Calamity Awakens

The longhouse glowed with firelight, bowls passed from hand to hand as people settled in with food. The smell of venison and roots filled the air, but no one was eating much. The dungeon had shaken them.

Daran leaned forward first, voice even but heavy. "We'd have lost people in there without Lira. Kelan's armor couldn't hold against those blows. The kobolds weren't normal—they fought like trained soldiers."

Auren rubbed at the back of his neck, his bow leaning against the bench. "And their traps…" His voice dropped lower. "I almost missed them. Every single one was subtle. Thread-thin tripwires hidden in shadow, pits covered with stone that looked natural. I pride myself on spotting these things, but in there, I was second-guessing every step." He shook his head. "They weren't just clever—they were practiced."

Kelan gave a short nod. His big hands flexed on the haft of his pickaxe. "And the stone resisted me. Normally I can shape it, blunt the edges, find seams to collapse a wall. But down there? It fought back. Like the dungeon itself didn't want me meddling." He looked grim. "Without that resistance, I might've blocked some of the crossbow fire. With it, all I could do was hold one berserker at a time."

The room quieted at that. The weight of what they'd faced pressed on everyone. The kobolds weren't scraps of a dying tribe. They were Tier 3s—crossbowmen, shamans, berserkers. A first encounter meant to kill.

Lira's hand rested on her bowl, her voice steady despite her pallor. "We survived because we worked together. But that place will test us harder than anything before."

Ferin cleared his throat roughly, stroking one of his dogs curled at his feet. "Her mutts bite hard," he muttered, a hint of respect hiding under his gruff tone.

I let the silence stretch, then leaned forward. "Then we prepare harder. No rushing. We plan, we train, we go back only when we're ready." My eyes moved from one tired face to the next. "For now—eat. Rest. Tomorrow I want recommendations on how we use the dungeon."

Conversation picked up again, quieter this time, people leaning toward their food. But even as the warmth returned, I felt Daran's eyes on me.

Finally, he muttered low, just for me:
"Lira isn't the only one who advanced today… is she?"

The longhouse murmurs settled into silence at Daran's words. All eyes turned toward me, the fire casting long shadows across their tired faces.

I set my bowl down, feeling the weight of the moment pressing on my chest. No more hiding it. They deserved to know.

"You're right," I said quietly. "Lira wasn't the only one who advanced today."

The air seemed to tighten, a collective breath held.

"My Dao… grew." I glanced down at my scarred hands, flexing them slowly. "I pushed through to the next tier. I'm no longer Initiate—I've stepped into Squire."

A few kids in the back whispered to themselves thinking they were hidden back there.

I went on, steady but firm. "It wasn't strength in the way you're all used to. I didn't swing harder or strike faster. It was… clarity. Each swing, each thought, each breath, I pressed against the limits of what I was. And then it broke. My Dao compacted, refined. The Freedom Qi I carry is sharper now."

I let the words hang, not boasting, just stating facts.

Ferin gave a low whistle, leaning back with his dogs at his feet. "Two breakthroughs in one day. That's something the bards would drink themselves dry trying to sing about. If only we had a good brew right now to warm up with by the fire."

Lira, pale but with a faint smile, lifted her head. "The brand connects more than flesh, Harold. It connects paths. I felt yours burn brighter when it happened."

The fire popped, a log collapsing in on itself, and for a long moment no one spoke. But I could see it in their eyes—the awe, the fear, the hope.

Across the fire, Daran shifted, his broad shoulders stiffening as his recruits glanced toward him. His voice came low, edged with a blunt honesty.
"My class is Tier 4. On paper, I should strike harder than I do. But my Qi—my Dao—lags behind. I've only reached the Knight tier. Without sharpening it, more enlightenment, my blows don't cut the way they should. Sure they cut, but they could cut much more. Today was a good test, I think that dungeon could be what I'm looking for."

He paused, staring into the fire as if seeing battles past. "That's why I'm out here, away from walls and courts. Trying to find the edge my Dao lacks."

His gaze lifted, settling on me. "Breakthroughs like yours and Lira's… they're rare. Don't take them lightly. Every step forward in the Dao is worth more than 50 levels of class advancement. That's the truth most never grasp until too late. Too many people chase levels, when they should be grinding their skills higher, pushing their Dao forward. Without that, all the levels in the world just make you a bigger corpse when you fall."

Daran stood, brushing the dirt from his hands as though the firelight talk had been nothing more than idle words. "I'll see to the evening tasks. Recruits don't drill themselves."

I rose half a step, stopping him with a glance. "Wait. You've been pushing them hard, but if they're going to hold their own here, you'll need more than just drills. What else do you need? More hands? More oversight?"

He paused, weighing me for a long beat before answering. "One or two more steady fighters who can keep to formation would help. The recruits are eager, but eagerness without discipline just gets people killed. They need someone to hammer the basics into them while I push the edge work. And someone who knows how to spot when they're about to break." His jaw tightened. "If you want them ready to stand, they'll need more than drills. They'll need mentors."

"So you need some solid sergeants under you to help. I'll see what I can do."

I nodded, turning slightly toward Ferin, who was already scratching behind one of his dogs' ears. "And you? What about the food situation? What else do you need to keep everyone fed?"

Ferin gave a small grin, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Meat we can manage, if the game holds out. The woods are alive enough, though I'll need to take the dogs wider if we're feeding this many mouths. Salt's another story. Preserving the kills so nothing spoils before we eat it—that's where we're thin. Grain, too. Hunters can't fill every belly on meat alone, not for long."

He shrugged. "If you can get me more hands for smoking and salting, maybe some eyes to watch the snares, we'll do better. But if you want people sharp for battle, they need steady meals. Half-fed fighters don't last."

Harold grimaced at Ferin's accurate assessment. Salt would be hard to find in the mountains, with no trade routes or caravans to barter from. "Freezing the meat's an option," I said slowly, turning the idea over in my head. "But it's no guarantee. A thaw, a storm, even a pack of beasts stumbling into the caches—and we'd lose weeks of food."

Ferin gave a short nod, lips pressed thin. "Exactly. The mountain keeps secrets, but she doesn't keep them kindly." His hand drifted to the thick fur of one of his hounds. "We'll stretch what we can, but if you want people fighting on full stomachs, we'll need a solution that isn't just praying to the cold."

Daran, still standing by the fire, added with his usual bluntness, "A hungry fighter's no better than a corpse waiting to fall. If food's the weak point, then it's as much a battle as the dungeon is."

The fire popped again, sparks spiraling upward into the smoke-hole, and silence settled heavy in the longhouse. The reality of it all—food, salt, survival—cut deeper than any dungeon wound.

I pushed myself up from the bench, brushing the wood dust from my palms. "I'll head to the recruitment portal. We've still got silver left, and it's better spent than hoarded. I'll find us a couple solid sergeants—ones who know spear and axe work. The recruits need discipline drilled into them, not just spirit."

Daran grunted approval, arms crossed. "Good steel and good teaching. That'll keep them alive longer than luck. If you can find anyone versed in ranged weapons a few good archers would be good. You're gonna need to think about mages eventually."

I nodded, already turning over the next piece in my head. "After that, I'll see if there's anyone with real skill in food preservation. Hunters, cooks, herbalists—anyone who knows how to stretch what we have and keep bellies full."

Ferin snorted, though there was no mockery in it this time. "Find us a miracle worker with salt in their pockets, and I'll kiss their boots."

I grunted, the group mostly dispersing. Kelan long gone so he could work on his tower. We all got a few levels today from the dungeon, I'm sure he spent his so he could build better.

The path down to the merchant's long tent was quiet, save for the hiss of wind across the plateau. A single lantern swung at the entrance, throwing long shadows against the canvas. Inside, the man sat hunched over a broad ledger, lips moving faintly as his finger traced lines of numbers and cramped script.

Crates and bundles were stacked around him in half-finished rows—salted hides, jars of dried herbs, iron nails, odds and ends scavenged from the Calamities spoils. It wasn't a proper shop yet, more like the bones of one waiting for flesh.

He didn't notice me at first, too absorbed in tallying weights and costs, his brow furrowed in the lamplight. The scratching of his charcoal stick against the ledger carried in the still air. Every so often he would stop, mutter under his breath, and make a quick correction, as though every ounce mattered.

I lingered a moment, taking it in. A merchant who measured everything twice—exactly the kind we'd need if this settlement was going to last.

The merchant muttered something about "short by half a pound" before I cleared my throat. He jolted, nearly smudging the page with his charcoal.

"Harold," he said, smoothing his tunic with the back of his hand. "Didn't hear you come in."

"I figured," I said, stepping closer. The ledger caught a glint of lantern light, neat columns broken by too many cross-outs. "I need an accounting of what money we have left. Silver, gold, trade goods—whatever can be counted."

"You've already sold something?" I asked, but the words came with a chuckle.

Rynar grinned, puffing his chest a little. "Oh aye. That archer fellow came sniffing about, looking for something for his wife. I had a pair of copper bangles and a bit of polished glass. Worthless in a fight, but he looked at them like they were solid gold. I got most of his silver out of him."

I shook my head, laughing under my breath. "Ok what silver is available, just make sure Rysa doesn't hear about where he got it from."

Rynar snorted, snapping the ledger shut. "Please. If she came to me, I'd charge her double. Then give her the good wine for free so she'd forget the price."

I smirked. "That might be the only way you live through the attempt."

His grin widened, teeth flashing in the firelight. "A merchant's gamble, my friend. Always worth the silver if you play it right."

Rynar flipped the ledger back open, tongue poking between his teeth as he scrawled a few quick sums. The firelight caught the gleam in his eye—part miser, part showman—as his finger trailed down the neat columns.

"After that little trinket sale, plus the spoils from your latest Calamity… we're sitting on just shy of sixty silver," he said at last, snapping the page with a flourish. "Fifty-eight and some coppers, if you want me to be precise. Not enough to drown us in luxury, but enough to grease the portal and pull through a few more hands."

I leaned back, arms crossed, considering. "Sixty silver. That's… a pair of good sergeants, if we don't aim too high. Maybe one seasoned hand and a few half-trained lads."

Rynar's grin widened. "Or one sergeant and someone who knows how to keep us fed without eating dried roots all winter."

I nodded slowly, already weighing the choices. Spear and axe drills would harden the recruits quick—but if we couldn't keep them alive with food, all the drills in the world meant nothing.

Rynar snapped his ledger shut, tapping it with a grin that was equal parts merchant's pride and schemer's delight.
"Forty silver isn't much, Harold—but spent right, it could stretch further than you think."

I raised a brow. "Go on."

He leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was giving away a trade secret. "You're thinking spears and axes, I know. And aye, you'll get your corporals, your drill dogs—good men to bark the orders Daran's too busy to growl himself. But if you want to change the board instead of just play the game…" His grin sharpened. "You look for a divination mage."

I tilted my head. "Divination?"

"Aye," he said, eyes gleaming. "A proper scout without ever leaving the walls. Someone who can sniff out danger before it finds us. Hide this place from eyes that shouldn't see it. Chart safe routes through the mountains. Maybe even glimpse where the nearest trade can be found. You get a fresh Tier 2—someone who's been pushed too far or too fast and needs coin more than pride—and you might just net one for the price you've got. That, and still scrape enough silver to bring in a couple corporals to make sure your recruits march when told."

Rynar sat back, folding his arms. "One mage with the sight could be worth ten spearmen. Eyes in the dark, Harold. That's what keeps people alive out here."

I blinked at him, caught off guard, then let out a short breath that might have been a laugh.
"That's… actually a good recommendation, Rynar."

His grin widened instantly, the kind of grin a man wore when he knew he'd just scored a win at the tables.

I jabbed a finger at him before he could get too smug. "Don't let it go to your head. But you're right—eyes in the dark are worth more than extra spears. We'll see what the portal offers. If there's a desperate diviner out there, I'll find them. And if not…" I leaned back slightly. "I'll settle for a few sergeants who know which end of a spear to point at the enemy."

Rynar chuckled, snapping his ledger shut again. "Either way, Harold, you'll have more than what you started with."

I scooped the forty silvers into a pouch and cinched it tight, the weight of it a promise and a gamble all at once. Rynar was still grinning at me, but I ignored it, pushing out into the cold night air.

The portal shimmered faintly in the distance like a wound of starlight torn open on the plateau. Each step toward it carried the same thought: Divination mages don't come cheap. And they don't stay desperate for long.

Those who could peel back shadows, scry danger, or cloud a rival's eyes were worth their weight in gold. Kingdoms hoarded them, guilds built their power on them. To find one here—one willing to sell themselves cheap to a Calamity—it would be luck bordering on miracle.

Still, I couldn't help but hope. Even a fresh Tier 2 with their Sight just blooming could be the difference between us thriving and us walking blind into the teeth of danger. And if the portal didn't have one tonight… well, then I'd settle for sergeants who could drill green recruits until they moved like soldiers.

I drew a steadying breath, the silver pouch heavy in my grip. "Alright then," I muttered, stepping into the circle of light.

The portal shimmered, then split into panels of light, each one like a page torn from an unseen ledger. Rows of names, faces, stats, and asking prices floated before me—mercenaries, farmers, crafters, adventurers-for-hire. All waiting for someone desperate or rich enough to bind them to a contract.

I tapped the query line, forcing my intent into it. Search: Divination Mages. Maximum asking price: forty silvers.

The light rippled, recalibrating. The list shrank, most of it blinking out instantly. No surprise there—Diviners were rare, and the ones worth their salt could demand whole purses of gold, not scraps of silver.

Seventeen names flickered into being across the portal's surface, each one carrying its own weight of desperation or pride. I scrolled down the glowing roster, jaw tightening with every line.

Most were laughably out of reach. Their contracts didn't just demand coin—they wanted resources, land, guaranteed dungeon access… even women. The boldness of it soured my stomach. Some of these Diviners knew exactly how rare they were, how hungry men would be to bind them, and they pushed that hunger until it broke.

I narrowed the list down to three that looked remotely possible, but even they had barbs hidden in the parchment. Their asking prices weren't only silver—they wanted promises, luxuries, or commitments I wasn't sure I could make.

I stood there, staring at the narrowed column of names, the weight of choice pressing on me heavier than any blade. We needed someone who could scout unseen paths and shield our valley from prying eyes—but what good was a mage I couldn't afford, or worse, one who'd bleed us dry with demands the moment their feet touched our soil?

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I let the portal's glow wash over my face one last time before shaking my head. No. Not worth it. A Diviner would've been invaluable, sure, but the price wasn't silver—it was shackles. Shackles on me, on the valley, on all of us.

With a flick of thought, I dismissed the list, the names winking out one by one until the portal stood clear again. The silver weighed heavy at my side as I re-calibrated the query, my focus narrowing to something more attainable.

Search: Mage Trainers. Asking price: under forty silver.

The runes shifted, recalculating, and fresh names began to appear. Trainers, not seekers of luxury or power—just men and women who could teach, shape, sharpen. Exactly what we needed.

I folded my arms, waiting for the list to settle, and muttered under my breath: "Alright. Let's see if there's someone out there who wants to work instead of being worshiped."

There were hundreds of names on there but only two that I narrowed it down to again. Most of these mages also wanted things I couldn't offer. A lot of these personal tutors already established.

I selected the option to meet with these two people and the portal shimmered, light bending until I stood in the staging room again. The air was still, heavy with the hush of suspended time. Two panes of light floated before me, each holding a candidate. I stepped toward the first.

The elf leaned against a chair with a practiced smile, though his clothes were rumpled and his eyes too sharp. His fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh.

"Forty silver, yes? That clears my debts. After that—your settlement, your people, I'll… teach what I know." His voice was smooth, but it cracked faintly at the edges. "All I need is that transfer, and I'll be free. You won't regret it."

I studied him. His shoulders shifted like a man already planning where he'd run, not where he'd stay. His desperation wasn't for a fresh start—it was escape.

"No," I said simply. "I need someone building with me, not running from something."

His smile faltered, and the pane flickered, casting him back to wherever he came from.

The Gnome teacher

The second pane shimmered, and I stepped through.

An older gnome waited, shoulders stooped but steady. His clothes were patched at the seams, practical and worn. He wasn't alone—children huddled close around him, twenty-one in all. Some clutched at his tunic, others whispered to each other with wide, nervous eyes. Half looked on the cusp of adolescence, already carrying themselves with the restless weight of mana stirring beneath their skin.

He inclined his head to me stroking a beard almost as long as he was, eyes calm and unwavering. "I ran an orphanage. Until the lord's men decided mouths were worth less than swords when a beast wave swelled on the horizon. I taught them what I could—mana shaping, unaspected casting, the first steps toward any path they might take. Some are close to their first class now. They'll need guidance."

He laid a hand on one boy's shoulder, his voice quiet but resolute. "I can give you more than lessons. I can give you a generation ready to stand. If you'll have us."

I let my gaze sweep the children. Twenty-one faces. Twenty-one futures. Not just one man—but a whole new heartbeat for the settlement. Twenty-two new mouths to feed.

The silver at my side felt like a pitiful trade for what I saw before me. "I can't promise safety where you will be going. This is a fresh settlement surrounded by threats multiple tiers above us.

The gnome's brows lifted, but there was no hesitation in his eyes. "Safety?" He gave a low chuckle, rough and dry. "There hasn't been safety for these children since the lord's decree. Here, they're already marked as mouths to cut loose. Out there, at least they'd have a chance to fight for a future instead of waiting for the axe to fall."

One of the older girls straightened at his words, her hands curling into fists. She looked no older than twelve, but there was fire in her eyes, and faint wisps of mana shimmered around her knuckles.

"I know what I ask," the gnome continued, stroking his beard, "and I know the burden. Twenty-one mouths to feed, twenty-one souls to shelter. But they're not dead weight. Half are on the cusp of awakening, and all have been shaped to listen, to learn. I can give you apprentices, scribes, even fighters down the line. They'll pull their weight."

His gaze locked on mine, calm but immovable. "So I'll say it plain. I don't want coin. I don't want luxuries. I want a place for them to stand. If you can give them that, we'll serve."

The silence stretched, and I found myself looking at those children again. Nervous faces, hungry faces, but beneath it all, sparks waiting for tinder.

Silver suddenly felt like nothing at all compared to what was on the table.

The children flinched when my qi flared silver around me, their small bodies pressing closer to the gnome's legs. He didn't move, didn't falter. He only studied me, eyes as steady as stone.

"I am a Calamity," I said, voice low, the words filling the chamber like smoke. "I bring ruin, death, and opportunity all at once. I won't promise you safety. I won't promise you peace. I can only promise trials. Hard ones. The kind that grind people down or forge them into steel."

The gnome's beard shifted as he smiled faintly, a weary thing touched with defiance. "And you think they don't know trial already? Look at them." He gestured with his hand, his children standing straighter now beneath his words. "Hungry, cast aside, unwanted by the lord who should've protected them. They've lived their whole lives fighting for scraps of freedom. All you're offering is a harder fight, and the chance to grow from it. That's more than they'd get cowering in a city that's already thrown them away."

A boy stepped forward then, no older than eleven, his fists clenched at his sides. "We can fight," he said, his voice trembling but sharp. "We can learn."

I let the qi dim, the silver haze sinking back into my flesh, but my gaze stayed fixed on the gnome. "You know the weight of this choice. Once you step through, there's no undoing it. You'll be bound to Calamity's fate."

He inclined his head, firm as a hammer striking an anvil. "Then bind us. Better to walk a hard road with purpose than waste away on an easy one that leads to nothing."

The gnome's eyes softened. He gave the children a slow nod, and I saw them draw closer to him—not from fear, but from choice.

"You'll have that chance," I continued, voice low but firm. "I won't lie, the dangers here would break lesser folk. But if you stay, you'll have succor from the elements. You'll have the freedom to take the hardest paths, the ones that forge something stronger at the end of them. That's all I can offer you—shelter, struggle, and opportunity."

One of the older girls lifted her chin, her voice quiet but clear. "That's more than we had."

The gnome stroked his beard, nodding once more, then bowed as much as his age allowed. "Then we'll come."

I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the decision settle across my shoulders. Not just a mage. Not just a teacher. Twenty-one children and a man who had already chosen to fight for them. Not a small burden—but perhaps, in time, the heartbeat of something greater.

The pane rippled like disturbed water as I pressed the contract to seal. A tug, a wrench, and the next step brought me back onto the plateau. The winter air hit sharp in my lungs, the portal still glowing faintly behind me.

And then they came through.

One by one, then in pairs and clumps, children spilled out from the shimmering archway—bundled in patchwork clothes, some clutching each other's hands, others clinging to the gnome's tunic as though afraid the light might drag them back. Twenty-one in all. Their wide eyes darted from the mountains to the valley, to the longhouse where smoke rose thin against the pale sky.

The gnome teacher stepped through last, leaning on a worn walking stick. He scanned the valley, his expression unreadable, before letting out a breath. "Better than the streets," he murmured.

I felt the weight of it settle on me—their small shapes, the uncertainty in their faces. This was no hireling. This was a generation I'd just pulled into my storm.

"Lira! Maela!" My voice carried across the plateau, sharp with urgency. Heads turned from the longhouse, and I caught sight of movement. "Get up here—I need you!"

The children huddled tighter, some shivering from the cold, some from nerves. A few whispered among themselves, eyes flicking to me with equal parts fear and curiosity.

The gnome teacher stroked his beard and gave a small nod. "They'll need warmth, food, and someone who knows how to calm frightened hearts. If you've got folk who can do that…"

I didn't wait for him to finish. "That's why I called them."

Already, I could see Lira pushing her way free of the longhouse, pale but steady, her brand faintly aglow even in the daylight. Maela was on her heels, apron dusted with flour, hands still red from the heat of the cookfire. Both of them froze as they caught sight of the crowd behind me.

"Gods above…" Maela breathed. "Children. All of them."

"They're ours now," I said, blunt as an axe stroke. "Make it work."

Lira didn't hesitate. She was already among them, kneeling to check hands, foreheads, shoulders—her touch light, her voice steady. "Cold, but no frostbite. Hungry, but that we can fix. You're safe now," she murmured, moving from one child to the next with the ease of a seasoned healer. The faint glow of her brand pulsed like a hearthlight as anxious eyes followed her.

Behind me, Maela let out a sharp hiss between her teeth, hands on her hips. "Harold, what in all the frozen hells do you think you're doing?" Her eyes swept the crowd, then cut back to me. "Stretching what little food we have with twenty-one new mouths? You're going to kill me."

But her glare softened around the edges, more exasperation than true anger. She threw her hands up, muttering under her breath as she spun on her heel. "Fine. Fine! I'll make it work. But if anyone so much as looks at me wrong while I'm rationing tonight, it's on your head, Harold."

I let her go, the smell of her cookfire trailing in her wake. She'd curse my name the whole time, but the food would be ready. It always was.

Turning back to the gnome teacher and the children, I motioned toward the longhouse. "Come on. I can't offer you beds, but at least it'll be warm in there. Crowded, yes—but warmer than out here. Tomorrow, we'll sit down and go over responsibilities."

The children shuffled after me, close-knit as a flock, their eyes darting from the snow-wrapped valley to the smoke curling from the longhouse roof. The gnome followed steady behind them, his walking stick crunching in the snow.

I held the door wide as the first of them slipped past, their breath misting in the firelit dark. Twenty-one small lives, a teacher, and another weight added to my shoulders.

Not a burden. Not exactly.
But responsibility, carved sharp and undeniable.

The longhouse door closed behind the last child, muffling the sounds of Lira's gentle voice and Maela's brisk clatter of pots. I lingered a moment in the snow, the night air sharp in my lungs, before turning back toward the portal. The firelight from the hall spilled across the white ground, and for just a second, I let myself feel the weight of it all pressing down.

A healer who now commanded both life and death.
A mage teacher with twenty-one new charges.
A forge barely warming, a tower climbing toward the sky.
And me, trying to hold the pieces together before they collapsed.

I exhaled and squared my shoulders. Civilians gave us a heart, but without steel, we'd shatter the moment a real storm hit.

Back at the recruitment panel, I flicked through listings, silver heavy in my palm. This time I wasn't looking for scholars or dreamers. I needed soldiers—spine and shield for the recruits Daran was drilling.

The screen populated, names spilling down the list. Too many. Too green. Some asking too much. I narrowed it, filtering hard for price and skill until only a handful remained.

A grizzled spear sergeant, scarred from a dozen border skirmishes, his contract cheapened by too much drink and too little coin. Honest though. And he had the javelin skill.
An axe corporal, broad as a bear, who'd fought in mercenary bands until they broke apart. He came with nothing but a battered shield and a stubborn pride.
And one woman—a shield-sergeant who had trained militias for a minor lord until politics pushed her out. Her price was sharp, but still within reach, and her record screamed discipline.

I tapped the panel, summoning their images to life one by one in the staging chamber. Faces hardened by war, eyes wary but not broken. This was what I needed. Not just weapons—but the hands that knew how to wield them, the voices that could shape raw recruits into a wall.

The silver at my belt felt suddenly lighter.

"I'll take what I can get," I muttered. "But I'll make it enough."

Harold clasped the contracts, and with three flashes of light the veterans stepped through—spear, axe, and shield. They looked around the plateau with soldiers' eyes. Briefly surprised by the environment and each other appearing but then appraising where they were. Measuring terrain. I took the moment to appraise them and was happy with what I saw. My own experienced eye measuring them.

"Thank you for accepting the contract. I need your expertise for the new soldiers I am building here. They are led by a man named Daran. I will have one of our professional runners show you the way. I'm sorry to say the barracks they are building is not done yet. Nothing more than the bones so far. You'll be spending the night around the fire I'm afraid.

The man with the spear dipped his head. "Fire's warmer than most campaigns I've seen."

The axeman grunted approval, resting his calloused hands on the haft as if it had grown there. The shieldbearer only gave me a curt nod, her eyes already tracing the recruits milling in the distance.

I took their measure in silence, and the more I looked, the more I liked what I saw. Stance, scars, the way their gaze never rested too long—they were people who had bled and lived. Exactly what I needed.

For the first time that day, I allowed myself a flicker of a smile.

I reached out with Oathsense, letting the bond tug against Lira's presence.
Lira—send me a runner please.

Her reply was quick, steady, and warm across the tether. On it. I'll send Nyral.

Moments later, one of the younger kids jogged up, breath puffing white in the cold. He straightened, fists tight at his sides. "Sir?"

"Take these three," I nodded toward the spear, axe, and shield veterans, "and guide them to Daran. Tell him they're here to make soldiers out of his recruits."

Nyral's eyes flicked to the men—hard faces, scarred hands—and I saw the nerves flash through him. But he swallowed, nodded, and squared his shoulders. "Yes, sir."

The three veterans fell in behind him without a word, their steps sure, already moving like they owned the ground. I watched them go, feeling the first solid foundation settling under my command.

I had 7 silver left, with these many more mouths I would need more people out hunting and gathering food. If I could get more people or maybe more farmers for food it would help.

I thumbed the last few coins in my pouch—seven silver. Hardly enough to stretch far, not with the new mouths I'd just brought through.

Food would become the real battle now. Every strip of meat, every handful of roots. We'd need more hunters scouring the woods, more hands to bring in whatever the mountains grudgingly gave up. Farmers would be better still, but in these peaks the soil was thin, the growing season short. Maybe, just maybe, the portal would offer someone hardy enough to scratch life from rock and snow.

I exhaled through my teeth. "Seven silver," I muttered. "Enough for another pair of bows in the treeline… or a farmer tough enough to make the land give."

The decision pressed like a weight in my chest. Soldiers gave safety. Farmers gave survival. With both short, I couldn't afford to choose wrong.

I flicked the panel open again, setting the filters as tight as I could.

Farmers. Asking price: seven silver or less.

The list that appeared was pitifully short—barely half a dozen names. Most were little more than desperate folk with a hoe and no land, untrained in anything but survival gardening. But one caught my eye.

Dralvek, Drow Farmer.
His entry was stark, but it carried weight. "Experienced in subterranean cultivation. Twenty years of crop-tending in cave networks. Comes with his own seed stock—mushrooms, mosses, and tubers bred for darkness and poor soil."

I leaned closer. A drow, in the mountains? It made sense. Farming the roots of the world, coaxing food from stone and shadow, was in his blood. If his seeds took root here—if he could adapt them to the plateau's caves and hidden valleys—we'd have something more stable than the hunt ever could give.

The others on the list barely compared. A widow with a knack for herbs. A man who claimed to know goats but wanted land and coin I didn't have. One boy barely past his teens who could coax wild berries to grow but admitted he'd never farmed proper soil. The only other interesting one was a Dwarf who came with similar stock to the Drow but his ad sounded so haughty it made me not even want to talk to him.

No—if I was going to spend these last coins, it had to be on someone who could make food from nothing.

I tapped Dralvek's name, the portal humming faintly in answer.

The portal shimmered, and I stepped through.

A figure stood waiting—young, far younger than I expected. Barely into adulthood by drow standards, his face still carried that untested sharpness of youth. But his hands betrayed him: calloused, stained faintly with earth, nails rimmed dark from years of digging, planting, coaxing things to grow where stone said they shouldn't.

He bowed low, then straightened, his pale eyes glinting like silver in the portal's light. "Dralvek. Cave Farmer," he said, his voice quick but steady. "Uncommon class, Tier One. I've farmed since I could walk, in caverns where sunlight never reached. Mushrooms, moss, roots, tubers—if it can cling to stone and grow, I can raise it."

His words spilled out faster as though afraid I'd cut him off. "I don't need a home above. Give me a cave and I'll make it a field. I'll work hard. I'll learn faster than most. Hardy conditions don't scare me—I grew up with them."

He glanced aside, the faintest trace of nervousness slipping past his confidence. "I heard you were looking for food. If you'll take me, I can help make sure your people don't starve. Just give me space underground, and I'll make it enough."

I studied him a moment longer. Young, eager, unproven—but his class wasn't common, and the seeds at his belt promised he carried more than words. An uncommon farmer, one who could thrive in the mountain's bones. Exactly the kind of gamble a place like mine needed.

"I can't offer safety," I said, voice even. "This settlement is new. Barely a foothold carved into the mountains, surrounded by beasts stronger than most of us can handle. I can't promise you won't be in danger every day."

Dralvek's lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. "Safety?" he shook his head. "I've seen what passes for safety. It's a lie people tell themselves until hunger or war takes it away. A cave, hard work, and the chance to prove myself—that's enough. I'd rather risk my life building something that can last than sit in the dark waiting for lords or beasts to decide when I starve."

His hand brushed the pouch of seeds at his belt. "Let me do what I was born to do. You give me stone, I'll give you food."

The contract flared, and Dralvek stepped through. Young, sharp features framed in dark skin, his pale eyes went wide the instant the cold air hit him. He turned in a slow circle, boots crunching in snow, taking in jagged stone cliffs and the white expanse that stretched across the plateau.

"This…" he breathed, half-awed, half-unnerved. "All this stone. And snow." He hugged his seed pouch tight, then looked back to me, determination sparking in his gaze. "Point me to the cave. Now. That's where I'll work."

"You just got here," I said, arching a brow. "You don't want to settle first? Meet the others?"

He shook his head quickly. "No. The dark is where my kind thrive. We work when others sleep. You'll get no use out of me standing in the sun, but in the caves—" his eyes gleamed, almost hungry, "—that's where I'll make your food grow. You'll see."

I pointed toward the cave mouth cut into the mountain's side. His lips pulled into the faintest smile as he adjusted the straps of his worn satchel and trudged off, already muttering about soil, water seepage, and how much work there was to do.

"There's a meeting at dawn!" I called after him.

Dralvek turned mid-step and bowed—actually bowed—as he backpedaled, still walking toward the cave with eager, fumbling grace. His head dipped again before he vanished into the shadows, words like "fertility," "compost," and "fungal base" trailing behind him.

I stood there a moment longer, baffled. "Welp. Pretty sure he'll work out… hopefully."

The longhouse was crowded when I pushed the door open, heat and the low murmur of voices spilling out to meet me. Smoke from the hearth mixed with the smell of stewing meat, bread, and damp wool. Children huddled in corners and every scrap of bench was claimed. It wasn't chaos—just cramped living, the kind that pressed people close enough to remind them they weren't alone.

I slipped through the throng, offering a nod here and there. Someone pressed a bowl into my hands—extra food Maela and her people had begrudged into existence, her irritation still lingering in the seasoning. I didn't argue. I took the bowl, found a quiet stretch of wall, and ate quickly. The warmth sat heavy in my stomach, steadying me.

When the bowl was empty, I set it aside and retreated to my room. It wasn't much—a cot covered in furs, a small chest, and not quite enough space to be called spacious—but it was mine. I shut the door, shutting out the noise.

I sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing in a breath and letting my mana rise. It coiled sluggishly at first, heat and weight pressing against the channels I'd carved through use and strain. I shaped it, nudged it into form, forcing the current to obey. Mana shaping wasn't about brute force—it was precision. Threading a needle with light.

Silver blue light flickered around my fingers, unstable at the edges, trying to unravel. I pressed harder, sweat beading along my brow as I forced the current to hold. One heartbeat. Two. Then it slipped, scattering back into raw energy.

I exhaled, steadying myself. Again.

The night stretched ahead, and I welcomed it. Better to burn the hours sharpening myself than let the weight of all those hungry mouths and tired faces gnaw holes in my resolve.