Calamity Awakens

Everyone bent to the task. Crates, bundles of weapons, sacks of grain pried from storerooms—each pair of hands took something. Even the prisoners, goaded forward by the restless pacing of Hal's wolves, staggered under their loads. Every step they delayed, every sideways glance, drew a warning growl that pushed them through the rippling portal.

The wolves worked like a shepherd's crook made of fangs and fur. Hal stalked at the front, tail stiff, eyes glinting as he set the rhythm. One by one, the living spoils of this campaign disappeared into the light of home.

I waited until the last crate was hoisted and the last prisoner shoved through before stepping across myself. The shimmer passed over me like cold water, and then I was back in the valley.

When I stepped through, the burnt air of the Ashen Steppes gave way to the crisp, sharp and cold mountain air of the valley. The sky here was brighter, clearer. The settlement was alive with motion.

Brenn straightened from a half-raised wall of timber, sweat and sawdust streaking his shirt, while Maela looked up from stirring a pot over the longhouse's central hearth. The door into the longhouse open to the world. The longhouse itself was almost complete, its heavy roof-beams set, smoke already curling from a rough-cut chimney.

Not far away, Illga the dwarf blacksmith had her sleeves rolled back and her dark hair tied up, standing beside Toren and Torvik. The brothers were carrying stone blocks toward a foundation—the start of Illga's forge. The stone was cut and shaped by the pair of miners I recruited. Their banter carried over the sound of their boots on packed earth, trading jabs about who carried more weight.

Even the family's house was already taking shape: a modest timber frame raised beside the longhouse, Brenn's axe and Maela's steady planning visible in every corner.

A pile of cut lumber and chopped firewood was against the longhouse with a small shelter to keep the snow off. Ferin was there butchering his latest kill.

Even Lira was taking an axe to a tree helping out. Her axe not cutting nearly as much as mine or Brenns would but every little bit helped. The group of kids we recruited were running around getting into mischief. The cold not bothering them with shelter to retreat into when it got too much.

The returning group spilled into this scene of progress—wolves guiding prisoners, Auren and Kelan flanking the line of the defeated, crates stacked high on shoulders and sledges. The valley's children had gathered near the fire, their games paused as they stared wide-eyed at the sight of wolves and captives.

And me—the harbinger, stepping back into the only place that mattered.

Work stopped as soon as we came through. Brenn dropped his mallet mid-swing, Toren and Torvik froze with a block of stone between them, and Illga straightened from the forge foundation, wiping her hands on her apron. Even Maela set aside her stirring spoon, stepping out from the longhouse hearth.

They didn't hesitate. One by one, they left their tasks and moved toward us, their faces lit by something more than firelight. Relief. Recognition. The sight of us back alive.

Kelan walked at my side, his stone armor still clinging in heavy plates, and Hal padded forward with his pack fanning out behind him. That was all it took—the children broke from their mothers' sides and sprinted across the packed earth.

"Hal!" Their voices rang high and eager, no fear in them at all.

The great wolf lowered his head as they swarmed him, pressing small hands into his fur. His pack—wolves born of the Ashen Steppes—stiffened, hackles rising at first. The strange air, the bright sky, the laughter of children—it was all wrong to them. Yet when Hal gave a single chuff of reassurance, they eased. The young ones pressed forward warily, sniffing at the children's outstretched fingers. By the time one girl leaned against a wolf's shoulder with a bubbling laugh, the pack had begun to wag their tails in confusion, caught between instinct and this impossible welcome.

Behind them, the prisoners staggered to a halt as they crossed through the portal, eyes darting around in disbelief. The sharp mountain air, the sound of a stream tumbling down from the ridge, the smell of pine and fresh-cut timber—all of it seemed to gut them.

"This… this isn't possible," one of them muttered, staring at the valley walls that hid the sky. Another sank to his knees, his mouth working wordlessly as he took in the longhouse nearly finished, the smoke from the hearth, the forge foundation already laid.

For men who had known only ash, blood, and command under cruel hands, the valley was a blow they couldn't process.The safety and beauty it represented was impossible to them. Freedom was dangerous, but beauty—that was worse. It left them stunned, stripped of defiance.

As we moved further in, my people surrounded us. Toren and Torvik clapped Kelan on the shoulders with wide grins, though their eyes lingered on his battered armor. Illga gave a sharp nod, her blacksmith's gaze already flicking to the supplies piled high on the sledges. Brenn set a steadying hand on Maela's arm, his expression one of quiet pride, while she gave me a tired but warm smile. Lira's eyes met my gaze steadily as she regarded me then gazed at the people we had brought with her. Behind me I could hear Rysa exclaiming to Auren about how amazing this place was.

For three days they had worked. For three days they had built. And now we had returned—not empty-handed, but with prisoners, supplies, and the wolves of another world at our side.

And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself feel it. The difference. The valley wasn't just a hiding place anymore. It was becoming something more.

I raised my voice just enough to carry over the bustle of greetings and the shuffle of prisoners.

"You've all done good work while we were gone," I said, sweeping my gaze across the half-built forge, the longhouse nearing completion, and the houses beginning to take shape. "Three days, and this place already feels different. Feels alive. That's not me—that's you. All of you. I'm proud of what you've built."

Lira stepped forward from the longhouse, her hair tied back, sleeves rolled, a few smudges of soot on her cheek. I nodded toward her.
"Walk me through what you've done, Lira. I want to see it with my own eyes."

I turned next to Kelan, still standing watch with the prisoners.
"Hold them here. I'll return soon and give them their instructions. Make sure none try anything foolish."

Kelan gave me a short nod, expression unreadable, but his stone-plated frame radiated enough authority that the chained men kept their heads low.

"Illga, Brenn," I continued, catching their attention, "start organizing the supplies. Sort out what can be used immediately and what needs to be stored. I want a full accounting by the time the sun sets."

The dwarf blacksmith grunted in acknowledgment, already eyeing the stacked crates with a glint of appraisal, while Brenn cracked his knuckles and moved to haul one of the heavier loads closer to her.

Finally, I looked to Maela.
"Can you feed this many?"

Her lips parted, uncertain, eyes flicking from the prisoners to the crowd of tired faces gathering around. Before she could answer, Ferin spoke up from the back, his bow slung across his shoulders.

"I'll go hunting," he said simply, already moving toward the valley's edge. "We'll have more meat before dark."

The valley was alive in ways the fort had never been. Wolves patrolled the lines of prisoners, their heavy paws soundless in the grass, their eyes gleaming like sparks. The captives themselves shuffled uneasily, staring up at the sheer mountains hemming them in. Some looked stunned, others defeated, but all of them wore the same expression: disbelief. This hidden place was no war camp—it was something else entirely.

Kelan stood rooted at the head of the column, his stone armor catching the fading light. The prisoners looked at him the way men looked at a mountain they had no hope of moving. Illga barked sharp orders at Brenn, who obeyed with the steady efficiency of a man used to long days of labor. Maela was already clucking over supplies, muttering about rations and water. Toren and Torvik had taken seats on a half-built beam, sharing quiet words in the way only brothers could.

For a moment, I just let the sight settle in me.

Lira drifted closer, quiet at my side. She didn't speak right away, just followed my gaze out over the settlement. A faint smile touched her lips.

"You see it, don't you?" she asked softly.

I turned slightly, studying her face. Her eyes were tired, yes, but alive—lit with a spark that hadn't been there when I first found her in the ruin of another life.

"I see people working hard, making something worth protecting," I admitted.

For a heartbeat, her hand brushed mine as she gestured toward the longhouse, unthinking. I let the moment hang, wordless, then gave her a small nod. The warmth in her eyes lingered even after she stepped back.

"Come," she said, voice steadier now. "I'll show you what's been done."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

We moved through the settlement together. The longhouse rose tall, its frame finished, its walls of rough-hewn timber already weathering to a strong gray. Smoke curled faintly from a central chimney—they had finished the hearth. Inside, the bones of the hall promised space for all of us to eat, to plan, to shelter. The floor just packed earth but that could be fixed later.

Past it, Illga had staked out the forge's foundation. Stones had been laid, the beginnings of a chimney taking shape under the guidance of the miners who sweated at her side.

Nearer the treeline, Brenn and Maela's house stood in progress—walls half-built, a roofline already drawn by heavy beams. It wasn't much yet, but it was theirs.

"And here," Lira said finally, guiding me to the far end of the longhouse, "is your space."

A simple room, not yet finished, but with a bedframe, a small table, and a window that looked out toward the valley mouth. Spartan, but it was more than I'd expected. Reminiscent of what I had in my old valley.

"You deserve a place to rest," she said, her tone gentle but firm.

I stood in the doorway, breathing in the faint scent of pine and fresh-cut wood, and let myself relax just for a moment.

Lira lingered in the doorway with me, her hands clasped loosely in front of her. For a while, neither of us spoke, the quiet filled by the muffled rhythm of hammers outside.

"You've done well," I said finally. "More than I expected in just a few days."

Her chin lifted a fraction, pride tempered with discipline. "We worked because we had to. And because we believed you'd come back."

That struck deeper than I expected. I let the silence stretch a moment before I spoke again. "Lira… would you take a Brand? Your talents are something I want but than that I believe your attitude and strength will make this place better."

Her eyes widened, and I caught the flicker of hesitation there. "That's not something I say 'yes' to lightly. A Brand ties me to you. It makes me part of what you're building here—for better or worse."

"That's exactly why I'm asking," I said. "I need people who won't break when things get worse. And you've already proven you're one of them."

Her jaw tightened, then she gave a single, sharp nod. "Do it."

I placed my hand against her shoulder. Power stirred, hot and inexorable, and the Brand took shape. Lines of light flared across her skin, burning through cloth for a moment—an axe over a mountain, stark and defiant.

Oathsense carried a rush of feeling from her: the bite of nerves, the edge of anticipation, the strange weight of responsibility settling across her shoulders.

Then, just as quickly, she shuttered her end of the bond.

She drew in a breath, her voice steady though her eyes still shone faintly from the glow. "I……I can feel my Dao so much more clearly…..there is so much…." Her eyes were blank as they looked through me. She refocused on me, "Thank you. I'll put it to use."

Before I could say more, she gave a short bow of her head and slipped out, leaving me with the echo of the mountain and axe still burning in my mind.

The glow of the Brand faded, leaving only the faint warmth of my palm against her shoulder. For a heartbeat, I stood there alone, staring at the spot where Lira had gone.

Another Brand. Another thread tied to me. Every one of them was a promise, a responsibility I had chosen to take on. I could still feel the echo of her anticipation, the sharp edge of nerves carried through Oathsense before she shut it off. That flicker lingered in me like smoke after a fire.

This was why people had once called me a butcher—I bore the weight, whether I wanted to or not. And now, instead of cutting people down, I was binding them together.

I exhaled, slow, steady. No more time to dwell. Work waited.

I stepped back into the cold light of the settlement. Kelan was still at his post with the prisoners, stone armor catching the torchlight, unyielding as the mountain itself. The wolves prowled at his flanks, their eyes keeping the beaten men still.

"Let's finish this," I said, walking toward him.

Kelan was waiting where I'd left him, stone armor still flecked with blood and dust. The prisoners stood subdued, heads bowed, wolves circling them like living chains.

He didn't salute, didn't bow—just met my eyes, his expression carved hard.
"You can't keep doing that," Kelan said, voice low, but carrying weight. "Slaughtering men after they've yielded. Murderers, rapists—I can swallow that. But anything beyond?" He shook his head, the stone plates shifting with the motion. "That's not the kind of army I'll stand beside."

I felt the weight of his stare, unflinching as his armor. Oathsense carried the edge of his conviction straight into me—disapproval, yes, but also loyalty beneath it, the kind that demanded accountability, not blind obedience.

"You think I enjoyed it?" I asked, quieter than I meant to. "Every one of those deaths sticks, Kelan. But the truth is, I needed the power. I needed the modifier. Without it, I wouldn't have been able to bring these people and supplies here. Not without paying a much higher price.."

Kelan didn't flinch. "Maybe so. But power doesn't excuse everything. Draw that line, Harold. Draw it and hold it. Or you'll lose more than prisoners—you'll lose us."

For a moment, neither of us moved. The wolves shifted uneasily in the silence. Then I gave him a short nod, not of concession, but acknowledgment.
"I hear you. And I'll remember it."

That was enough for Kelan. His jaw stayed tight, but some of the tension bled from his shoulders as he turned back to the prisoners, silent and resolute.

Harold stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the ragged group of prisoners. Wolves paced behind them, jaws half-open, low growls a constant reminder of how thin the line was between life and death.

"You're standing in a valley most people will never see," Harold began, his voice steady, carrying over the cold air. "It's hidden. Protected. But not safe. Out there is a frost bear that would split you in half before you could scream. Beyond that, a wolf pack that has torn through men better armed than you. Wailing banshees that strip the marrow out of your bones with their voices. I've seen it all. I've run through snow and blood to survive it."

He lifted his hand, gesturing to the mountains that cradled the valley.
"And here—this small hollow cut out of the world—is what I chose to protect. My pack. My people. The forge we're building. The longhouse nearly finished. A dungeon hidden in its heart, waiting to test us. This place is worth bleeding for."

His eyes hardened.
"You've been given something rare. A chance. To turn over a new leaf, to be someone new. To be remembered for what you build here, not for what you destroyed out there. That's the offer. A clean slate."

Then he let his tone drop, cold as steel.
"But hear me well: any misdeeds, any attempt to drag old sins into this valley, will be punished immediately. No courts. No second chances. I won't risk everything we've bled for because someone couldn't let go of who they were."

He let the words hang for a moment, then gestured sharply.
"Line up."

The prisoners shuffled into place, some defiant, some wary, most just hollow-eyed. Harold turned and called out.
"Rysa. Auren. With me."

The two came forward, Rysa carrying a slate of parchment and charcoal, Auren's sharp gaze scanning the line like a hawk.

The line of prisoners shuffled forward, one by one, names scratched down in Rysa's sharp script. Most muttered the same thing—"I can fight," "Put me with the guard," "I'll take a sword." But then a few stood out.

A wiry woman with soot-streaked hands cleared her throat.
"Name's Carin. I cooked for caravans before all this. I can feed an army if you give me a fire and a pot."

Next came a broad-shouldered man, his palms calloused in a way Harold recognized instantly.
"Druen. Carpenter. Built wagons, houses, doors… if it was wood, I made it stand straight."

A lean youth, maybe twenty at most, shifted nervously. "I—I can work hides. Tanning, leather, that sort of thing. My father taught me before he… well." He trailed off, eyes down.

An older woman stepped forward, chin high despite her age. "Marta. I was a midwife, once. I can still set bones and stitch wounds."

And then a pair of cousins, rough men with dust-caked hair, volunteered together. "We mined in the southern hills. Korran and Brehn. Give us picks and a place to dig, we'll earn our keep."

Harold let each of their words sink in, seeing not just the prisoners they were, but the lives they might yet become. The rest—the thirty fighters—stood grim and silent, waiting for judgment.

He finally stepped forward, voice low but firm.
"Those who offered more than steel—you'll get your chance to prove it. We need carpenters. Cooks. Miners. Healers. This valley will not survive on blades alone."

Then his eyes hardened as he turned to the bulk of the group.
"As for the rest of you—you want to fight? Fine. But before you go swinging swords, you'll learn to build. You'll raise the walls you plan to defend. Your first task is simple: cut the timber, lift the beams, and build yourselves a barracks. Only when you've made a roof strong enough to shelter under will you earn the right to call yourselves Vale's soldiers."

He gestured, and axes and tools were brought out, handles thudding into palms unused to labor.
"No idle hands in this valley. Not anymore."

The fighters exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke against him. Behind them, the wolves prowled in patient silence, and the mountains seemed to lean in, listening.

Harold crooked a finger, and Hal padded over from where his pack had been prowling among the prisoners. The Frost Wolf loomed tall now, nearly eye-level when Harold stood close, his pale eyes gleaming with intelligence that was no less sharp than the steel in Harold's hands.

"Keep an eye on them," Harold said, jerking his chin toward the prisoners. "If anyone tries to test the rules I laid down, I want you and yours on them before I even hear about it."

Hal's ears twitched, and through Oathsense Harold felt the ripple of steady agreement—predatory patience, tinged with a hint of satisfaction.

He hesitated, then asked quietly, "Will your ashen kin be alright here? This valley isn't the same as the steppes."

The wolf tilted his head, gaze shifting to the ring of mountains that crowned the hidden vale. A deep rumble passed through his chest, neither threat nor warning. Through their bond Harold caught impressions: the sweetness of snowmelt water, the curious laughter of children, the strange stillness of a home not made of ash.

"They'll adapt," Harold murmured, nodding as if confirming it for himself. "Good.

Leaving Hal to his silent watch, Harold turned toward where Brenn had organized the day's haul. Crates, sacks, and the gleam of stacked coin sat in neat rows near the longhouse, already inventoried by careful hands. Harold knelt, lifting a pouch heavy with the weight of silver and gold—currency, leverage, lives waiting to be bought.

He straightened, eyes falling on the stone arch at the edge of the settlement, pulsing faintly with runes carved into its face. The Recruitment Portal. The key to swelling their ranks beyond what fate had dropped in his lap.

Harold slung the pouch over his shoulder, the coins clinking with every step. He could feel the weight of expectation pressing in—not from gods, not from Gerold, not even from his people—but from the valley itself, as though the mountains whispered for him to fill it with strength.

"Time to see who's willing to gamble on a Calamity," he muttered, and walked toward the portal.