Calamity Awakens

The council chamber held its breath as Marrowen, Matriarch of the Bloodnights, lowered herself into her chair. She did not call for silence. She never needed to.

"My retainers are gone," she said at last, her voice low and smooth. "Not nameless fodder—promising men and women, trained to be pillars of the family. Now their bodies rot in the fields."

Her crimson gaze slid to the figure kneeling at her right. Her son, armored still from his ride, head bowed low.

"You were not with them," she continued. "The city tolerates us only at its fringes, and so the retainers marched without our kind at their head. I allowed it. But when their column faltered, you rode with the cavalry. You had your chance to strike and you did not arrive in time."

The words were quiet, but the shame in them was heavier than steel.

"The family is diminished. My patience likewise."

No one at the table dared to move until a thin elder, Cassian, inclined his head. His voice was dry but respectful. "Matriarch, your judgment is correct. The enemy's retreat was not blind. They prepared their path into the woodline. They fought as if drilled and prepared an ambush for us."

Across the table, Selene folded her hands, her silver eyes steady. "Yes. They split us—retainers pinned at the breach, cavalry arriving late, only getting close enough to see the rear of their coloum escape into the forest. Then wolves from the rear. Two fight at once and one mistake on our part, the fights were arranged. And if not, then their commander is smart enough to use the opportunity. That is no rabble. That is a commander's hand."

Marrowen let them speak. These two she trusted: bold enough to voice truth and wise enough to see it.

A runner entered, bowing low, and a robed woman stepped forward. Her eyes were still filmed with the residue of scrying.

"The ambush site," the diviner said carefully, "was struck first by crossbowmen. Their leader carried a shield Dao—strong, disciplined. She held her squad against our counterattack long for her squad to switch weapon and form up to engage our line. When the lines engaged, wolves fell upon us from the rear. Frost-marked, not natural stock. Led by an alpha… young, but more powerful than his years. I could not look at him long. Something masked him. He was shielded."

A ripple of unease passed around the table.

Marrowen's mouth curved faintly, humorless. "Shield for the arrows. Teeth for the spine. This was not desperation. This was design. A commander put discipline at the front and terror at the back. Cunning, not chance." Her finger tapped on the table slowly as she thought about the implications.

Cassian inclined his head. "Our captains have grown too confident. We have owned these fields too long. We forget how to lose small, so we do not lose large. Our tactics must change, the heavy cavalry we have become accustomed to will not be helpful in the forest. We must adjust."

Selene added, voice calm as a bell, "We have done much good. Held the roads. Kept the markets breathing. Protected this city, and in turn been protected by it. But none of that makes us inviolate. This Calamity is teaching what you warned, Matriarch: we can bleed."

Marrowen's gaze swept the chamber, her words soft but sharp as glass. "We are not invincible. Write it in your ledgers. Teach it to your squires. We are not invincible. And yet—if we are cautious in our steps, bold in our strikes, we will prevail."

Her hand hovered briefly above her son's bowed head. He flinched, but she did not touch him. "You will learn this lesson first. I originally turned you because you showed promise in your life, if you do not start showing it again in your unlife then I will remove you."

Then, to the table: "Cassian, draw numbers and routes for a march into the forest that does not string us thin. Selene, name the houses whose captains can hold ground while others move. This will be a slow advance and no matter how cautious this Calamity will bleed us. Scouts will map passage, diviners will scry for frost and shadow. And send for a ward-breaker. If the alpha is masked, others will be as well."

The elders rose at once. "For the Bloodnight" they answered.

The sound of it echoed through the chamber, a pledge as old as the family itself.

Marrowen leaned back in her chair, the firelight catching in her eyes, making them gleam like pools of fresh blood. She let the moment breathe before speaking again, her voice lowering into something almost reverent.

"Calamity," she said. "Once, long ago—when I still breathed, when I still walked as mortal—it came often. It was both sought and feared in equal measure. When Calamity tested you, it demanded competence. No pleading, no excuses. You either proved yourself, or you were broken. Families and empires rose on its back. The boons you could earn were incredible. And just as often, entire peoples died in droves, their bones left in the dust."

The chamber had gone utterly still. Even the retainers who served at the edge of the room leaned forward, eyes wide. The Matriarch rarely spoke of her past.

"This is an opportunity I have both prayed for and feared," Marrowen continued. "And now that it is here, I will not allow us to fail."

She pressed her fingers together, pale and precise. "I am old. This family of mine… I have carried it for centuries. I have been stuck where I am in tier and Dao, unable to mesh class and Dao within my soul. I cannot pass the test my class tier demands—not with the oaths I have lashed upon myself. And I will not break them, for my honor and my Dao demand I honor them."

Her gaze swept the chamber, sharp enough to flay. "So together we will rise… or we will all die. I have built this family from the ashes of my old house. I will not see it fall into ash again. The Bloodnight line is ancient. We are an old line. Older than most here will ever grasp."

The Elders and captains leaned forward, rapt. Even the youngest retainers strained to listen, desperate for scraps of history from a lineage they prayed might one day turn them.

"You all know the truth," she said. "When we are turned, our connection to the Dao diminishes. That is the price. The long lives, the body cultivation, the power in our bloodlines—they come at cost. We make up for it by living longer, by plotting deeper, by enduring where others burn out."

She rose then, her strength surging, the chamber bowing unconsciously beneath the weight of her presence. Her dao unfurled above her into a physical thing. The roof and walls groaning at the power she hadn't displayed in centuries.

"I am old," she said again, her voice rising like a knife's edge. "I am tired. But I have gathered power for thousands of years. I will spend it here, spend it all if I must, before I watch this family fall. The Bloodnight will not end in dust. Not while I remain."

Her words rang like an oath. The chamber answered with silence—not weak, but reverent, as though all present feared breaking the weight of her vow.

The chamber held its breath after Marrowen's vow. No one dared speak—until Cassian shifted, the lines of his gaunt face drawn deeper than usual. He bowed his head low before raising his voice.

"Matriarch," he said carefully, "one of my Barons no longer answers. The bond has gone cold."

A ripple passed through the table, restrained but sharp. To lose a blood-linked retainer was not merely misfortune—it was a wound in the house itself. Every Tier 4 Baron they had was the real power of the Family.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, across the chamber, Selene lifted her hand. Her voice was softer, but no less grim. "Another has fallen. I felt the severing just now."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the fire in the braziers seemed to bend beneath it.

Marrowen rose. Her presence filled the chamber, her voice resonant and cold as carved stone.

"Then it is begun," she said. "The Calamity does not nip at our edges—it cuts at our heart. If this Calamity has the power to strike at one of our double strength patrols he has the power to kill us all."

"Call the banners," she commanded. "Summon every retainer who yet draws breath. Call every favor we have in the Lionhouse city. The Family will answer in full. Open the relic vaults—place resources in every hand. Whatever we have hoarded, whatever we have hidden, is to be spent. This is no longer a hunt in the alleys and farmland. This is war."

At her signal, a retainer moved to the dais at the rear of the hall. There, chained in bronze, rested a horn wrought from a dire beast's spine, etched with veins of silver that pulsed faintly when touched. Few in the chamber had ever heard it sounded; fewer still had lived through the last time it had.

The retainer knelt, unfastened the locks, and lifted it high. The horn's surface shimmered faintly crimson, as if answering the blood in every vampire present.

When the note rang out, it wasn't sound alone. It was blood, vibrating in marrow, thrumming through veins, awakening the ancient cords of the Bloodnight line. Every Vampire in the compound felt it in their chest, every retainer on the estate grounds would hear it as a call older than memory.

The Matriarch's eyes gleamed, her voice a whisper that coiled through the resonance.

"The banners are called. The blood sings. We march on this Calamity."

The sun had barely broken the ridges when Harold set his hands on the raw timber of the half-built tower. The fort was still half-shadowed, smoke curling from banked fires, dew clinging to the log walls. From this height he could see them—his people—coming home.

They moved like a wounded beast: limping, ragged, but alive.

At the front walked Daran, broadsword still strapped across his back. His stride was steady, his shoulders squared, but Harold felt the strain behind it—the weight of having carried them through blood and fire. The man had not faltered once, and yet he looked older in the morning light.

Ferin came next, his hounds padding close to his legs, ears low but eyes sharp. He scanned the treeline with the wary posture of a hunter who expected the enemy still on his heels. His calm steadiness bled into the pack around him.

On the opposite flank, Auren moved like a shadow. His bow rode low, his quiver half-empty, but his gaze was already turned upward, measuring the wind. Harold could feel his mind spinning still, analyzing, calculating. The man was quiet but you could see his eagerness to see his wife in his step.

Behind them, the axe brothers trudged side by side. They bore new dents in their armor, fresh blood crusting their axes, but they were laughing in low, hoarse voices. They had earned their Tier Three in the fire—and were already arguing which of them had done the more glorious deed. Lira had told him Toren had picked some axe beserker variant and the other a more classic axe knight variant. Their daos lagged in Squire tier but they would be needed for the fight ahead.

Lira was further back, her face pale, lips drawn tight. She walked in silence, but her hand never left the shoulder of a limping woman she supported. Harold could feel her exhaustion through the bond, her life mana scraped raw, her death mana still clinging to her like a shroud. And yet her back was straight.

At her side walked Kelan, his pick axe and hammer strapped across his back, his body scorched and battered. But Harold could see it—the new depth in his eyes, the steadiness in his stride. The mountain was there now, settled into his marrow. He still leaked some blood but he didnt notice. He spoke low to the dwarf who limped beside him, the two of them trading words Harold couldn't catch, but the bond made clear: awe, respect, questions about Dao. Kelan had taken a step forward, and others could already feel the pull of it.

The dwarf caravan guard grinned through broken teeth, still bloody but proud, carrying a looted helm tucked under his arm. The beastkin woman, some kind of cat variant, limped but kept her head high, scars fresh on top of old ones.

Jerric strode in their midst, his staff across his shoulders, kobolds trailing like a ragged procession under packs of stolen gear. He tried to look older than he was, chin high, but when he caught sight of Harold on the tower, he nearly tripped over himself grinning. Some of his old life showing again.

Hal came padding at the rear, frost still clinging to his fur. His flank bore a long scar, licked clean but still raw, and yet he walked tall, his head brushing the air as if daring anything to strike at the column again. Beside him, the Ashen pair kept close, brushing their muzzles to his side now and then in reassurance. Harold felt through the bond the mix of grief and pride—the tallying of dead packmates and the fierce joy of survival. A few in his pack, Including Hal, were ready to advance to tier 3 and were just waiting to get somewhere safe.

Among the unnamed, Harold marked faces he knew now. The elf woman, cloak ragged, still kept her spine straight as she herded a cluster of children. He had heard from Kelan that her Dao had helped motivate the platoon to fight to greater heights. By all accounts she had helped alot. The fire-spark boy, who had flung flames in panic, now carried his little sister on his back, jaw set with stubborn pride. One of the soldiers carried a man missing half an arm, bandages red but tied firm. Another supported a comrade whose leg bent wrong beneath him, teeth gritted against pain.

Dozens of them. Too many wounded, too many gone. But still—alive.

Harold's hands tightened on the timber. His people were bloodied, but not broken. Hopefully he would have the time needed to recover them and put his new plans into motion.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Harold climbed down from the half-built tower as the column neared the gates. The doors swung open, and the weary stream poured through—bloodied, battered, but alive.

Rysa spotted Auren first. She dropped the basket she'd been carrying and ran full tilt, slamming into him with a hug that nearly bowled him over. "You stubborn fool," she scolded loudly, though her voice cracked. "Next time you come back with a hole in your shoulder, I'll break the rest of you myself. Dont you know how to dodge."

Auren managed a crooked grin, resting his chin against her hair, and murmured something too low to hear.

The axe brothers whistled and laughed, clapping each other on the shoulders. "Look at that," one barked. "Some men get women running to them like a song. Where's ours, eh?"

"Yeah," his brother added, grinning through cracked lips, "all I got is bruises and a dry throat. Where's our welcome?"

A ripple of chuckles went through the platoon—until Sergeant Holt turned her head slowly, one brow raised, eyes narrowing into a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

The brothers shrank at once, waving their hands frantically. "We're fine! Fine. Just a joke."

That only made the laughter louder.

One of the platoon's women called over, voice rough from smoke but cutting like a knife. "Maybe you'd have a line of women if you weren't so ugly. Hard to run into arms that look like tree stumps."

The soldiers howled at that, even through their exhaustion. The brothers groaned and shoved each other, muttering curses but grinning all the same.

Through it all, Harold stepped forward. The noise ebbed without command as he moved among them, his eyes sweeping over faces—Daran steady but drawn, Ferin with hounds close, Kelan battered but upright, Lira pale and trembling, Hal's muzzle still frosted with blood.

"You did well," Harold said, his voice low but carrying.

The Oath answered, thrumming in his chest. He let it surge. Light ran down the threads of bond and burned into his branded.

Kelan gasped, the cracks across his stone-fused flesh knitting shut, his shoulders straightening as strength returned. The dwarf at his side stared openly, words caught in his throat.

Lira's eyes fluttered wide as mana poured into her veins, cool and steady, washing the exhaustion from her frame. She pressed a hand to her chest—then without hesitation crossed to Harold and wrapped her arms around him. Her face pressed briefly against his shoulder, her voice muffled. "Thank you for being there, I could feel you in our Bond."

Hal shook himself, frost scattering from his fur, his presence swelling brighter in the bond. He padded over and circled Harold, the earth crunching faintly under his paws. With a low huff, he pressed his forehead against Harold's, and Harold lifted both hands to rub down the wolf's flank, fingers brushing over the long scar from the battle.

"You need to stop getting hurt, Hal," Harold murmured, half weary, half fond. "You're ugly without that fur coat of yours."

Amusement rippled back through the bond, deep and smug. Then, before Harold could step away, Hal shifted his weight—just enough. Harold's boots slipped, and he went down hard in the dirt.

Lira gasped, then smothered a laugh as Harold glared up at the wolf. Hal had already turned his head aside in feigned innocence, his tail twitching once before he padded off.

But through Oath-perception Harold felt it—the low, rolling laughter of the entire pack, a chorus of mirth shared through their tether.

He stood, brushing dust from his coat, and silently vowed revenge against the young alpha.

The courtyard seemed to breathe with them, battered lives straining back toward strength. Harold stood at their center.

Harold brushed the last of the dirt from his trousers and crossed the courtyard to where Daran stood. The knight still held himself like a blade braced in the ground, but Harold could see the fatigue pulling at the corners of his eyes.

"Get your people settled," Harold said quietly. " Sentries on walls first. Then rest."

Daran inclined his head once, broadsword shifting on his back as he turned and began directing men with clipped efficiency. Veterans peeled away to form a perimeter, while the younger ones helped guide the wounded.

Already, Rysa and Lira were ahead of him. The overhang of the half-built fort became a triage before Harold's eyes—wounded eased into the shelter of timber and stone, cloaks spread into makeshift beds. Rysa's hands glowed faintly as she pressed healing mana into ragged wounds, her face taut with strain. She worked like a woman pouring out her own life, sweat streaking her brow as she spent mana like water. Where it wasn't enough, she pushed vials into shaking hands, their bitter draughts swallowed by the worst of the wounded. Within minutes she was out, her basket empty.

Lira moved alongside her, steadier but no less relentless, her life mana weaving through torn flesh even as she whispered quiet words to soothe the terrified. The two women formed the heart of the wounded's shelter, shoulders brushing as they fought to hold the line against despair.

Harold drew a breath, then lifted a hand. The air before him twisted, edges of space rippling like water. The portal tore itself open with a shimmer of light.

Meala came first, blazing with fury, her grip iron-tight on Brenn's arm as she all but dragged him through. "Where is he?" she demanded, eyes wild. "Where is my son?"

Their answer came at once. A boy's shout rose from the throng, high and breathless. "Mother! Father!"

The children broke into a run, colliding with Brenn and Meala in a mess of limbs and tears. Brenn dropped to his knees, clutching his boy tight, while Meala's fury broke into sobs against his hair.

Another figure shouldered through the portal—Master Olrick, face drawn and tired, but his eyes bright as they scanned the courtyard. The children swarmed him too, their voices rising in a flood of excitement.

"We got dragged by Kobolds! Just like they told us!"
"And the wolves came!"
"They howled so loud the Bloodnights ran!"
"Kelan turned into a mountain!"

Their words tumbled over one another, each louder than the last, their faces alight with awe.

But the adults heard more than the children's joy. Meala's eyes strayed over the wounded laid beneath the overhang, the soldiers slumped with fresh bandages, the gap where familiar faces should have stood. Brenn's jaw tightened, his arms never loosening around his son. Olrick's smile for the children faltered as he scanned the courtyard—his gaze lingering on the diminished numbers, the empty spaces that would never be filled again.

The shouts of triumph echoed, but the silence that followed carried weight.

The children's voices tumbled over each other, loud and unrestrained, but the weight in Brenn, Meala, and Olrick's eyes dragged the air heavy. They looked past their sons and daughters—at the bandaged, the limping, the faces missing.

Harold stepped forward, Daran at his side. Dirt still streaked Daran's armor, his broadsword riding heavy on his back, but his stride was steady, deliberate. Harold stopped before the parents, his voice calm but firm.

"The plan worked," Harold said. "And it worked because of your child and the others that volunteered."

Meala's head jerked toward him, eyes wide with disbelief, but Harold didn't waver.

"The Bloodnights are strong," Daran added, his tone even, unflinching. "But they are still cautious, even with children. The moment they thought their lives were at risk, their line surged to prevent it. Their discipline still not broken until they saw the kids get dragged into the woods by the Kobolds. That hesitation is what gave us our opening."

Harold nodded once, his gaze steady on the parents. "The trap your children started forced the enemy's hand. Without it, our losses would have been a lot worse. You should be proud.

The children straightened unconsciously under the weight of those words, their eyes shining. Brenn's grip on his son tightened, not in fear now, but in a silent, conflicted pride. Meala pressed her lips together, torn between anger, relief, and something deeper. Olrick's grave expression softened just slightly as he looked between the children and Harold.

Meala's jaw worked, her eyes glistening as she looked down at her son. He stared back at her, wide-eyed, still flushed from excitement. Slowly, she nodded.

"Proud," she said, her voice low but steady. She pulled him into her arms again, holding him close, but this time it was not only fear.

The air behind Harold shimmered as the portal widened once more. A cluster of women bustled through—the cooks, arms laden with baskets and crates. The scent of bread, broth, and roasted roots spilled into the courtyard, cutting through the stink of blood and sweat. For the first time that morning, heads lifted. Men and women who had marched all night straightened at the smell, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

"Food first," the marauder turned cook barked, setting down her load. "Sit them in rows, wounded to the front."

The courtyard shifted into motion again, tired soldiers obeying without hesitation.

The portal's glow dimmed, leaving the courtyard quieter than before. From it stepped Ryanr, his ledger tucked beneath one arm, eyes sharp despite the weariness in his face. He gave a short nod to Harold before snapping the book open.

"I've gone through them," Ryanr said briskly. "The ones Holt and the soldiers escorted into the valley. Thirteen in all. None sitting idle."

He began to list them off with crisp precision, voice carrying in the courtyard.

"Three farmers. They've already fallen in with the others—helping tend the terraces and small plots we've scraped out of the valley floor. Not much yet, but with their hands the work's doubled in pace. They're good stock, Harold—used to scratching from poor soil. They'll make it work."

His finger tapped the next column. "The orc blacksmith is loud, stubborn, and better than half the apprentices I've seen in cities. He's reforged broken tools, then set himself to raising a second forge. Says one won't hold when the settlement doubles. He's right. We'll have to think about moving the main forge before long—the place is growing faster than we planned for."

Ryanr flipped a page. "The brewer surprised me. Thought he'd be dead weight—but he found a spring in the cave mouth and tapped it for water. I guess our drow farmer had known of it already and didnt tell anyone. He's already making small beer to keep sickness down. Works side by side with the dwarves, and they like him. Calls them 'cousins in craft.' He'll be valuable."

"The stonemason's exactly what we needed. He's cutting foundation stone, shaping the base for a proper hall. Quiet man, but his work's solid. Says the valley stone is pure, workable but strong. It'll hold. Kelan should have some stock to work with when you return"

He ran a finger down another line. "The formation student's young, but sharp. She's already set wardings to keep rodents from stores and foundations. If she grows into her craft, she'll be more than useful—she could anchor real defenses someday."

"As for the Enchanter—mid-tier, no reagents to work with. But her temporary runes have strengthened tools, reinforced wood, kept shovels from breaking. She's rolling up her sleeves and building with the others when she's not etching. Until we have reagents, that's the best we'll get, but it's still a boon."

Ryanr shut the first ledger and pulled another thin scroll. "That covers the skilled core. The rest are trades and hands. A tanner, already working hides from what the had brought in. A weaver, patching tents into proper cloth. A potter, shaping crude vessels until we get a proper kiln up. Two laborers—strong, steady, willing to do whatever's put in front of them."

He closed the scroll with a snap and looked up. "Every one of the thirteen is pulling weight. No loafers, no hangers-on."

Ryanr rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into his ledger. "That's all of them. Farmers, smith, brewer, stonemason, student, enchanter, and the rest. Not one idle. While you've been out here playing—" His lips twisted, the words almost a sneer. "—playing at war, we've been getting real work done in the valley."

The smirk faltered as his eyes lifted. He caught sight of the overhang: soldiers slumped with bloodied bandages, freed limping on splinted legs, Lira and Rysa bent over them with trembling hands. Kelan's cracked armor still seeped blood where Harold's Brand hadn't fully closed it. Wolves pacing like shadows, their muzzles still red.

Ryanr's voice trailed off, his throat working once before he snapped his ledger shut.

Harold stepped closer and clapped him on the back, not hard, but with enough weight to draw his attention. "It's good work, Ryanr. Better than good. You've kept them moving forward, and that matters more than you know. Keep it going."

Ryanr exhaled through his nose, muttering something too low to catch, but nodded.

Harold turned to the nearest sergeant. "All damaged armor, weapons, and tools go back with Ryanr through the portal. Tell Illga and the orc smith to work it over fast—whatever they can make hold together. We don't have the luxury of perfection. We've only got a day before we move again."

The order carried, soldiers already stripping dented mail and cracked blades from their bodies, laying them in piles to be ferried through. Ryanr glanced at the growing mound of battered steel, then at Harold again, his earlier sharpness blunted by the sight.

The fort was quiet but alive, the battered pieces of an army reshaping themselves before the next storm.

The piles of battered mail and bent blades grew until the courtyard clattered with steel. Harold gave the signal, and one by one the children were gathered, Brenn and Meala among them. The portal shimmered open again, its light spilling across the dirt.

"Go with them," Harold told Brenn, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Take the damaged equipment through. Illga and the orc smith will need every hand working if we're to have anything worth wearing tomorrow."

Brenn's mouth tightened, but he nodded, guiding his boy toward the light.

Meala lingered, her eyes flicking over the wounded huddled under the overhang, the half-built tower rising like a question mark over the fort. Harold stepped to her and inclined his head.

"Thank you," he said. "You and your cooks kept these soldiers moving. Fed them, warmed them, made sure they stood when they might have fallen. Don't think I haven't seen it."

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, but her eyes softened. As the others moved, she caught Harold's arm and pulled him a step aside. Her voice dropped to a whisper only he could hear.

"Will you prevail?" she asked.

For a moment, Harold only looked at her. The weight of her words pressed harder than any armor. He thought of Kelan's mountain, of Lira's whip of life and death, of Daran standing unbending, of Hal's frost and the pack's laughter. He thought of the blood spilled already and the storm still ahead.

Finally, he answered, voice steady. "I think we have a real chance."

Meala studied him for a heartbeat longer, then nodded sharply and turned into the portal, her cooks falling in behind her with baskets and children in tow. The light folded shut behind them, leaving the courtyard quieter.

Harold let the silence sit a moment, then straightened. "Ferin. Auren." His eyes turned to the shadows at the edge of the yard. "And the shadow wolf. With me."

The beast slid from the dark like smoke given shape, its eyes gleaming faintly. It had stayed behind from the ambush, still recovering, but Harold felt its hunger thrumming now through the tether.

Harold stood with them in the shadow of the half-built tower, away from the bustle of soldiers stripping gear and Rysa's sharp voice driving order into the wounded. His eyes moved between the hunter, the archer, and the wolf that lingered like living dusk at the edge of the torchlight.

"How soon can you recover and go out again?" Harold asked, his voice low but steady. "We have no eyes out there."

Ferin ran a hand over one of his hounds' ears, jaw tightening. "I can move by the evening I think. My hounds too but they're both ready to evolve. They need some time, and I am close to something ... .something loosened during that ambush within me…I need to meditate on it.

Auren leaned against the tower, his bow resting on his shoulder. "I've got arrows enough for another fight, but I'll need fletching soon. My body's fine, though. Give me a roof over my head for a few hours and I'll put shafts into whatever you point me at. I reached tier 3 like this old man here" he said motioning towards Ferin. I got a rare class, Windveil Hunter. Integrates my wind dao into my class more, and I gained more influence into the wind with it.

The shadow wolf tilted its head, ears pricking. Its voice came not in words but as a ripple through Harold's Oath-perception—darkness carrying intent. I heal in shadow. I hunt in shadow. I can go now. Will be better at night.

Harold felt the truth of it—though the wolf's shadowy fur still bore scars from the last fight, hunger pulled it forward.

He nodded once, weighing them all. "Rest while you can. Eat, meditate, mend what you can mend. But by dusk, I want you outside these walls. I need to know what the Bloodnights are doing, how many are moving, and from where. Kill what scouts you can as the move through the woods. Hal and his pack will back you up."

His gaze lingered on the wolf, his tone harder. "You, Don't be seen. Bring me knowledge, not corpses."

The beast's eyes gleamed like coals before it melted back into the gloom, already slipping toward the edge of the fort.