly in the still air.

And then the bowman knew.

This was the one they'd gotten the notification about.

The Calamity.

They were supposed to be myths—old war stories and whispered warnings, not a man stepping out of a storm above the fortress they'd just bled to take. He could still remember the way the laughter and shouting had died in the yard, replaced by silence so deep it made the blood in his ears sound loud. Then the notification had burned itself across his vision, stark and undeniable.

The air had gone cold in his lungs. Every man there had felt it—the quiet certainty that something had shifted against them, something no sword could truly kill.

Now here he was, sitting no more than twenty paces away, watching the bowman like a hawk measuring the wind before it struck.

Harold Pov

Harold let the silence hang, measuring the man in front of him.

He was more put-together than Harold had expected from a Marauder—clean-shaven, hair kept short, gear worn but cared for. No wild eyes or ragged desperation like the others Harold had seen die today. This one carried himself differently, even slouched as he was from exhaustion.

His clothes were travel-stained but free of the filth and gore the others wore. The bow resting beside him wasn't just a tool—it had been maintained, the string waxed, the wood oiled. Even his armor, dented from the fight, had been patched with care.

Not the look of a man who'd been born into the Marauders' cruelty. More like someone who'd stepped into it—and perhaps hadn't yet decided if he belonged there.

The thought settled in Harold's mind alongside the image of the woman, the way he'd thrown himself past an armed man in stone armor to shield her. That kind of move wasn't for show.

He tapped the haft of his axe lightly against the stone floor, watching for how the bowman reacted. His perception flaring as he looks for a reaction.

Behind him, Kelan moved deeper into the cave. Bits of stone fell away as the plates sloughed off his frame, the stone returning to dust grain by grain. Without the armor, he looked less like a war machine and more like what he truly was—a builder, broad-shouldered and steady-handed.

He found a flat spot near the wall and sat, pulling rations from his pack. Hal padded over, the two ashen wolves close behind. The big man's face softened as he reached out, fingers threading through Hal's thick coat, then over the rougher fur of the new wolves. Murmuring words he couldn't hear.

The bond strummed faintly through Oathsense—trust, comfort, familiarity. For a moment, the cave almost felt like a safe place.

Harold kept his eyes on the bowman. The man sat stiff, his arm around the woman beside him, eyes wary but not panicked. His gear was worn but kept in order, more deliberate in the way he carried himself. That made him dangerous in a different way.

"What's your name?" Harold asked, voice even.

The bowman's gaze met his. "Auren."

"Alright, Auren," Harold said, leaning forward slightly, "what's the disposition of your forces? How many in the fortress, how many outside?"

Auren hesitated, then answered. "I'm not sure what's left in the fortress after the group that left to find you. Maybe 60. Then what's left of the scouts outside,"

"Highest tier?" Harold pressed.

"Two Tier Three's," Auren replied. "The rest are Twos and Ones. Some Dao users—most combat paths. About a 3rd of the tier 2's earned a Dao."

Harold's fingers drummed once on the haft of his axe. "Why attack that fortress?"

"It was ordered," Auren said, his voice flat. "The people there had something we needed. Supplies. A place for winter. It's one of the only safe places to rest when you travel the Steppe."

"And you?" Harold's tone hardened. "Why'd you join the Marauders?"

Auren's jaw worked like he had a fast answer ready—but it didn't come. When it finally did, it was quieter.

"They found us on the road. Her and I. We didn't have a choice. I'd just earned my Dao and didn't know how to use it yet. I was afraid they'd take her from me, so we joined. I've had to… do more than one of them to make sure she was left alone."

Harold's grip tightened on the axe haft, the faint snap of static crawling across his knuckles.
"Why slaughter the civilians?"

Auren's eyes flicked down, then back up. There was no defiance there—only a tired sort of resignation.
"I didn't," he said. "Wasn't there for it. The order came from the top… and the ones willing to carry it out."

Harold let the silence stretch, searching his face for the kind of tell a man couldn't fake.
"And you didn't stop them," he said finally.

Auren's jaw set. "No. I couldn't. The moment I drew on them, she'd be gone. That's how it works with the Marauders—you break ranks, you're a corpse before you hit the ground, and they take what you were trying to protect. I wasn't strong enough yet."

Harold didn't answer immediately. The cave was quiet but for the slow chewing of the man in stone armor and the soft breath of the wolves.

Harold's gaze didn't waver. "Just a man following orders," he said, voice low. "Where I come from, a lot of evil's been done under that guise."

Auren held his stare, but there was a flicker there—shame, maybe, or anger at himself. "Maybe so. But it's the truth."

Harold leaned back slightly, weighing the man's words against the weight of everything else he'd seen today.

Harold got what he needed. Numbers. Tiers. Dao count. Enough to start shaping the next step. He left Auren where he sat with the woman and turned toward the back of the cave.

Hal was sprawled out beside the stone-armored man, one paw draped over a pile of shed plates like it was his personal trophy. The two new wolves lounged close, their eyes following Harold as he approached.

He crouched, letting them take in his scent before reaching out. The first sniffed, then leaned into his palm, a low rumble starting in her chest. The second was slower, circling once before stepping in to butt her head against his arm.

"You did good," Harold said, scratching behind Hal's ears until the wolf's tail thumped once against the stone. "All of you."

Hal's bond through Oathsense was warm, proud—an edge of satisfaction like a hunter after a clean kill. The satisfaction with his new pack evident. Harold let the moment sit, giving each wolf a touch before standing again. The Ashen wolves warm to the touch just as Hal was colder to the touch.

A light breeze threading through the shadows of the cave mouth. Harold stepped outside, eyes narrowing against the brightness.

Far across the Steppe, the sally force moved in a wide sweep, dust plumes marking their line. They were methodical, checking gullies and ridges, pushing their net farther out from the fortress.

Harold shifted his gaze toward the fortress itself. From here he could see movement on the walls—archers pacing the parapets, spotters scanning the horizon, runners moving between the gates and the inner yard. Whatever celebrations had been there before were gone. The place was wound tight now, bracing for something they couldn't quite see but knew was coming.

He stayed in the shadow of the ridge, watching, letting the terrain and their patterns sink into memory. The more he understood their rhythm, the easier it would be to break it.

Paying attention to his notifications for the first time he opened them.

Twelve levels gained after all the fighting. Seeing my level inch closer to Tier Two lit a spark I hadn't felt in a while. With Tier Two would hopefully come more Brands—and more power.

Three more levels until my next class skill. That alone was enough to keep me thinking ahead. The pace had slowed, though. Maybe it was the distance from the kills. Maybe I only got a portion when my Branded did the work. Something to experiment with.

I'd need to push my perception higher. I'm hesitant to boost my mana until I had better control over it, but the fight coming up would demand more than sitting on a ridge. I'd have to be in it. That meant moving faster. Hitting harder. And—though I hated to admit it—it probably meant shoring up my health, too.

So 75 into perception

Thirty-two points into Agility, twenty into Strength, another twenty into Fortitude. I'd save the rest.

I glanced over my skill progress. Everything had moved forward, but one stood far ahead of the others—Oathsense. At level sixty-one, it had leapt ahead of the pack. If I ever got the chance, it might be worth picking up a modifier for it.

No new skills this time. I'd been hoping for something tied to mana shaping, but that would have to wait. The plan was simple—watch the fortress until evening. Let the others sleep; they'd done the bulk of the work today. I was sure Kelan would have the sense to restrain the prisoners somehow.

The plan was to keep my eyes on the fortress—watch the flow of sentries, track any groups that left, and get a read on what they'd try next.

But the quiet, the dark, and the cold had their own pull. Before long, I found myself seated cross-legged on the stone, shaping mana instead of scanning the walls. The rhythm had improved. I could pull it in, refine it, and hold it steady for nearly a full minute now without it bleeding away into the air.

The longer I sat there, the more the thought gnawed at me. Freedom wasn't just an ideal—it was part of me now. Part of the brand, part of the Dao I'd started to walk. What would happen if I wove that into the mana?

The first attempt was clumsy—like trying to braid mist with gloves on. The threads slipped apart almost as soon as they touched. The second time, I focused less on forcing it and more on letting the feeling of freedom seep through the channels I'd built. The mana responded differently—looser, but sharper, like it wanted to flow wherever it pleased.

And for a heartbeat, I felt the connection—raw, bright, and dangerous.

The mana didn't flow through my channels like it used to—or how I'd practiced it. Instead, it wanted to scatter. Every point of mana seemed to have its own goal, slipping from the structure I tried to hold, diffusing through me in a hundred different directions at once.

It wasn't chaotic exactly. More… willful. Like each fragment had a destination I couldn't see.

I tried to rein it in, but the harder I pulled, the quicker it unraveled. The only way to keep it moving was to let it go where it wanted—and that felt wrong in all the ways Lira had taught me to avoid.

I let it go, the last threads of mana drifting away like smoke on a breeze.
Another time, when I had better control, I'd try again. For now, the idea would stay buried until I could handle it without tearing myself apart.

The fortress was still there in the distance, torches flickering along its walls. I shifted my grip on the axe and reminded myself why I was supposed to be awake in the first place.

I forced my attention back to the fortress. Torchlight bled faintly across the walls, broken by shifting silhouettes. Routine patrols. No change in pattern.

Then—something subtle. A ripple in the shadows at the edge of my vision. Not movement exactly, but the air felt… heavier. A faint scrape of stone against stone, so quiet I might have imagined it.

My grip tightened on the axe.

The darkness to my right thickened unnaturally, swallowing the faint starlight. A shape bled out of it—silent, deliberate, carrying the stillness of a predator before the strike. Curved blades caught the light for an instant before being swallowed again by the black. One of the Tier Three leaders was a cruel man with the Dao of Darkness.

I smiled grimly. Oathsense ringing out and waking the others.

I'd been waiting for this since the bowman had told me who still held the fortress. I'd prepared the ground with that knowledge in mind—small changes, subtle shaping in places only I knew. Holes in the ground, some with sharpened spikes in them. Caltrops made him sharp pieces of stone Kelan had made for me. Reinforced to punch through the hardiness of a Tier 3. The assassin had no idea he was already walking into a battlefield I'd chosen.

He came fast, blades flashing in the gloom. The first strike met the haft of my axe as I moved as quickly as I could. My increased stats still not enough to keep up with him. Steel ringing sharp in the cold night air. He didn't pause. Attacks poured in quickly, shallowly, from angles that seemed to come from nowhere, the Dao of Darkness erasing every tell before my eyes could catch it.

I gave ground quickly, he was driving me back with sheer skill and speed, the blows of his knives hitting like hammers but each step took us closer to the place I wanted him to be.

His focus was entirely on the kill—relentless, precise, and suffocating. But that precision made him predictable in one way: he followed, step for step, never letting me disengage. I'd already lost half my health just to him grazing me with his knives. I tried to cycle my man and reinforce myself. Strengthen my movements and speed. My control faltering and I had to move and hold off the Assassin.

The ground shifted under his feet—subtle dips I'd carved earlier. He compensated without noticing. Then his right foot came down on a caltrop hidden in the darkness. The sharp stone punched through his boot leather, and his lunge faltered for half a heartbeat. My perception sharpened as I noticed him falter.

I moved. Axe sweeping in a low arc, not to kill, but to force him left—toward the line of shallow pits I'd dug and hidden under loose stone.

He caught himself, but his stance was worse now, the rhythm of his attacks broken. His Dao swirled tighter around him, shadows thickening as if to shield him from my next move. Then they exploded out sweeping the ground around him and throwing every caltrop I'd hidden off the plateau.

I stepped in, driving the haft of my axe into his ribs, then twisted hard to slam my shoulder into him. The impact sent him staggering back but enough. He caught himself just as he was about to fall into the pit..

His hiss of surprise was the first sound he'd made since appearing. My breath was coming in heavy, I lost even more health as I burst through the wave of darkness that swept out from the man. One of my own caltrops kicking me in the leg as it was blown away.

I pushed Oathsense outward like a flare, the pulse running down the bonds. No words—just the raw edge of my urgency, the sharp impression of now.

Hal's reply came first—a surge of motion and icy intent, already breaking into a run. Behind it, Kelan's steadier answer, like stone shifting into place. Both were moving.

A low, echoing howl rolled over the plateau. His eyes flicked toward the sound—just for an instant—but it was enough. I moved to slam the flat of my axe into his guard, shoving him back into the narrow gap between the rock and a shallow rise in the earth. I needed to get away or I'd die just deflecting his powerful strikes.

Shadows bled off him as he twisted to escape—

—and Hal's massive shape hit him from the side, frost blooming in the air. His Pack Instinct flaring. I used Brandflare to disrupt his skills watching it affect him some but he moved past it. The soul light filling the darkness but not disrupting it like it normally would.

Hal hit him first, but the assassin was already moving—sliding under the wolf's bulk, one dagger flashing to open a shallow line down Hal's flank. Frost blasted outward as Hal howled, forcing him back, but the man rolled with it, knives up, stance low.

Kelan came from the left, stone plates grinding, axe cleaving in a wide arc. The assassin caught the haft on one blade, used the other to rake across Kelan's thigh. Blood welled, but Kelan pushed forward like the blow hadn't even landed.

The ashen wolves darted in as a pair—one low, one high—but shadows hardened into a barrier, their teeth biting into smoke. A pulse of darkness shoved them both away.

I closed the distance, axe raised—not to kill, but to cut him off, forcing him to shift his footwork into the choke I'd prepared. My swings were all blocks, deflections, nudges. My skill barely enough to clumsily keep up with the man. His attention kept snapping between me and the predators circling him.

Hal lunged again, claws raking deep across the assassin's side. Kelan's axe smashed into his guard, jarring his arm. One of the wolves sank her fangs into his calf and tore him off-balance.

Still, he fought like a cornered storm—every retreat a counterattack, every hit answered with steel or shadow. Kelan's armor split in places, blood seeping out.

One wolf yelped as a blade of darkness scored deep into her flank, and Hal's fur was streaked red.

Then he saw his opening—a narrow gap to the plateau's edge. His body blurred as shadows coiled for the escape.

A sudden thrum split the night.

The assassin jerked mid-step, an arrow bursting clean through his chest from behind. His blades fell from limp fingers, clattering on the stone before he crumpled forward.

I didn't need to look to know where it had come from. The bowman stood at the cave mouth, another arrow already nocked, eyes cold and steady.

I held his gaze for a heartbeat.

Was that repayment for sparing him and the woman?

Or just survival instinct, pure and simple?

Whatever it was, the man didn't flinch or explain. He just lowered the bow and stepped back into the shadows of the cave.

I let it go.

Hal was limping and had blood seeping from his wounds, frost still curling off his breath. One ashen wolf's flank was scored deep, the other had a shallow cut along her muzzle. Kelan's thigh bled sluggishly, and he had a puncture wound in his chest deep into his lungs. Stone armor shed dust as he shifted his weight then finally dropping all together as he couldn't maintain it anymore.

The bowman stepped back into the open, two glass vials glinting in his hands. He crouched beside Kelan first, pressing one of the potions into his grip.

"Drink it. Slowly," he said, tone matter-of-fact, not warm but not cold either.

Kelan didn't argue, just uncorked it and took a long pull. The worst of the bleeding in his thigh slowed almost instantly, though his breathing still caught where the lung wound pulled at him.

The bowman turned to Hal next, offering the second vial. "For the wolf."

Hal's ears flattened, but he didn't shy away as I took it and coaxed the frosted muzzle toward the glass. He drank in short, wary laps, the blue tinge in his fur fading as the potion worked.

The ashen wolves watched, eyes sharp but unmoving, as if waiting for my cue before closing the space.

I nodded once to the Auren. "They'll live."

"Good," he replied, gaze flicking to the assassin's body. "Because I doubt he was the last one they'll send. He had others he was training, though they all hated him."

"How did you manage to keep up with a Tier 3 as a Tier 1?"

"Good," Auren said, gaze flicking to the assassin's body. "Because I doubt he was the last one they'll send. He had others he was training, though they all hated him."

Then his eyes shifted to me, sharp and measuring. "How did you manage to keep up with a Tier Three?"

I gave a short, humorless smile. "I didn't. I just made sure he was always stepping where I wanted him to."

Auren's gaze drifted past me, scanning the ground we'd just fought over. His brows pulled together as his eyes traced the shallow depressions, the scattered caltrops half-hidden in shadow, the loose stone over small pits. "You shaped this," he said slowly, like he was piecing it together out loud. "Not enough to trap him outright, though it's impossible to trap a dark user at night… just enough to keep him where you wanted."

I didn't confirm it, but I didn't deny it either. His eyes came back to mine, and for the first time, there was a flicker of respect there.

I turned away, letting the silence stretch. Hal was still limping, blood matting the fur along his flank, frost curling from his muzzle in short, controlled breaths. One ashen wolf stood stiffly, a deep score down her side; the other's muzzle was streaked with a shallow cut that had already stopped bleeding.

Kelan sat with his back to the wall, chest rising slow and deliberate. The wound in his lung made every breath a battle, but he'd bound it tight. The stone plates he'd worn were dust on the cave floor now, his shoulders bare and slick with sweat.

Auren moved quietly among them, passing out the last of the potions he'd brought—one for Hal, one for the injured wolf, one pressed into Kelan's calloused hand. No one spoke. The only sounds were the muted clink of glass, the low growl of Hal as the potion burned through his wounds, and the slow exhale of men and beasts who were still alive when they shouldn't be.

The quiet stretched on until the weight of it shifted—something subtle at first, a tug through the Oathsense bond that made me pause.

Hal's presence surged, burning bright in my mind before dimming again. His breathing slowed, shoulders sagging under some invisible weight. Then he turned, padding toward the deeper shadows of the cave. The ashen wolves followed without a sound, moving like guards taking post around their alpha. I felt him even as he curled down, exhaustion radiating off him, and under it… reassurance. A steady, wordless pulse through our bond that told me he was fine. Changing, but fine.

I didn't need to guess what had happened. Killing a Tier Three had pushed him over the edge—he'd reached Tier Two.

Kelan moved slower, still catching his breath, but when he finally crossed the cave to me, there was a faint grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.

"I made Tier Two," he said simply.

I nodded once. "Good. We're going to need it. What's the new class? You were a Quarryman before right? A Uncommon miner variation?

His grin deepened, and there was a quiet pride in his voice. "Stonewright Bastion. I can shape and fit stone like it was clay, raise walls or reinforce whatever's there in a fraction of the time. Can make fighting positions or shelters stronger than they've got any right to be. And if I'm standing in what I've built…" He tapped the haft of his axe against the floor. "I'm harder to move than the rock itself. It's a Rare Tier 2 class, the deeds I've accomplished with you must have allowed me to unlock it."

I could picture it already—fortifications going up in hours instead of days, choke points turning into killing zones, escape tunnels opening where no one expected them.
"Stonewright Bastion," he repeated, almost like he was testing how it sounded.

"Sounds like you'll be worth your weight in stone," I said slyly, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

Kelan snorted, shaking his head, but I caught the faintest hint of satisfaction in his expression. "You just make sure you've got a plan for what I build. I'm not wasting walls on your bad ideas."

I let the moment hang before nodding toward the mouth of the cave, where Hal lay curled with the two ashen wolves bracketing him like sentries. His breathing was deep, slow—fur rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Frost clung faintly to the stone beneath him.

"How long do you think he'll sleep?" I asked.

Kelan followed my gaze, then shrugged. "No idea. Beasts evolve differently than men.

I frowned, watching the subtle rise and fall of Hal's chest. Through Oathsense, I could feel the deep, steady thrum of change—like distant thunder rolling through the bond. He wasn't just sleeping. He was remaking himself.

With Kelan settled and Hal deep in his evolution sleep, I finally let myself pull up my own notifications.

We killed someone at least level 300 but we did it by drowning him in bodies. None of us were a match for the Tier 3, Kelan's axe didn't cut as deep as it should've and Hal's bite didn't rip and tear like it would have anyone else. We needed to get more powerful.

I looked at my status and saw I had gained another 27 levels from his death. " I definitely get less experience when I'm not the one doing the killing. I murmured to myself.

Of course I get to level 99. Just one more. I scoffed. Ok time for a big upgrade. I could barely keep up with that guy. I couldn't let that happen again and I only noticed he was coming because of my perception. So 50 into each of those. Then another 100 into each of my mana stats. That leaves 71 to be assigned so another 20 into fortitude and strength and the rest into charisma to leave nothing left. I'd have to use everything I had to survive what was coming, and I wasn't willing to let these murderers earn a boon from me.

I opened the next notification eagerly knowing it held another class skill for me. The tier difference didn't let Brandflare shine like it had before. Another skill would give me more options in the future.

Without thinking about it too much I picked a new class skill and looked at my options.

Oathlink Overdrive was tempting — a permanent boost is nothing to scoff at. But giving Kelan sharper eyes and a stronger will wasn't going to win today's fight. If it showed up again later, I'd take it without hesitation. Upgraded, with more stats or a stronger boost, it could be worth its weight in gold.

Calamity Presence could break an enemy line, but only if I stood in the middle of it — and that's not my place.

Brand Surge, though… that was a blade I could put in their hands right now. I could give Hal another frostbite when he was out of breath, let Kelan drive his axe deeper, or pull someone back from the brink. Control, in the moment, exactly when it mattered. That was worth more than a slow trickle of strength.

I selected Brand Surge without hesitation, then turned my focus back to the fortress. Now came the hard part — figuring out how to take it with only the handful of people I could truly call on.