Hal returns
Harold woke later than usual, the gray weight of sleep clinging stubbornly to his shoulders. For once, no alarm bells rang in his chest, no phantom clash of steel pulled him upright. Just the ache of overused muscles and the lingering fog of drink.
He pushed himself off the cot, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and stepped outside.
The air was crisp, morning light spilling across the valley. Smoke curled from the cookfire near the longhouse, where one of the younger women was tending to a wide iron pan. The scent of browning meat and fresh bread carried on the air, drawing a few bleary-eyed recruits toward the benches.
Meala wasn't there. Harold spotted her instead a little ways off, her children tugging at her skirts as Brenn bent to scoop one into his arms. She laughed, loud and easy, a sound that had been too rare of late.
The sight pulled something tight in Harold's chest, but it wasn't unpleasant.
He crossed toward the fire, nodding to the cook as he passed. "Meala deserves the morning."
The woman smiled faintly without looking up from her pan. "Aye. We can handle breakfast. She's earned her time."
Harold grunted agreement, taking a seat at one of the rough-hewn benches. He let the warmth of the fire soak in, the smell of food grounding him. For a rare moment, it felt like the world was simply… quiet.
Breakfast was simple—meat, bread, and broth. Harold ate in silence, nodding when men and women passed to greet him, but offering nothing more. Words weren't needed this morning. He could see his new brewer dwarves passed out on a rough mat off in the corner of the longhouse. They really needed to get the second building built.
When the bowl was empty, he set it aside, stood, and walked out past the longhouse toward the treeline. The sound of axes striking wood echoed steady through the valley. A few other people already finding solace in work. He found a stack of rough tools leaned against a stump, pulled one free, and set his shoulder into the work.
The axe bit deep, wood fibers splitting clean under the iron. He pulled it free, swung again. Each strike sent a jolt up his arms, into his chest, grounding him in the rhythm. Muscle burned. Sweat came quick. Breath steamed in the cold air.
No Brands. No mana. No Dao. Just steel, wood, and honest work.
Was this all Vero wanted? A piece on the board, cutting and bleeding when told? Swing until the tree fell, until the next Calamity demanded he fall with it?
Being sent to kill good, honest people didn't sit right. It hadn't before. That was why he'd done what he'd done. The anger came back fast, memories riding its heels—faces that never dulled with time, screams that never quieted, the weight of blood he could never wash clean. They never failed to stir the fire.
Harold swung again. The axe bit deep.
Maybe it didn't matter. Gods and their games could burn. He wasn't here to untangle their rules. He was here to live the life he had left and keep his people breathing long enough to see another firelit night. To hammer them into something harder than the storm that hunted them.
The tree groaned, cracked, toppled. He leaned on the axe, breath harsh, watching it fall. Then he shouldered it, stepped to the next trunk, and set his stance again.
Steel rose, steel fell.
Work was simple. Work was honest.
And Harold swung until his arms burned and his thoughts burned with them.
The hours stretched, marked only by the sound of iron biting wood and trees falling one after another. Sweat soaked his shirt, muscles ached, blisters rose and split across his palms. None of it mattered.
The thoughts kept circling. Faces from before, men and women he'd cut down who hadn't deserved it. The memory of orders barked, the weight of obedience, the sour taste that never left. Good, honest people fed to the butcher's block because the machine demanded blood. His hands remembered all of them. The faces never dulled. The anger never dimmed.
The axe rose and fell, rose and fell. His breath came rough, chest heaving, shoulders trembling with the repetition. It didn't ease the fire, but it kept it from spilling over.
The sun had crawled higher before he finally heard her boots crunch across the undergrowth.
"Harold."
Lira's voice was quiet, but it carried. He didn't stop. The axe rose and bit deep again, splitting another trunk.
"You've been at this for hours." She stepped closer, her pale hair catching light between the trees. "The men say you didn't take more than a bowl of food. That you came straight out here."
Harold braced his boot against the trunk, yanked the axe free. He didn't look at her. "Trees needed cutting."
"They always need cutting." Her tone sharpened. "That doesn't mean you should break yourself doing it alone. I can see you aren't using mana, this isn't about trees needing to be cut."
He swung again, wood cracking, sweat flying. "Better me than them."
Lira was silent for a long moment, watching him work. Watching the steady rhythm that was more punishment than labor. Then she stepped closer, voice softer.
"You can't keep swinging at ghosts forever, Harold."
The axe bit into wood again, harder this time, the thunk echoing through the grove. He leaned on the haft, breath harsh, and for a heartbeat he thought about telling her she was wrong. But the words stuck, heavy in his throat.
Harold leaned on the axe, sweat dripping off his brow, the tree groaning as it settled against the others he'd felled. His chest heaved, each breath rough, but his eyes stayed on the wood, not her.
"Verordeal's given me a new task," he said at last. The words came flat, like reporting a wound instead of admitting it hurt. "Punishment for calling Calamity into that dungeon."
Lira's brow furrowed. "Punishment?"
He gave a sharp, humorless snort. "A family of adventurers. Not villains. Not tyrants. The kind you'd raise a glass to. He'd have me test them. Break them if they can't hold. Call it 'lesson,' call it 'balance.'" His hand tightened on the axe handle until his knuckles whitened. "I don't agree with it."
The air hung heavy between them, only the steady creak of settling timber filling the silence.
Harold braced the axe on the ground, both hands locked over the haft. His breath came rough, chest rising and falling.
Lira watched him, pale eyes steady. "Is that not what you did for me, Harold?" she asked softly. "You saw something in me you wanted to elevate. You let me kill you. How is that different from this family?"
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding. He didn't look at her.
"That was my choice," he said at last. "Mine to give, yours to take. Freedom in it. I knew what I was stepping into." He shook his head, spit hitting the dirt. "This isn't that. This is me playing executioner for people who haven't asked for it, who don't even know they're marked. There's no freedom in that."
Lira stepped closer, voice careful. "But if they rise from it? If they survive? Then it is freedom, isn't it? The same kind you gave me."
He finally looked at her then, eyes hard and worn. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just another god using men like whetstones. I've seen enough of that."
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. The wind rustled through the trees, tugging at the sweat-streaked hair plastered to his brow.
Lira folded her arms, watching him with that sharp, quiet patience of hers. "You can't let your past life keep cutting into this one, Harold. You carry it like a chain around your neck, and it keeps you from seeing what's in front of you."
He snorted, dragging the axe free of another trunk. "And what's that?"
She pointed back toward camp with her chin. "The kids, for one. I passed them earlier, hauling water and stacking kindling like it was the most important job in the world. Men are out front, finishing the frame for another section of the longhouse. Even your battered platoon—they're still here. Still working. Still alive. Daran's out there with them, scarred to hell and still pushing."
The sound of metal carried faint through the trees—steady, deliberate. Lira tilted her head toward it. "The dwarves haven't stopped either. Illga's in the forge, hammering like she was born to it. The miners, gods help them, they're carrying bodies away so the rest don't have to step over the dead. And Master Olrick? He's got half the children at his knee, scratching symbols in the air, teaching them their letters with glowing lines. Teaching, Harold. In the middle of all this."
She stepped closer, her voice firm but not unkind. "There is good here. Good worth bleeding for. Yes, bad things have happened. They always will. But happiness and sadness aren't enemies—they don't exist without each other. You may think you're railing against injustice, but I promise you, the people out there aren't brooding about gods or Calamity. They're just glad you brought them home."
Her eyes held his, steady as a blade. "They're just glad to have you."
Her words hung between them, no reply from Harold. He just stood there, axe in hand, sweat dripping down his temples, chest rising and falling with the weight of his breath. Silence was all he had left to give.
Lira stepped closer, closing the last of the distance. She smelled of ash and earth and the faint tang of blood that clung to all of them. Without asking, without waiting, she slid her arms briefly around him, pressed herself against his sweat-soaked shirt.
Before he could react, she rose on her toes and kissed him once, soft, on the cheek.
When she pulled back, her expression wasn't solemn—it was wicked, playful, her lips curled into a cheeky smile. "Don't brood too long, Harold. You're too ugly when you scowl."
Then she turned and walked back toward camp, leaving him standing there with the axe in his hand, the ghost of her warmth lingering against his skin.
The next tree loomed. He swung.
Her words lingered in the still air, sharper than any axe bite. Harold stood there, silent, the weight of them pressing harder than the hours of labor.
The hug, the kiss, the cheeky grin—damn woman knew how to slip past his armor without even trying. Against his will, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, just a fraction, just enough to betray him to himself. A ghost of warmth cut through the heaviness for the briefest moment.
"Ahh..shit…I'm in danger." Harold muttered to himself.
He set his grip on the axe again and swung. The tree groaned, cracked, toppled. He watched it settle, exhaled through his nose, then shouldered the axe and started the walk back toward camp.
The longhouse loomed ahead, smoke curling from its roof, voices still carrying low from within. Harold stepped inside, found the wash basin, and set about scrubbing the sweat and sawdust from his skin.
Cleaned up and steady again, Harold stepped out into the yard. The camp was alive with the usual afternoon rhythm: hammering from the forge, shouts from men splitting timbers, children ferrying water in too-big buckets. The new building would be framed and walled by the evening. Then the roof finished the next morning and it would be ready to house people.
He fished a few coins from his pouch, the bronze glinting in the sun, and crooked a finger at a pair of older kids loitering near the longhouse door. They scrambled over, wide-eyed but eager.
Harold held the coins up between scarred fingers. "You want one of these?"
Both heads bobbed quick, eyes fixed on the shine.
"Then listen close." He pressed two coins into the girl's hand, two into the boy's. "Go find these people for me—Daran, the boy who ran into the dungeon, Master Olrick, Kelan, and Lira. Bring them to me. You do that, and the bronze is yours."
The children clutched the coins like treasure, nodded sharp, and scattered off in different directions at a sprint. Harold watched them go, then leaned back against the longhouse wall, arms folded, waiting for the ones he'd called to start filtering in.
The girl ran first toward the new construction, where Daran was helping frame the longhouse with the new lumber. He frowned when she tugged at his gauntlet, muttered something low to the men, then followed after her with his shield slung across his back.
The boy sprinted past the forge, where Illga's hammer rang steady. Past that down near where the plateau started to descend was Kelans project. The tower he wanted to raise. Kelan was standing in the center of the chest high stone around him slowly raising it from the ground beneath him. The boy pulled on his sleeve a little making Kelan frown.
Master Olrick was found under the shade of a half-built awning, a half-circle of 15 children around him as glowing runes danced in the air. His beard twitched with irritation when the girl tugged him away mid-lesson, but he followed nonetheless, staff tapping the ground.
Lira was last, coaxed away from helping Meala with bandages. She wiped her hands clean, her expression unreadable, and joined the others without a word.
By the time they filed into the longhouse, Harold was already there, standing before the empty hearth. A fresh fire crackled low, shadows dancing across the timbers. He stood straight-backed, arms folded, the light painting the hard lines of his face into something severe and unyielding.
One by one, they stopped before him, the weight of his stare pulling them into silence.
The fire rolled and popped in the stillness. Harold's expression didn't shift. He looked like a man about to pass judgment—or deliver orders that would carry the weight of it.
The fire cracked, throwing sparks up the flue. The silence stretched heavy until Master Olrick harrumphed, tugging at his beard.
"By the gods, Harold," the old gnome muttered, sharp eyes glinting, "you look like you're about to hang us all by the neck. Ease your face before it cracks."
A faint grunt slipped from Harold, more acknowledgement than amusement. His eyes shifted past the others, landing squarely on the boy who had slipped into the dungeon.
"No," Harold said flatly. "I need to see him. The boy. That's why we're here."
The words landed heavy, and the boy stiffened under the weight of Harold's stare.
Harold's gaze didn't waver from the boy. The fire popped, but no one else spoke.
"You turned sixteen," Harold said at last, voice flat, cutting. "That means you can choose your class."
The boy swallowed hard, shoulders stiffening under the weight of all the eyes on him.
Harold tilted his head slightly. "Have you picked one yet?"
The question landed more like a demand, the kind that left no room for stammer or excuse.
Harold's stare didn't move. The boy shifted, his hands curling at his sides, but Harold's voice cut through before he could speak.
"Ten men died because of you, Jerric," Harold said, the name flat as iron. "Ten. They went into that dungeon to drag you back, because you thought you were ready. Because you thought you were owed something you hadn't earned."
The boy flinched. Harold didn't relent.
"The toughest people we have barely come out of there alive. Daran, Kelan, Lira—people with scars older than you are. And you thought you could walk into it like it was a test to be passed." His lip curled, the firelight throwing hard shadows across his scarred face. "Because of that choice, ten people died. Ten people I already sacrificed to bring here. Men and women meant to build, to protect, to give this place a chance."
He stepped forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on the boy. "You're sixteen now. That means you're an adult. And an adult carries debt for what they do. You owe one."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The words hung heavy, the fire crackling loud in the silence that followed.
The fire snapped, throwing sparks into the dim rafters. Harold's gaze didn't waver from the boy.
"You're sixteen now," Harold said, his tone like a blade edge. "You carry a debt. So tell me—what class did you pick?"
Jerric flinched, eyes darting around the circle. His lips trembled, but no sound came.
Master Olrick huffed, tugging at his beard. "Harold, must you put the boy under the hammer so soon?"
Daran crossed his arms, voice a steady rumble. "Better now than when another dungeon door tempts him. A man's choices weigh heavier than his strength."
Kelan grunted, shaking his head. "Still, he's barely crossed the line into manhood. Harsh medicine, even for you, Harold."
Through it all, Lira moved to Jerric's side. She crouched, one hand on his shoulder, voice softer than the rest. "Jerric, breathe. You don't have to stand against him alone. Just answer. What did you choose?"
The boy swallowed hard, eyes wide. "I… I haven't yet," he managed, voice thin.
Harold's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "Don't lie to me." His voice cut like iron. "I know what you were offered."
Jerric froze, trembling under Harold's gaze. Lira's hand pressed firmer to his shoulder, her tone steady, coaxing. "Whatever it was, it doesn't have to be a curse, Jerric. You can make it into more. But you have to speak the truth."
The boy's lips parted, but no words came, his eyes locked on Harold's unyielding face. The silence stretched, broken only by the fire's crackle and the sound of his shallow breathing.
The silence stretched until it was almost unbearable. Jerric's shoulders hunched, his eyes wide, his breath quick as if the air itself was too heavy to pull in.
Then, barely louder than the fire's crackle, he whispered, "I… I am a beginner Dungeon Guide."
The words landed like a stone in a still pond. None of the others seemed to grasp the weight, but Harold's eyes narrowed.
Jerric swallowed hard, forcing the rest out. "It's… it's a champion class. From the forgotten god Delcar. Lord of Dungeons."
The name hung in the air, heavy, strange, tasting like dust and stone. The others shifted uneasily, not knowing why Harold's face had gone so hard, why the firelight seemed to carve deeper shadows across his scarred features.
Lira's hand never left Jerric's shoulder. Her expression was calm, though her eyes flicked once toward Harold, searching his.
The boy kept his gaze on the ground, shoulders trembling. "That's… that's what I was offered."
Harold's voice was iron, cutting through the silence.
"Against my wishes, I've been charged with your protection," he said, every word deliberate. "The best way I know to do that is to Brand you. Bind you to my path and my choices. The same way you forced decisions onto me and mine, I'll now force decision onto you—until the day you can stand on your own."
He stepped closer, the firelight painting his scarred face into hard lines. "You're like me now, Jerric. Hunted. Not for what you've done, but for what you are. For what you might become. The difference is this—" his jaw clenched, voice dropping lower, heavier, "you'll be hunted because of your class. A Dungeon Guide. You can make dungeons grow in power, though how, I don't yet know."
He drew in a breath, shoulders straightening. "Me? I'm hunted because of my occupation. Calamity. But our purposes line up, whether we like it or not. We test people. We challenge them. The weak die, and the strong are tempered. That's the path you've chosen, and there's no walking it back."
Harold's gaze locked on the boy, unflinching. "The cruelest part is this—your patron wants nothing to do with you. You're a champion of a god who won't answer your call. So you'll walk beside me, bound, until you're strong enough to carry that weight yourself."
The fire cracked, the sound sharp in the silence that followed.
The fire cracked, and Harold's words hung like a blade ready to fall.
Before Jerric could speak, Kelan's voice rumbled through the hall. "No."
Harold's head turned, eyes narrowing.
Kelan stepped forward, pickaxe across his shoulder, his voice steady as stone. "You don't force a Brand onto someone, Harold. That's not how it works. A Brand's strength comes from choice, from them walking into it with their own will. If you press it down on him, it's wrong. It's chains, not bond." His gaze was hard, his jaw set. "That's not protection. That's control."
The words struck heavy—but then the bond in Harold's chest pulsed sharper than ever before, a clean flare of heat that startled him.
Wrong.
It wasn't spoken aloud. It rang through Oath Perception, clearer than words, solid as a hand gripping his chest. Lira's flame burned steady in his mind, her rejection undeniable.
Her pale eyes met his across the fire, one hand still on Jerric's shoulder. She said nothing, but through the bond the truth was louder than speech.
This feels wrong.
The fire popped, shadows shifting across their faces. The silence afterward was heavier than any argument.
Harold's jaw worked, teeth grinding behind his lips. The firelight caught the lines carved deep into his face—frustration written plain, exhaustion in the sag of his shoulders, the weight of too many choices pressing down all at once.
He closed his eyes and let the mask slip.
Through Oath Perception, he pulled the gates wide, baring himself to Lira and Kelan both. The flood poured out unfiltered—anger boiling hot, the overwhelming sadness gnawing beneath it, the hollow ache of every name buried too soon. The endless grind of a new life he hadn't asked for, shackled to a purpose that bled him dry.
It was a storm given shape, and for once he didn't hold it back.
Across the fire, Lira stiffened, breath catching as the torrent washed through her bond. Kelan's stone-solid presence shuddered under the weight, his hands tightening around the haft of his pick as Harold's fury and grief echoed in his bones.
The fire roared, filling the silence left in the wake of Harold's unspoken cry.
At the edge of it, faint but clear through Oath Perception's reach, came low murmurs. Master Olrick's voice, calm but urgent, threading into Jerric's ear. Daran's deeper tone answering, steady as a shield wall. Their words blurred, indistinct, like voices behind a door—Harold could only catch fragments, hints of counsel, of rebuke, of comfort.
Jerric shifted under their hushed guidance, shoulders trembling, his head lowered. The boy's whispers were quieter still, carried away in the crackle of flame, out of Harold's reach.
Kelan moved first, boots thudding heavy on the packed earth. He came through the storm Harold poured into the bond, shoulders squared, eyes set like stone.
He stopped in front of Harold, lowering his pickaxe until the head rested against the floor. His voice was quiet, but it carried, weighty as an oath.
"We are brothers, you and I," Kelan said. "You pulled me up when I was at my lowest. After I made a choice I'll regret until the day I die." His jaw tightened, memories flickering like scars across his face. "You rescued me, Harold. Don't think I've forgotten that. And now, let me repay it. Let me stop you before you make a choice you'll regret the rest of your life."
The storm inside Harold raged, but Kelan's words struck steady, anchoring like stone in floodwater.
Then Lira's flame pressed in—gentler, but no less firm. Her voice came both through the bond and aloud, steady and resolute.
"I understand, Harold," she said, her pale eyes locked on his. "I feel the weight you carry, the anger, the grief. I don't blame you for any of it." She shook her head, hand still firm on Jerric's shoulder. "But this—" her voice sharpened, "—this is not the way. Not your path. Not your purpose."
The words lingered, carried by the firelight and the bond alike, echoing in the silence that followed.
The firelight flickered sharp across Harold's face, caught between defiance and the words of his two strongest bonds.
Then the front doors groaned open.
Hal staggered through, his white coat streaked with mud and dried blood, his flanks heaving with the weight of exhaustion. But his eyes burned like ice, triumphant and wild.
The bond hit Harold like a hammer to the chest—bright, savage, unrestrained. Victory. It screamed through Oath Perception, the wolf's pride and triumph washing through him, raw and overwhelming.
Lira turned first, her lips pulling into a rare, bright smile as she rose. Kelan's own grin followed, sharp and approving, his stone-solid aura thrumming in agreement.
Harold just stared, surprise cutting through the storm that still roiled inside him.
"Good timing," Kelan rumbled, clapping the haft of his pickaxe against the floor. "Damn good timing."
The longhouse's mood shifted in an instant—the storm of words and bonds giving way to the raw, undeniable presence of the wolf, returned and victorious.
The moment stretched, the weight of Hal's return flooding the bonds.
Harold didn't move toward him, not yet. He didn't have to. Oath Perception carried everything across that tether—the wolf's exhaustion, the ragged edge of pain under his hide, but more than that, the pride. The savage joy of a fight survived, of prey torn down, of a hunt finished in triumph.
Harold let it wash over him, jaw tight, the storm inside clashing with the wolf's victory. He answered in kind, not with words but with the truth of his bond: the anger, the grief, the weight of ten dead, the fury of being played like a piece on Vero's board. He poured it out, and in return felt Hal's presence push back—steady, unflinching, fierce. We survived. The pack is fewer but stronger. His mental voice carried the feeling of frost even through the bond.
Lira rose and crossed toward the wolf, her hand brushing his matted fur, her flame in the bond warming, bright. "You came back at just the right time," she said softly. Her hands glowed a dark green as she inspected Hal then glanced at Jerric, still small and stiff by the fire. "There's been… trouble. The boy nearly got himself killed in the dungeon. He was offered a class—something dangerous. Harold's been… deciding what to do with him."
Kelan grunted, stepping closer, his stone-solid presence echoing in the bond as he nodded toward Hal. "A Dungeon Guide," he said plainly. "Champion class of a God most forgot. Harold wanted to Brand him. We told him no."
Hal's ears twitched as he lowered himself heavily to the floor, his breath still rough, the bond between them thrumming with acknowledgment. His ice-burn of victory dimmed to a calmer, steadier thrum, but his gaze flicked to Jerric with unmistakable weight.
Harold exhaled through his nose, still standing by the hearth, the storm of his thoughts quieter now, tempered by Hal's return.
Hal pushed himself up from the floor, shoulders rolling, ice-rimed breath curling from his muzzle. The bond between him and Harold thrummed, carrying intent sharper than words.
He padded forward, each step heavy, deliberate, the sound of his claws clicking against the longhouse floor. His presence pressed like a storm rolling in—cold, suffocating, immense. Every eye followed him as he stopped before Jerric.
The boy stiffened, knuckles white against his knees. Hal leaned in close, frost on his breath brushing Jerric's skin, eyes pale blue and merciless. The wolf's head lowered until their gazes locked, predator and prey.
Through Oath Perception Harold felt it—Hal's judgment. Measuring. Weighing. Testing not just flesh but the marrow beneath.
Jerric trembled, but he forced himself up, his shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He wanted to stand as a man. But he looked small, too thin, too raw. A boy still—broken around the edges.
The pressure of Hal's gaze cracked something in him. His voice tore free, shaking but loud.
"I want the Brand!" Jerric shouted, fists trembling at his sides. "I'll repay my debt!"
The words rang sharp in the silence, the boy's chest heaving, his body quivering as if the weight of them might crush him.
Hal's growl rumbled low, not anger—acknowledgment. He leaned closer still, teeth bared in a slow curl, his breath frosting against Jerric's cheek. Testing. Pressing. Waiting to see if the boy would flinch.
The fire popped. Silence closed in.
Her hand left Jerric's shoulder, but the air around her did not cool — it warmed, softened, and grew unbearably alive. Her Dao unfolded like a river breaking free of its banks. The flicker of her pale flame spread into something vast, invisible yet undeniable. Life pressed close: the beating of hearts in the room, the trembling lungs of the boy, the rhythm of blood moving beneath every scar and wound. Even the corpses outside felt distant echoes through her.
Her voice was quiet, but in the weight of that living tide it rang clear. "You think a Brand is a shortcut, Jerric. A quick road to power. But life doesn't bend for the impatient. It demands you carry it, nurture it, feel the burden of every choice. This is my Dao, the Dao of Life and Death. To heal, to sustain, to hold steady even when death presses close. And when it does press close, bend death to serve again. Do you understand the weight of that?"
The warmth faded, replaced by the weight of stone as Kelan stepped forward.
His Dao was stone. Not just in body, but in essence. It rumbled low beneath their feet, solid, immovable. The firelight seemed to dim against him, shadows deepening at the edges of the room. His presence was a mountain shouldering against the sky, enduring the storm because it had no other choice.
Kelan's voice rolled like grinding rock. "I am stone. I hold. I endure. I will not fall, and I will not let my brothers fall behind me. My Dao does not chase power—it endures until all else breaks against it." His eyes fixed on Jerric. "Would you stand in this storm until your body cracks? Because that is what Dao demands."
Then came Daran.
The sergeant's presence cut like a blade unsheathed. His Dao was Sharpness, honed discipline, every strike and command pared to lethal clarity. The air around him seemed thinner, sharper, as if it could cut skin. His was no warmth of line or shield wall — it was the edge that severed chaos into order.
"My Dao is Sharpness," Daran growled. "Every strike clean. Every word precise. There is no waste, no softness, no hesitation. To walk this Dao, you cut away weakness until only steel remains. Can you bear that edge without breaking?"
The air grew heavier as Master Olrick lifted his staff.
His Dao spilled outward not in force, but in weight. Symbols shimmered faint in the air, threads of light sketching across the rafters like constellations. Knowledge. Relentless, infinite, unforgiving. The truth pressed into Jerric's skull, making his mind ache with it.
"Mine is the Dao of Knowledge," Olrick said, voice sharp and steady. "Every truth carried, every lesson carved into the bones of the world. Knowledge cuts deeper than any blade, weighs heavier than any shield. The more of it you carry, the harder it is to stand. Do you believe you can carry truths that burn?"
Then Hal padded forward.
Winter came with him. Frost clung to his breath, hunger pressed in close. His Dao was Ice and Pack both — merciless fang and claw, but bound by loyalty and belonging. Cold, savage, demanding. His presence pressed against Jerric like the weight of the hunt itself, daring him to prove himself worthy of firelight.
Hal's growl rumbled through the bond, pure and raw: Hunt. Pack. Loyalty.
At last Harold stepped forward.
His Dao cracked the air like lightning caged in chains. It wasn't warmth, or stone, or knowledge. It was Freedom — jagged, unyielding, searing in its demand. A storm barely contained, the weight of oaths broken and reforged, bonds chosen and guarded with blood.
Harold's eyes locked on Jerric. "This is my Dao. Freedom. It cuts both ways. It won't bow, and it won't let others bind those I protect. But freedom isn't free. It's carved out of pain, bought in blood, and earned by rising when you should fall. Do you understand, boy?"
The six Daos pressed down like mountains, rivers, blades, tomes, storms, and winter itself. The fire seemed small against them. Jerric shook, knees trembling, but his jaw clenched and his voice cracked the silence:
"I… I want it. I'll bear it. I'll repay my debt!"
His shout echoed against the weight of their Daos, defiance or desperation impossible to tell.
One by one, the Daos pulled back.
The warmth of Lira's flame dimmed to a steady glow. Kelan's mountain weight sank, leaving only his solid bulk. Daran's razor edge sheathed itself, though the air still held a faint sharpness. Olrick's shimmering runes faded, leaving ghostly afterimages that winked out in the rafters. Hal's frost and hunger receded into the silent steadiness of a wolf waiting by the fire.
Only Harold remained, his storm rolling low and restless until, with a slow breath, he folded it back inside.
He stepped forward, boots echoing against the longhouse floor, and came to stand before Jerric. His voice was low, but it carried through the hall.
"Truth is, I can't force this on you. A Brand can't be chained onto someone who won't take it. But I've been charged with protecting you. The best way I know to do that is by branding you. By binding you to my path."
He paused, letting the words sink in, then tilted his scarred face closer, his eyes hard.
"There are others here who would claw for this chance. Who would beg me to brand them, to have the strength and bond that comes with it. And you—" his lip curled faintly, "—you'll have it handed to you because of your mistake. Don't think they'll thank you. They'll glare at you. Spite you. Call you weak, call you a thief of what they deserved."
His voice dropped lower, steel grinding in every word.
"And your duty will be to protect them anyway. To stand where you are not wanted. To hold the line for those who would rather see you fall. That's what you're asking me for, Jerric. That's the weight of this choice."
The fire popped, throwing sparks, shadows dancing against the boy's pale, strained face.
"Can you do that?" Harold asked. "Stand where you are not wanted?"
Hal padded a slow circle around the fire, claws scratching against the wood as he came to Harold's side. He leaned heavily into him, cold breath puffing white against Harold's arm. Behind them, Lira and Kelan closed in without a word, standing shoulder to shoulder, steady as stone and flame.
Daran and Master Olrick stayed further back, watching with the eyes of men weighing judgment. Daran's expression was unreadable, sharp as the Dao he carried. Olrick's beard twitched, his fingers worrying at his staff, the lines of his face drawn taut.
Jerric swallowed, fists clenched at his sides. "I want to make up for my mistake," he said, his voice trembling but loud enough to carry. "I was… I was drawn to the dungeon. I heard a voice from it." His eyes flicked upward, desperate, ashamed. "I knew it was wrong, but I had to explore it. I couldn't stop myself."
The words hung heavy, the fire popping in the silence that followed.
Harold's head turned, his eyes locking on Master Olrick. There was no need to speak—the question burned in his stare.
Olrick groaned through his beard, exasperation spilling out as he tugged at it. "Damn it, boy. That's why you were asking those questions." He jabbed a finger toward Jerric. "I should've known. Should've seen it."
The gnome shook his head, muttering, then sighed sharp. "It's likely he has some sort of extreme affinity. For dungeons themselves… or their denizens. Maybe both."
The explanation settled in the room like another weight. Jerric flinched, but stood firm, shoulders squared under the fire of all their gazes.
Harold listened to Olrick's words, the gnome's frustration spilling into the air, and then gave a single, sharp nod. Enough had been said.
He stepped forward, Hal's cold weight still pressed into his side, Lira's flame and Kelan's stone steady behind him. The boy stood trembling but unflinching, his wide eyes locked on Harold.
"Then we make it binding," Harold said, voice low.
He raised his hand, and the bond surged outward. Light shimmered against the boy's chest, then bloomed, carving itself into the air. The mark took shape slowly, heavy with purpose—an axe gleaming bright, its edge biting clean. Behind it rose a mountain, immovable, eternal, the symbol of endurance. Around both wound a Celtic knot, infinite and unbroken, its weave whispering of ties stronger than blood. And beneath it, words seared themselves into being:
ALL THINGS END.
The glow burned white-blue, pure and terrible, casting shadows long across the longhouse walls. It felt sacred, older than words, older than the gods who had abandoned or turned their backs. The air thrummed like a struck bell, vibrating in their bones.
Jerric's eyes widened, wonder and fear warring in them as the mark sank into his skin on his neck. Visible to all. He gasped, breath catching, and his hands rose involuntarily toward the light as if reaching for something beyond him. The awe in his face was unguarded, raw.
The glow dimmed, leaving the Brand etched deep into his flesh, its weight pressed into his soul.
The glow of the Brand faded, leaving only the faint shimmer in Jerric's wide eyes. Harold's hand fell back to his side. For a long moment, silence lingered, broken only by the crack of the fire.
Then Harold's voice cut through it, steady, sharp. "Daran."
The ad hoc platoon sergeant straightened at once.
"He joins you for training in the morning. For his sake—and for everyone else's. Let him stay with the platoon for now. Let him earn his place among them. One of your sergeants will take responsibility for him." Harold's eyes narrowed slightly. "The shield sergeant. She was damn quick in that dungeon—caught more than one bolt that should have taken me. She'll keep him alive and teach him what it means to hold the line."
Daran gave a short, hard nod. "Aye."
Harold turned to the others. "Tomorrow we take him to the dungeon. He'll explore what he can do, and you'll run it again. All of you. Until you can walk those halls without bleeding."
His gaze slid to Lira. "Let everyone know we'll hold a small service for the fallen tonight. They don't get buried quietly."
The firelight caught the scars on his face as he swept his eyes across them all. "We have six days until Calamity comes. The timeline's moved up. That means no wasted time. Keep working. Keep building. Strengthen yourselves. This next test will push us harder than anything we've faced so far."
He let the words hang a breath, then gave the final command.
"Continue the work and have someone fetch Rynar for me."