Calamity Awakens

The fire had burned low, crackling faintly in the hearth. Morning light crept in thin and pale through the shutters, stretching long shadows across the stone floor.

Harold stirred on his bedroll, slow as an old man. His body was sound—no wounds, no broken bones—but his soul still ached as if scraped raw. The work he had done on the Matriarch days ago lingered, that soul expression leaving him hollow in ways nothing else could touch. Lira's healing couldn't mend it, no draught or rest would hasten it. Only time. Until then, he would feel like this—thin, emptied, carrying the weight of what he had spent.

The rustle of fabric drew his eyes.

Lira was kneeling near the hearth, pulling her green robe tight against the morning chill. Her armor was stacked neatly at her side, leather straps coiled and waiting. Her hair, freed from its braids, spilled loose around her shoulders, framing the freckles scattered across her cheeks. She bent toward the fire, coaxing steam from a tin pot with a handful of herbs.

For a moment Harold simply watched. She looked beautiful in that unguarded way—robe slipping at the shoulder, hair falling wild, firelight catching in her eyes. Not the battlefield healer, not the calculating voice at his side, but Lira as she was when no one asked anything of her.

"You're staring," she said softly, without looking up.

He let out a rasping chuckle. "All I've got the strength for."

She glanced back at him, brow arched. "You still look like you crawled out of the grave."

"Feels like it," Harold admitted, pushing himself upright against the wall. "Still paying for the Matriarch. Soul's not finished with me yet."

She poured the tea into a battered cup and carried it over. When she set it in his hands, her fingers lingered just long enough to be noticed. "You need to stop doing stupid things," she said bluntly.

Harold met her gaze over the rising steam, his smile cracked but honest. "Good thing you're here to remind me when I'm an idiot."

The corner of her mouth softened into something like a smile. She drew her robe tighter, hair falling back across her shoulders. "Someone has to."

Harold drank, the bitter taste grounding him, and thought—not for the first time—that in all his hollow aching, she had never looked more real.

Harold let the steam rise between them, the bitter scent curling into his nose. He should have just drunk, let it chase the emptiness from his bones—but his eyes stayed on her instead.

"Lira," he said, voice low. "I don't want to wait until after the Calamity to set things straight with you."

Her brow furrowed, the faintest crease between her freckles. "Harold—"

He didn't let her finish. His hand reached out, catching her wrist gently, pulling her down toward him. For all his exhaustion, the motion was sure. He drew her against him, the warmth of her robe brushing his chest, and kissed her softly. Not fierce, not desperate—just real, simple, and entirely his.

For a heartbeat she let him, then broke into a startled laugh. She pushed him back with both hands, not hard, but enough. "Drink your tea," she said, giggling as color touched her cheeks. "You've got morning breath."

Harold laughed with her, a low, tired sound that still felt lighter than anything he'd carried in days. He raised the cup obediently, though his smile lingered on her more than the tea.

A knock sounded at the door, soft but firm.

"Come in," Harold called, his voice still rough.

The door creaked open and Elira stepped inside, hair bound up neatly, a faint flush on her cheeks from the morning chill. She froze for just a half-second, eyes catching on the way Lira was leaning close to Harold, tea still steaming between them.

Lira let out a sudden, irrepressible giggle. She rose smoothly, grabbing her cup in one hand and her armor bundle in the other. Before slipping past Elira, she bent down and pressed another quick kiss to Harold's lips. "Get ready, Harold. Big day today," she teased, smile glinting as she pulled the door shut behind her.

Outside, Rysa was already waiting, cloak pulled close against the morning chill. She raised a brow as Lira slipped out, still grinning faintly as she adjusted the bundle of leather armor under her arm.

"Caught you," Rysa said, voice sly.

Lira rolled her eyes, trying to smother her giggle. "Oh, hush."

They fell into step together, boots clicking softly on the stone floor.

"Stupid men," Rysa muttered.

"Always dramatic," Lira agreed. "Bleeding themselves half to death one day, swaggering the next."

"Idiots."

"Completely."

Their laughter rang down the hall, light and unguarded.

Then Rysa smirked sidelong at her. "Though at least you didn't waste any time snapping up Daran. The poor man barely had a chance to breathe before you tied him down."

Elira flushed, clutching her cup tighter. "I did no such thing!" The elven woman exclaimed.

"Oh, you did," Rysa teased, her grin wicked. "Everyone saw it. That look you gave him at the fort? Might as well have branded him yourself."

Elira covered her face with one hand, but the laughter bubbled out of her anyway. "You're awful."

"True," Rysa said cheerfully. "But admit it—he's steady, and you like that. Doesn't mean I won't tease you for it."

Still smiling, Elria shook her head. "Better than being accused of having bad taste, and I've seen too much of that."

"Don't tempt me," Rysa shot back, laughing again.

They moved down the corridor together, voices softening as they turned the talk toward the city outside.

The door shut behind Lira and Rysa, leaving Harold alone with the fading crackle of the hearth. For a moment he lingered, letting the tea chase the hollow edge from his chest. Then he set the tin cup aside and pushed himself to his feet.

His armor lay stacked neatly at the foot of his bedroll—blackened steel, dented and reshaped, now sized to fit him properly. He ran a hand over the cuirass, tracing the faint mark where the Vampire Baron's strike had nearly ended him. That Baron was dust now, and Harold had taken his prize. Repaired, refitted, the armor no longer carried another man's weight. It was good quality steel and workmanship. Whoever crafted these for the Bloodnight Family did good work.

Piece by piece he pulled it on, tightening straps, buckling plates. The weight settled across his shoulders, familiar and grounding. With each motion his thoughts wandered back to the battle, to what he had gained since. It was hard to don alone but the task kept his mind busy.

He hadn't had the chance to tally much. Levels meant nothing now—Vero's divine test held him locked, the progress bar frozen no matter how many enemies fell. But skills were different. Those had surged, some in ways he hadn't expected.

Leadership. Tactics. Strategy. Each had carved themselves into him as naturally as breathing, the system recognizing what he had been forced to do. Freedoms surge had gained alot of levels after the battle at the fort where he had to dodge that stealth user. He couldn't deny their usefulness, but he felt the lack elsewhere. Perception—that was what he craved. To see further, clearer, to catch the hidden edges before they cut him. And barriers… he still hadn't worked out a way to weave one. Freedom qi resisted the very concept of walls. It flowed, it slipped, it broke chains. It didn't stop blades.

Unless, Harold mused, there was a way to reverse it. A paradox of freedom—or removing something's freedom of movement?, defense by dissolution. If he could turn its nature inward, bend its essence until even an attack lost itself in the current… Maybe there was something there. Something worth experimenting with.

He fastened the last strap and rolled his shoulders, the plates shifting into place with a reassuring clink. The man in this armor was not the old jaded mercenary who had stumbled into Vero's void. This was someone else. Someone forged by fire, blood and choice. Then thinking of Lira, maybe forged by someone else too. She was wonderful in ways he hadn't discovered in years. A steadying presence next to him others couldn't fill.

Harold stepped out into the hallway, boots ringing against stone, and turned toward the conference room where the day waited for him.

The heavy oak door creaked as Harold pushed into the conference room. The air inside was thick—smoke from half-burned lamps, sweat, and the sour edge of fatigue.

Most of the group was already there, though none of them looked fresh save for the vampires lounging near the far wall. They sat sharp and unbothered, crimson eyes glinting in the dim light, as if the long night hadn't touched them at all.

The same couldn't be said for the others.

Jerric sat slumped in his chair, chin dipping to his chest every few breaths. His cloak was still dust-stained, and the stink of the city clung to him—alleyways, smoke, and blood. He'd brought back over a hundred orphans and street children, more than anyone had expected, and in the same breath managed to rob half a dozen nobles blind. Jewels, coins, magical trinkets he couldn't begin to name lay piled in a chest by the door, the weight of wealth stolen under their very noses. He looked as though he could fall asleep right there, drooling on the table, but the faintest grin still tugged at his mouth.

What he didn't know—and Harold caught it with a glance—was that Ferin lingered in the shadow near the back wall, watching over him. The ranger hadn't announced his return, but Harold knew the man hadn't left Jerric's side during his reckless raids. The boy thought it was luck. In truth, it had been Ferin's bowstring, silent and unseen.

At the far end of the table, Holt's fury burned like a banked fire. She jabbed a finger toward the empty chairs where the brothers should have been. "You all heard it," she snapped. "The whole damned city throwing their little festival last night. Music, shouting, half the streets clogged with drunks—and I swear on my sword I heard their voices in it. That's where they went. Laughing it up while the rest of us bled our knuckles raw."

Her glare swept the table, daring anyone to argue. "When they drag themselves back through those gates, I'll have them by the throats. See if they laugh then."

The rest of the room sagged with fatigue. Rysa stifled a yawn she tried to hide behind her fist. Daran rubbed grit from his eyes. Auren hadn't even bothered to pretend alertness, chin resting in one hand, the other tapping against the tabletop to keep himself awake.

Only the vampires were at ease—straight-backed, eyes bright, as though the dawn hours were their prime.

Harold scanned the room, taking it in. Exhaustion, anger, stubborn determination. They'd all worked through the night, carried out tasks that would have broken lesser folk. He set his hands against the back of a chair, the leather of his armor creaking, and let the silence stretch until heads began to lift toward him.

"All right," he said at last, voice cutting through the weariness like a blade. "Let's take stock."

Harold let Holt's words hang in the air a moment, then shook his head. "I'll worry about Toren and Torvik later. As reckless as they are, they've got a way of ending up where they're needed."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Holt's scowl deepened, but she didn't argue.

Harold's gaze shifted down the table. "Let's start with you, Jerric. I know we gained a lot of the street rats last night." His eyes flicked toward Lira and Rysa. "Are they all fed and clothed?"

Lira straightened, still in her green robe, her hair loosely tied back. "Fed, yes. Rysa and I worked through the night with what supplies we had. It's… a lot of mouths, Harold. Over a hundred children, and more of them coming in sickly than strong."

Rysa added with a tired shrug, "Most of their clothes are rags. We did what we could—washed them, patched what could be patched. But it won't last. They'll need real clothes, boots too. Half of them don't have shoes."

Jerric, blinking himself awake, lifted his head with a crooked grin. "But they're ours now. Pickpockets, beggars, runners—sharp little bastards most of them. They'll pay back the trouble soon enough." He stretched, nearly toppling from his chair, then yawned. "Besides, I brought gifts." He jerked a thumb at the chest by the wall, iron-banded and stuffed with stolen finery. "Five noble houses lighter this morning. Gold, trinkets, even a few magical baubles. No idea what any of 'em do, but they look expensive."

Harold arched a brow. "You didn't get caught?"

Jerric's smirk widened, but his eyes were already half-closed again. "Frostpaw kept me clear. Guards thought they had me cornered once or twice. Then the bear showed up."

The room went still.

Harold narrowed his eyes. "Who is… Frostpaw?"

Jerric leaned back in his chair, the grin returning faint but proud. "My bear. Big bastard, white as snow and twice as mean. Summoned him when things got tight. Knocked over a wagon once—scattered a couple patrols."

Rysa's jaw dropped. "You've been hauling a Frost Bear through the streets?"

"Not hauling. Summoning," Jerric corrected, fighting off a yawn. "In and out, clean as you like. The nobles will be talking about ghosts and monsters for weeks."

A low murmur spread around the table, a mix of surprise and disbelief.

In the corner, Ferin's mouth twitched, though he said nothing. Harold caught it, though—the man's silence was louder than any boast.

Harold let the murmurs die down, his gaze sweeping the table. "All right. Expect a lot of angry nobles later—being robbed blind tends to rattle cages. We'll deal with them when they come barking." His eyes flicked to the chest of loot, then back to the room. "Cael isn't here, but we know his results. Which leaves today." He drew a slow breath, the firelight catching on the edges of his armor. "I need to make a visit to the cathedral."

At that, Rysa perked up in her chair, the weariness in her face washing away like it had never been there. Her eyes practically lit. "Finally. And after? We're taking time to see more of the city. We've all been marching like soldiers on campaign—someone has to enjoy this place while we're here."

Lira gave her a sidelong look, but Rysa only grinned and pushed on. "And it's not like I didn't pull my weight last night. My fires lit half the district! Streets bright as day, no burn, no smoke, no ash. It kept people flowing. The party was already rolling, but I swear what I did made it bigger. Flares shooting skyward, sparks falling like stars—gods, it was like pouring oil on a bonfire. They sang louder, drank harder."

Her laugh rang in the dim room, startling in its brightness compared to the rest of their fatigue. "Never seen a whole city carry on like that. Never thought I'd be the one keeping it alight."

Some heads shook, some smirked, but the mood shifted a little lighter all the same.

Rysa's laughter still hung in the air when Harold leaned forward, voice cutting sharper. "I'm glad someone is lively today. Today isn't all festivals and bright streets. At midday, I have a duel."

The room cooled at his words. Even the vampires' smug composure tightened.

The Matriarch turned her crimson gaze on him, her expression unreadable but weighted. "Against my heir," she said. "A duel of blood and standing. Harold, he is a full tier above you. Your axe may be sharp, but what use is a blade if it cannot strike true?"

She didn't know. Couldn't know. His class wasn't something her kind could measure.

Harold rested a hand on the haft of the axe leaning against the table. The edge gleamed, freshly honed. "Don't worry about the blade," he said evenly. "I've got my tricks."

The heir shot up from his chair, fangs flashing in his snarl. "Tricks? You'll be bleeding into the dirt before the sun sets. I'll tear you open and drink you dry, Calamity!"

The crack of flesh on flesh silenced the room. The Matriarch's hand had snapped across her heir's cheek, sharp enough to turn his head. He froze, shock flashing across his face.

Her voice was iron. "We do not drink from men. We do not gorge like the covens we destroy. You will remember who you are—and what you are not."

The heir's fists clenched, jaw tight, but he bowed his head under her stare.

Slowly, the Matriarch looked back to Harold. "But he is not wrong. You are at a disadvantage. A full tier is not easily bridged."

Harold leaned back, his expression steady, almost casual despite the weight of the moment. "Maybe so. But I've found disadvantages can be useful. They make people careless."

His smile was thin. "And besides—I told you. I've got my tricks."

Harold let the silence stretch a breath longer, then pushed back from the table. "Enough. We march in two hours. Rest if you can. Eat if you haven't. But be ready."

A few weary nods met his words.

He glanced toward the chest of plunder, then back to the faces around the table. "And no—we're not opening a portal home. Not yet. We can't support that many children. Not until we've built something solid to receive them. Until then, they will march with us, under our protection."

A murmur rippled around the room.

Then Lira spoke, hesitant, her eyes flicking to Kelan as if to anchor herself. "Harold… what about the slave market?" Her voice was soft but edged. "We saw it yesterday. So many people in chains. Can we… can we do something about that?"

The words hung heavy.

Elira, the former slave, cleared her throat, straightening, her gaze darting between Harold and Daran. "She's right. It's a stain on this city. If you're carving out a foothold here, we can't just ignore it." Her eyes narrowed, sharp as daggers, pinning the older man across the table. "And some of us are better suited to help than others."

Daran shifted under the weight of her stare but said nothing.

Harold's hand settled on the table, fingers tapping once, the sound sharp in the quiet room. His eyes swept over them all—Lira's earnestness, Elira's fire, Daran's silence, the tired weight clinging to every other face.

"You'll have to trust me," Harold said, voice flat and sure. "My plan accounts for the slave market. This city won't be the same after today. Two hours. Then we march."

Silence tightened for a breath, then broke. Lira's shoulders eased like someone had let out a held breath; she gave him a small, fierce nod. Elira's eyes flashed approval and somewhere near the doorway Holt made a low, satisfied sound that could've been a curse or a promise to carve the brothers into something useful on their return.

The Matriarch watched him long enough to read the honesty in his face, then inclined her head minutely — not a blessing, not yet, but a concession. Even the vampire heir, stung and brooding, muttered something that might have been agreement. Jerric grinned, pleased at any chance of chaos that smelled of profit. Ferin stayed a shadow at the edge, as always.

They rose then, a clumsy, tired herd finding shape and purpose. People dispersed to their tasks—Lira slipping off to gather bandages and herbs, Rysa already plotting which market stalls to loiter near, Elira quietly talking to Daran, Harold's hand found his axe for a moment; the haft was familiar and cold and somehow steadied him.

Harold stayed seated as the last of them filed out, the door shutting with a dull thud behind them. For a moment he let the quiet sink in, the weight of silence a rare luxury after weeks of noise. He leaned back in the chair, armor pressing into his shoulders, and let his thoughts turn over the day ahead.

Ironically, the duel would be the easy part. Steel and blood—he understood that. It was the cathedral that gnawed at him. How in all the hells was he supposed to re-sanctify ground that had been steeped in corruption for decades? He had no ritual, no holy words, no god's blessing. Just himself, his will, and the faint, stubborn flame of freedom. That would have to be enough.

It was what came after that would test him. The duel was spectacle. The cathedral was struggle. What followed would be a storm.

Soft claws clicked against stone. Harold didn't have to look. Hal padded into the room, pale fur shimmering faintly in the lamplight, frost trailing from his paws like morning mist. The wolf came to his side without hesitation and pressed his head against Harold's arm, cool and solid.

Harold let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his hand resting on Hal's ruff.

Hal's icy breath misted against Harold's arm as the wolf's head pressed closer. Then the faint hum of the bond stirred—Oath Perception whispering thought into meaning.

Hungry… The feeling was blunt, honest. Pack is hungry. No prey here. Stone and fire, no trails, no hunt.

Harold closed his eyes, guilt pricking at him sharper than any blade. "Sorry, Hal," he murmured. "I overlooked that. No woods here. No herds." He rubbed at the wolf's neck, fingers sinking into thick fur. "We'll fix it."

Hal's ears twitched, but the hunger pulsed through the bond, steady and patient, though it carried the edge of need.

"We'll stop by a butcher on the way," Harold said at last. "Buy out every cut of meat he's got. Enough for the whole pack. Can you wait a couple hours?"

The answer came as a low rumble in the wolf's chest, not quite a growl—agreement, strained but willing. Wait… but not long.

Harold gave a small smile, weary but genuine. "Good. Just hold on, Hal. I'll make it right."

The wolf huffed, satisfied for now, and settled at Harold's feet, frost curling faintly across the floor where his breath touched stone.

Holt lounged against the gatepost, one boot hooked over the other, trading low talk with two sergeants. The morning mist was thinning, and she moved like a woman who'd learned to make calm look useful. One sergeant cracked a grin. "Think they brought bread with all that pomp?"

"Doubt it," Holt said, eyes on the road. Her gaze flicked over the approaching carriage and the men that followed. Her eye took measurements: armor too clean, bellies too full, hands that hovered near hilts. "Count the men, watch their posture," she muttered. "If they mean business, we'll know before they reach the gate."

The carriage rolled into view, heraldry bright and loud. Behind it came a force—more than a few guards. A couple hundred men at least, banners snapping. Mounted riders, pikemen, armoured sergeants, and tucked among them a handful of taller, heavier fighters who carried themselves like they were used to being feared. Tier fours, by the look of them—heavily plated, deliberate, the kind that change the shape of a fight.

Holt's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "That's a lot of displeasure," she said. "Not just one offended lord. They brought a parade."

The carriage stopped. A couple Nobles climbed down, powdered and prim, huffed indignation like a perfume. None of them looked to swing a sword except one in the back. He had the bearing of a fighter. And Tier 4 to boot. The lead noble swept a hand toward the compound. "Open the gate!" he called, voice polished for hearing. "We demand the Calamity present himself and answer for the chaos in the city last night."

Holt pushed off the post and planted herself where the road met the courtyard. Her voice was easy, flat as a blade. "You'll have to do that through us," she said. "No one comes through without word from the Calamity."

A ripple of scoffs ran through the mounted ranks. One of the nobles laughed, high and brittle. "We'll have him at the council if you don't. We have orders."

Holt's eyes cut through the faces with that practiced soldier's patience. The men closest to the carriage had the look of those who settle disputes with clubs and numbers, not wit. The taller fighters watched like wolves. "Watch their front line," she told the sergeants. "Watch the ones who move like breakers. They're the ones you don't want to be first to meet."

Around her, the retainers tightened, loading borrowed crossbow bolts, checking armour. The soldiers on the wall shifted, crossbows finding sights. The air gathered itself, waiting. The nobles had brought more than words. The compound now had to answer whether it would open for them, or close and let those few hundred men grow bored in the street.

ChatGPT said:

The gate swung wide like a throat opening.

The Matriarch walked out first, robes darker than the dawn, a small retinue at her back: three tier-four barons in plated mail, their visors up, faces set like carved stone; two elders whose presence made the air feel colder, and a tight squad of retainers glinting with spear points. She moved with deliberate calm, the kind that made onlookers tidy their voices and their hands.

Harold stepped forward behind Holt and his own men. Holt was a coiled thing at his side, spear ready, eyes scanning. Beside him came Lira, cloak still smelling faintly of smoke and tea; Kelan, shoulders broad, fingers dusted in plaster from last night's work; Jerric, eyes bright with mischief though he stood straighter than his grin; and Hal padding silently between them, pack leaders shadowing their master—two ashen wolves at their flanks, tails low, teeth bared only enough to show warning.

The Matriarch's gaze found Harold, slow and appraising. She lifted her chin, and her voice cut out over the Nobles line, clean and sure. "It seems some have forgotten who rules this city," she said. "It is not the council anymore. I rule here, and I will answer who I choose when I choose. I have nothing to answer for because nothing happened that I didnt desire."

A noble nearby made a sound like a snort and stepped forward, hand fluttering toward a dagger at his hip. "You will not—" he began, entitlement burning bright in his voice.

He never finished. One of the Matriarch's elders moved like a shadow pulled taut. He stepped faster than the noble could think and drove his palm outward. The noble's eyes went wide for a heartbeat. Then the world folded in on that moment and he collapsed, lifeless, the color gone from his face.

Silence swallowed the court. Men who had bragged and stamped now stood very still. A few of the nobles paled; others gritted their teeth and stared at the elder as if the old man had shown them a secret they had no right to see.

Holt's hand tightened on her spear. Harold felt the air change—this was no longer posturing. The Matriarch's retinue did not glare or cheer. They simply watched, steady and patient, as if the killing had been part of a necessary accounting.

One of the nobles recovered his fury and spat, but his voice was smaller now. "You—this is an outrage. You cannot—"

The sentence died in a wet, final sound as the elder stepped forward with the slow, sure motion of someone who has ended more arguments than courts have held. A hand flashed; the noble's protest choked into a gurgle. He folded like a struck puppet and hit the cobbles, eyes wide and vacant.

Silence crashed down, heavier than before.

The Matriarch's lips barely moved as she spoke, but the words carried like iron. "Go back to your council chambers," she said. "After the duel I will be visiting you. I expect every noble in the city to be there waiting for me." Her gaze swept the cluster of gilded faces and landed on Harold as if to underline the promise. "Bring your pride. Bring your lawyers. Bring whatever courage you have left."

A taller, sharper-faced tier-four noble who'd lingered in the rear stepped forward then, posture military, voice clipped and soldierly. He bowed once, formal. "Very well. I will gather them." He sounded neither servile nor fearful—only practical, the sort who moves men rather than words.

Around him, the remaining nobles exchanged looks and then began to pull back, escorting their retinues with hurried, brittle calm. Some glared as they left; others kept their faces carefully blank. The carriage rolled, banners dipping as the force receded down the road.