They found the dungeon because the forest couldn't hide it.
The stone tower rose above the canopy like a broken tooth, gray and weathered, its upper half collapsed long ago. Moss clung to its sides. Vines crawled up the stone, but nothing had managed to pull it down. A stone curtain wall surrounded it, but it was crumbling in spots, and half of it looked ready to collapse.
Sarah slowed as soon as she saw it.
Evan lifted a hand, halting the column.
No one spoke. They just stared.
"So," Jace said quietly. "That's subtle."
"Shut up," Mira muttered, but she was smiling too.
They approached carefully. Soldiers fanned out first, shields up, eyes scanning the undergrowth. The second adventurer team mirrored them, spreading wider, quieter. Sarah stayed near the center, watching the ground, the trees, the air between them. The goblins had surprised them a few times already by hiding where she didn't think they could.
The ruin sat in a shallow rise, stone foundations half-swallowed by roots. The tower wasn't the dungeon itself. That became clear once they circled it. The entrance yawned beneath the tower's shadow, a cracked archway descending into darkness.
Theo peered into it, then leaned back. "Nope."
"Nope," Mira agreed.
Evan glanced at Sarah. "You aren't going in today."
"Good," Jace said immediately. "I wasn't ready anyway."
"Liar," Mira said. "You've been ready since breakfast."
"Ready doesn't mean eager," he replied.
Evan halted and said, "Alright, everyone, gather up. No delving today, here's the priority of work for the day."
Theo and Jace just groaned. The rest of the day vanished into work.
Rooms near the tower's entrance were cleared and reinforced. Broken stone was dragged into makeshift barricades. Doorways were narrowed. The Soldiers worked on building and fortifying a place to sleep.
The Goblins scattered fast once they realized they'd been found, but not fast enough. The groups were larger here and common, but the teams had learned how to kill them.
Sarah killed nine goblins herself before noon. Gravebound Resolve stirred once when Jace took a spear to his stomach, but one of the healing potions was able to save him.
Two Hobgoblins burst from cover near a creek, spears leveled, armor better than anything the goblins had worn. Everyone was grinning by the time it was over. They had solid spearheads with decent hafts. Leather that could actually be reused.
One of the adventurers from the other team—older, scarred, name Sarah couldn't remember—sat down hard afterward and laughed.
"Got something," he said, staring at nothing.
"Perk?" Evan asked.
"Yeah. " Uncommon," the man replied. "Footing. Less chance to slip, but it's better than the common one the goblins give you."
Evan nodded. "That's useful."
"Very." He said with a smile.
They made camp as dusk crept in.
They didn't bother hiding their campfire, and they made their first authentic meal since they stepped off. The meat was divided carefully. Fat was rendered where it could be. No one complained, and the mood was jovial amongst the group.
By the time the watches were set, Sarah had gone over the plan four times.
She went over it a fifth time anyway.
"Jace, you'll take the lead, and Mira, you'll be responsible for checking for traps. The dungeon is modeled after the basement of the tower, and it should be around 20 rooms."
Jace nodded while Mira rechecked her straps. Theo didn't look up, too busy doodling in the dirt.
"Hobgoblins inside," Sarah continued. "Lots of goblins. That's all we know. Harold didn't remember traps, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. He also said goblins like to use ambushers, so expect that."
Theo finally glanced up. "That's reassuring."
She snorted. "You'll live, you're in the back."
"Probably," he said, smiling.
The fire burned down low, and the conversation drifted off. Everyone was tired from the constant movement.
When they finally lay down, Sarah didn't sleep much. She listened to the forest breathe. To the distant creak of stone settling. To her own heartbeat, steady and patient.
At some point, Sarah reached into her pack.
The container Harold had given her felt heavier than it should have. She turned it once in her fingers, then uncorked it and drank.
Warmth spread through her almost immediately. Not sharp or overwhelming. Just… there. Settling deep into muscle and bone, quiet and steady. But she could feel herself feeling more solid, more durable.
She let out a slow breath and leaned back when suddenly Mira popped up.
"…Was that from your brother?!"
Sarah turned her head. Mira was watching her, chin propped on her arm, eyes sharp in the firelight.
"Yeah," Sarah said, laughing. "Sort of."
Mira frowned. "Sort of?"
"It's complicated," Sarah said.
Mira shifted closer anyway. "What does it do?"
Sarah thought for a second. "Makes me stronger, tougher, and faster."
Mira's eyes widened. "Oh."
Then, immediately, "I want one."
Sarah snorted quietly. "Of course you do."
"I'm serious," Mira said. "When we get back. You should tell him I want one. I don't even need to be that strong."
Sarah smiled faintly, then the smile faded.
Mira stared into the fire for a moment, then said, much quieter, "That spear earlier. When Jace got hit."
Sarah's jaw tightened. "Yeah...I know."
"The way he screamed," Mira continued. "I know he lived. I know we have crap armour, but that spear went right through it. But for a second I thought—" She stopped, swallowing. "It scared me. That was one of the first times one of us really took a hit like that. Like...Jace had died before, but it was instant. This time, he screamed."
Sarah didn't answer right away. She shifted closer and bumped Mira's shoulder with her own.
"He's loud," Sarah said softly. "Always has been."
Mira huffed a weak laugh. "That's not what I meant."
"I know, we'll be ok tomorrow," Sarah said.
They sat like that for a while, listening to the fire crackle, the forest breathe.
Mira glanced at her again. "You okay?"
Sarah nodded. "Yeah. I am now."
Mira leaned back. "Good. Because if you get any stronger without telling me, I'm gonna be mad."
Sarah smiled in the dark. There were perks to her brother being the Lord, but now she had to play her part. Harold needed her to conquer this dungeon. And honestly, she really wanted the perk for killing the boss. Harold had said most of the best ones were from killing dungeon bosses.
The first sign was the noise of many things moving over stone.
The soldier on watch stiffened, knuckles whitening around his spear. He leaned forward, peering through the narrow choke they'd built from fallen stone and shattered masonry.
The darkness pressed close.
Then something shrieked.
A goblin slammed into the barricade, claws scrabbling against stone. Another followed, then another, bodies piling up as they tried to force themselves through the gap. Breathe. Listen. "CONTACT!" the soldier roared. "Form up!"
The room snapped awake.
Sarah rolled off her bedroll and was moving before her boots were entirely on. Mira nearly tripped over her own pack, cursing under her breath as she scrambled into position. Jace grabbed his shield with a hiss, pain flashing across his face, but he made it to the line.
"Doorway!" Evan shouted. "Everyone to the choke!"
Most of the soldiers were already there, led by Carter, who was making sure the shields were locked and the looted spears were angled low through the narrowed opening. Torches flared as goblins poured out of the dark hallway beyond, screaming, shoving each other forward. They were armed with short swords, some had shields, and not a lick of armor on any of them.
Stone scraped.
The first goblin wedged itself halfway through the gap, ribs crushed as a spear punched into its chest. It died there, blocking the opening just long enough for another to climb over it.
A hobgoblin's roar echoed down the corridor.
"Taller one!" someone yelled.
The hobgoblin forced its way forward, spear thrusting through the gap hard enough to rattle the stones they'd stacked. The impact drove the shield line back a step.
"Hold!" Carter barked. "Brace!"
Sarah was already there.
She weaved between two soldiers as they braced their shields, and she prepared to thrust forward.
A shield slipped.
She stepped in, cutting low, then high, opening the hobgoblin's thigh. It howled, stumbling back, dragging two goblins down with it.
"Close that gap!" Carter thundered.
Mira screamed and stabbed, the spear shaking in her hands as it punched into something small and screaming. "I got one!"
"Again!" Theo yelled. "Do it again!"
The hallway became a slaughterhouse. Goblins surged forward, bodies piling as shrieks turned to panicked chittering when they were funneled into death one by one. The floor was slippery with blood, threatening to undermine steady footing. On occasion, a loose stone dislodged under the weight of pressing bodies and fell, adding chaos to the battle as adventurers skillfully dodged falling debris while holding the line. Hobgoblins at the back forced more goblins forward. Blood slicked the stone, mixing with the mud and making every step a test of balance. The smell was copper and rot and smoke.
A goblin squeezed through low, crawling on the ground to get under the shields, his blade flashing.
Jace caught it on his shield and went down with a grunt.
Theo was on it instantly. A downward strike, and the goblin went still.
Jace sucked in a breath. "I'm up. That sucked."
He barely finished the sentence before the pressure came back.
Heavier this time.
The goblins didn't scream as much. They were being pushed.
Stone scraped as bodies slammed forward in a coordinated shove. The barricade shuddered, shields rattling as the soldiers braced instinctively.
"Hold!" Carter barked. "This is it—brace!"
A hobgoblin shoulder rammed into the opening, broad enough that it filled the gap almost completely. For a split second, the line wavered as the sheer force of the impact sent a ripple of doubt through the shield-bearers' ranks. One soldier, eyes wide with fear, hesitated, his grip loosening on his shield. Sarah felt the flicker of uncertainty but steeled herself, recalling the relentless training and the stakes at hand. A second hobgoblin loomed behind, then a third, forcing the smaller goblins ahead of them like living battering rams.
"Shields!" Evan shouted.
They locked tighter, boots digging into stone. Sarah felt the impact run through the line, through her arms, into her spine. The doorway groaned. One of the stacked blocks shifted, grinding against its neighbor.
Mira screamed something unintelligible and stabbed again and again, her spear bouncing off something until Sarah shoved her blade through the hobgoblin's forearm.
It howled, but didn't fall.
Another hobgoblin leaned over its back and thrust blindly through the gap. The spear scraped a shield rim and punched into the stone wall beside Sarah's head with a crack.
"Pull it!" someone yelled.
Theo grabbed the shaft, yanking hard. The hobgoblin on the other end wasn't ready for it. It stumbled forward just enough.
Carter took the opening.
He stepped into the gap, and a silver sheen covered his blade as he shoved it up and into the hobgoblin's head.
It convulsed, then collapsed forward.
The body jammed sideways in the choke.
The second hobgoblin slammed into it, snarling, trying to climb over its dying kin. Goblins piled behind it, shrieking as they were crushed between stone and muscle.
"Spears forward!" Carter shouted. "Don't let them clear it!"
They didn't.
Spears punched down. Blades flashed. Blood poured into the doorway until the floor ran slick and the goblins started slipping over their own dead.
The second hobgoblin took a spear through the eye and dropped, further blocking the doorway.
Silence didn't come right away.
There was breathing. Groaning. The wet sound of something dying slowly beyond the stones.
Then the pressure was gone.
No more shoves. No more screams.
Just the torchlight flickering over a doorway packed solid with bodies.
Carter kept his shield up for another complete count before lowering it. "Well, that was a rush."
Evan wiped blood off his cheek with a shaking hand. "Yeah. Hopefully that won't be a habit."
Sarah leaned back, legs trembling now that the pull had eased.
Mira stared at the barricade. "They planned that."
Sarah nodded. "Yeah, those hobgoblins are dangerous."
Cater started moving around and checking his people for injuries. On one, he pulled a vial out and tipped it down his throat, then guided him to a clean section of the floor to rest.
Evan saw Carter working the line and started doing the same for the adventurers.
"Anyone hurt?" he called. "Anyone get any perks from that?"
There was a beat. Then voices.
"Bruised."
"Shield arm's gonna hate me tomorrow."
"I'm good. Mostly."
Theo rolled his ankle once to test it. "Got something. Same as before. Surefooted again, just the better version from the Hobgoblins."
Evan nodded. "Figures. Anyone else?"
Jace raised a hand sheepishly. "Uh. Yeah. Same one."
Mira snorted. "You need it."
Jace scowled. "Hey, I went down once."
"Exactly," Theo said. "And we all saw."
A couple more got perks they hadn't gotten from the goblins, but they had just about gotten all the perks they could get from simple goblins. Then Mira went quiet.
Sarah turned. "Mira?"
Mira blinked like she was coming back from somewhere far away. "I didn't get that one."
Evan stepped closer. "Read it."
She swallowed and glanced down again.
"It's called Battle Caller. Rare."
That stopped the room.
She read carefully.
"When fighting as part of a group, the verbal commands and callouts I give carry increased clarity and authority. Allies who respond gain improved reaction timing and coordination for a short duration."
Theo stared. "Those hobgoblins did control the fight from the rear."
Mira nodded slowly. "I guess I'm gonna be our shotcaller now."
Evan let out a quiet breath. "That perk will make you very useful."
Jace grinned despite himself. "So you're officially allowed to boss us around now."
Mira shot him a look. "I was already doing that."
Carter glanced over from the choke. "That perk is a responsibility; you should come work with us during our drills," he said calmly. "I think you would really benefit from the experience."
Mira nodded, serious now. "I get it."
Sarah squeezed her shoulder. "That one's big. We'll work it into how we fight."
Mira exhaled. "Good. Because that shove almost broke us."
Evan clapped his hands once. "Alright. Perks noted. Jace—"
Jace straightened. "Yes?"
"Try not to test that footing perk again tonight."
A few quiet laughs slipped out, short and tired, just enough to bleed off the tension.
Evan turned back toward the barricade and Carter, his expression settling into something more focused. "That was a probe," Evan said. "They wanted to see if we'd fold." Carter studied the bodies jammed into the stone choke. The way they'd piled wasn't random. Someone had pushed them there. Carter gave a short nod in agreement. "We didn't," he said, his eyes tracing over the scene. "This position needs work; if we tighten our defenses, we'll hold out. But what will they try next?"
He glanced back at Mira.
"And it sounds like they are," he added, "if she pulled something like that."
Carter didn't argue. He just gave a short nod and quietly doubled the watch, spacing soldiers and adventurers in overlapping pairs. He sent out a pair to gather as many spears and swords as they could gather and take all the leather armour the hobgoblins had. It was better than anything they were already wearing.
No one complained about wearing the bloody armor from the hobgoblins.
The group settled back down where they could, armor loosened but never entirely off. Sleep came in fragments. The kind that left you half-aware of every sound, every shift of shadow beyond the torchlight.
The ruin stayed quiet.
But no one believed it was done with them yet.
Harold woke to the rich, comforting aroma of smoke and freshly baked bread, the warmth of the morning air carrying hints of crisp embers still smoldering in the hearth. They had found some wild wheat out in a forest clearing, the wind caressing its golden strands, and it was quickly gathered and brought back. The group that found it was rewarded with some of their small supply of silver.
Not breakfast yet. Someone had started early, which usually meant they were nervous or trying to stay useful. He stayed in bed a moment longer, eyes open, listening to the Lord's Hall wake around him.
Footsteps on the stairs. A low murmur drifting up from below. Someone laughed, then stopped like they'd remembered where they were.
It had been over a week since Sarah left.
That thought came more easily now. Still unwelcome, but no longer sharp enough to cut. She'd vanished into the forest and hills with no roads, no markers, just a direction and the understanding that turning back wouldn't help anyone.
A week meant she should have reached the dungeon by now. She would be delving into that dungeon soon, and a lot depended on his sister completing it.
Harold swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his face. Yesterday's runner came back to him immediately, breathless and proud of himself for surviving the trip. He said there was some predator out there following him.
Word of a herd of buffalo, though. It was probably a herd of Tatanka; they were common in this area and commonly used as cattle by the natives on Gravesend. The most significant difference was that they had a rack of horns like deer or elk did, not like the buffalo did from earth. But they were good cattle.
They'd spent most of yesterday locked in a heated discussion on how not to screw it up. Caldwell was adamant they needed a plan, while Hale pointed out the potential risks of overcomplicating things. "We need those tatanka, no room for error," Caldwell insisted, his voice sharp with urgency. Hale nodded, but countered, "Too much complexity and we'll stall. We can't afford delays." Harold listened more than he talked, his gaze shifting between them. Eventually, he leaned forward and said, "Alright, make it happen today." The weight of his words hung in the air, pressing them into action.
He stood, pulled on his boots, and paused with his hands resting on the edge of the bed.
Sarah would have liked this problem. She's been thriving here in a way she struggled with back on earth. "Be careful," he said quietly, not sure who he meant it for.
Downstairs, someone called his name. Someone was checking if he was awake yet.
Harold straightened, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door.
Harold stepped into the lower hall and immediately clocked the silence. It wasn't just quiet, it felt like a held breath. Margret and Hale stood near one of the long tables, their conversation dying as soon as he appeared. Harold noticed Hale's hand tighten around the edge of the table just a little, and Margret quickly averted her eyes to the doorway, as if expecting someone else to appear. The hush felt more dangerous than odd.
That alone would've been enough.
Hale caught his eye and gave a slight motion with two fingers, subtle but deliberate.
"My lord," Hale said. "May we speak?"
The words landed wrong.
Hale rarely used the title like this. Not unless there were witnesses or something mattered, never when it was in private.
Harold slowed, eyes flicking once to Margret. She looked past him, focused very hard on nothing at all.
"Let me grab some breakfast first," Harold said. Casual and measured. "Then we'll talk."
Hale didn't answer.
He stepped forward instead and held out a wooden bowl. Inside was fresh bread, still warm, torn into thick pieces. Someone had even bothered to smear a bit of rendered fat along the edge. Harold took the bowl, feeling the weight of the bread in his hand, but he didn't immediately bite into it. The bread smelled good, but he let it cool in his grip. Hale's expression remained unchanged.
"We should talk now," he said.
Harold allowed the silence to linger for a moment, his fingers leaving light impressions on the bread as he considered the tension in the room. He took this time to observe them both a little more. This was out of character for both of them. It couldn't be a danger to the village, or they would be going about this differently.
"Sure, we can go to my office." Harold took a step towards his office, and they both followed along behind him.
He opened the door and walked in. He settled at his desk and set his bowl of food down. He pulled his chair up and started to eat.
"Alright, you two, what is this about?"
He closed the office door first. Just enough to make the click carry.
Then he looked at Harold.
"What do you know about my background?" Hale asked.
Harold paused with the bread halfway to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then set the bowl down again.
"Not much," he said. "You were in the army. You got out. A few years later, you were teaching history. Something about having worked closely with intelligence units."
Hale nodded once, like he'd expected exactly that.
Margret shifted against the wall, arms folded. She still hadn't sat either.
"That's the short version," Hale said.
Harold leaned back slightly in his chair. "It's the version you gave me."
Hale's mouth twitched at that. Not quite a smile.
"I didn't lie," he said. "I just stopped early."
Margret finally spoke. "He didn't go straight from the army to a classroom."
Harold's eyes moved to her. "Alright," he said. "Then fill in the gap."
"I worked in intelligence. Field collection, analysis, and training. I wasn't alone, and I wasn't important enough to be irreplaceable."
Margret snorted quietly at that. Hale ignored her.
"When we got here, I checked the forum," he continued. "Same as everyone else. Before we left Earth, Margret and I checked in with some people we knew and told them to look for signs of us on the forum."
"We didn't tell them anything else about Gravesend, but now they are asking how we knew," Hale explained. That's not the critical part, though."
Hale leaned back against the wall. "I found people I used to work with. Different agencies, different missions, same habits."
Harold stayed quiet.
"They're on Gravesend," Hale said. "They're scattered and lying low. Some are better off than others, but no one is doing as well as we are here. They're all roles, including Lords."
Margret finally spoke. "They've already been talking shop."
"Carefully," Hale added. "No structure yet. No chain. But enough to jump-start the ranger project you asked me to build. Some of them are close."
That earned a nod of interest from Harold.
"They can teach," Hale went on. "Movement, tracking, observation, counter-tracking. How not to be seen when being seen gets you killed. It's real instruction, not just drills."
"And?" Harold asked.
Hale didn't dodge it. "They want something in return."
Margret's voice was softer now. "Their families."
Harold looked between them. "Finding them?"
"And getting them here," Hale said. "Safely. Some of the places they are in are still really bad off."
That sat heavier than anything else he'd said.
They're willing to commit," Hale continued. "Train people full-time, take missions, I have impressed the threat the other races are. Some believe, some don't. But they won't anchor themselves to this place unless their families are anchored here too."
Harold tapped a finger once against the desk. "How many?"
"I think I can get a couple dozen of them here if we can send out some escort missions to the adventurers or the Army. Some of them don't know where their families are; they want our help finding them. Call it 20 people to help with the program. With another 100 in the family. And that's just the ones that are close."
"And if we don't offer them a place here," Hale added cautiously, "there's talk that a rival faction might welcome them into their fold. We need to act quickly."
The room went quiet.
Finally, Harold nodded. "That's not an unreasonable ask."
Hale's shoulders loosened slightly.
"But," Harold continued, "anyone involved will take an oath to me. A variation of the one you already swore. The same applies to both of you."
He looked at them in turn.
"I'm not recreating the same games intelligence agencies played back on Earth. Not here."
Margret smiled faintly.
Hale nodded once. "I understand, and I would have told you to do the same."
Harold let the silence sit a moment longer, then shifted his attention to Margret.
"And you?" he asked. "What did you actually do?"
Margret didn't answer right away.
She glanced at Hale first. Just habit more than permission. Then she looked back at Harold, her expression softer than it had been all morning.
"I met him in the field once," she said.
Hale snorted quietly. "She saved my life." His laughter held a sharp edge, a hint of something darker beneath the humor.
Margret waved it off. "You were a mess."
Even as they exchanged smiles, Hale's fingers idly grazed the edge of his belt, where something metallic gleamed faintly, a silent reminder of other possibilities.
"That's because you shot me!" Hale exclaimed.
She smiled at that, just a little.
"We stayed in contact after," Margaret continued. "Off and on. Same circles, different sides of the board."
Harold waited.
"I wasn't a field agent," Margaret said. "Not really. I was an analyst."
Hale raised an eyebrow. "Coulda fooled me." He said mulishly.
She shot him a look. "Highly placed," she corrected. "I didn't run sources. I read reports and figured out how they fit together."
Harold leaned back in his chair, studying her for a moment before shifting his gaze to Hale.
"Then why did you both decide to come work for me?" he asked. "Hale, Garrick brought you in. How did he even know you?"
Hale smiled at that.
"Garrick and I were squad leaders together during the war," he said. "Good NCO.. Better man. He knew a little about what I got involved in afterward.
Margret nodded. "When your demonstration happened," she said, "he called Hale."
"Asked me to assess you," Hale continued, "and to figure out what you'd gotten his niece mixed up in."
Harold snorted quietly. "And?"
Hale's smile faded into something more thoughtful.
"Then I saw it," he said. "Your demonstration. What you did. What happened around you?"
He shook his head once. "I ran through every explanation I had."
Margret added, "None of them worked."
"It wasn't tech," Hale said. "Not training. Not misdirection. It didn't fit any framework I knew."
As he spoke, the room seemed to dim ever so slightly, as though the shadows themselves leaned in to listen. There was a peculiar coolness to the air near Harold, a sensation like a gentle breeze that carried with it the faintest shimmer, as if the air had taken on a ripple of its own.
He met Harold's eyes. "It was magic."
The word hung there, oddly plain for what it carried.
"And that convinced you?" Harold asked.
"It convinced me I was out of my depth," Hale said.
Silence settled as Harold worked through what they'd told him.
"And what do you think of all this now?" he asked.
Margret answered before Hale could.
"I still don't believe most of it," she said. "Not really."
Both men looked at her.
"Living here for twenty years," she continued. "Enslavement. Torture. Magic on a scale I can't even frame properly. If you'd told me that story anywhere else, I'd have walked."
Hale didn't interrupt.
"But," Margaret went on, "you know too many things. Details you shouldn't have. Patterns you couldn't guess. I've tried to come up with another explanation for that. Making more fantastic potions here."
She shook her head once. "I can't."
Harold stayed quiet.
"I don't understand the magic," she said. "I don't like how much it changes the rules. But pretending it isn't real would be worse."
She folded her arms, thinking as she spoke now.
Margret leaned forward slightly. "We don't need everyone. We need the right ones. The forum lets us screen before we ever move." Harold considered her words, sensing the practicality they could bring. "If we're already planning escort missions for families," Margret continued, "we should expand the scope. Bring in the people we actually need. Engineers. Medics. Logisticians. Not just fighters. Imagine a bridge we've seen collapsed on the northern pass. With the right team, we could rebuild it and open a new trade route, turning plans into tangible progress."
Hale glanced at her. "Careful."
"I am," she replied. "Careful doesn't mean timid."
"And intelligence," Hale added.
"Yes," Margaret agreed. "And intelligence."
Harold finally spoke. "That's a larger operation."
"It is," Margaret said. But we already have the people in those places to recruit and vet for us."
Finally, Harold nodded, thinking while he took a second to eat. "Alright," he said, pointing the last of his bread at her.
Both of them stilled.
"We start small," Harold continued. "We get the people we need from the villages within the basin first. We can't make the crossing through the mountain passes yet anyway."
He looked between them. "Tell me what you need to make it happen, and we'll do it."
Margret smiled faintly. "That's all I was asking."
Hale let out a slow breath. "I'll draft the first list."
Harold picked up the bread again. It had cooled, but it was still good.
"Thank you," Harold said calmly, "for trusting me with the truth."
Harold's hand slipped from beneath the desk.
He placed a small vial gently on the wood between them. The red liquid inside was thick, with tiny orange flecks suspended like embers caught mid-fall. A subtle warmth seemed to radiate from it, a heat that did not burn but hinted at a dormant power. As the vial settled on the desk, it gave off a soft hum, almost like an inaudible whisper, and a faint scent drifted through the air, reminiscent of charred cedar and citrus. The room seemed to hold a breath, the presence of the vial commanding quiet attention before anyone spoke.
Hale frowned slightly and leaned in, curiosity winning out over caution.
Harold met his gaze and smiled.
"You aren't the only ones who come prepared," he said.
Both of them froze.
Hale's eyes widened, then he barked out a laugh, sudden and loud enough to make Margret flinch. She shot him a sharp look, then turned her scowl on Harold.
"Really?" Margret said. "You thought we were threatening you?"
"I didn't know what you wanted," Harold shot back. "You both demanded a private meeting, used titles, and started circling your past like it was a crime scene."
Hale was still laughing, one hand braced on the desk. "That's… actually fair."
Margret crossed her arms. "Unbelievable."
"I've been here long enough to know how this usually goes," Harold said. "I wouldn't be the first Lord killed by his own people."
That finally cut Hale off.
Margret huffed, shaking her head. "You plan for paranoia now, too?"
"I am paranoid," Harold said evenly.
Hale wiped at his eyes, grin still there. "Well," he said, "if this was a test, you passed."
Margret looked between them, then sighed. "Next time, we start with words."
Harold nodded. "Next time, don't open with 'my lord'."
For a moment, the tension broke completely.
Then Margret glanced back at the vial on the desk.
"…Still," she added, "I'd like to know what that does."
Harold's smile didn't fade.
The room was thick with the metallic tang of fresh iron, grounding the gathered group in the moment. Each thud of the iron nails being hammered into the wooden table seemed to echo with purpose, pinning the map in place as if anchoring their mission. The terrain model had been replaced with this map, a rough piece of paper procured from the forum. Hale stood at one end, posture squared, fingertips resting on the edge. Mark was to his left, jaw tight in concentration. The others were already seated: Margaret, arms folded, sharp-eyed as always; Caldwell, still chewing something that looked like a root; Garrick had joined for this morning as he was being left in charge of the remaining garrison; and Beth and Josh, sleeves rolled and streaked with charcoal.
They wouldn't have made it this far if Caldwell weren't making the trades he was making through the Stele. It was probably the greatest thing that allowed humanity to survive this long. Thankfully, trades over the forum would be available for a while, ensuring humanity would be stabilized much sooner than otherwise.
Harold leaned forward, palms flat. "Walk us through it."
Hale didn't waste time.
"We've got a confirmed herd of at least one-fifty Tatanka," he said. "Dense and healthy, as far as we could tell. Grazing in a small valley surrounded by broken forest. Terrain favors us — the slope funnels movement naturally toward a choke near the river bend."
Margaret narrowed her eyes. "A natural fence?"
"Exactly," Mark cut in with a note of enthusiasm that seemed to sharpen his tone. "The lay of the land, the noise control, and our staggered sweeps work together like the gears of a clock. We can steer them without causing a stampede. Or at least, without a stampede heading our way."
Caldwell raised a brow, his skepticism carrying through his voice like a gritty undertone. "Will we lose any of them?"
"We will," Hale said. "The goal is containment, not perfection."
Beth glanced over. "And once we have them?"
"We have a holding field cleared northeast of the barracks palisade. Temporary fencing is going up now. Teams will rotate on watch and herding until permanent pens are built."
Harold looked up. "How many are you taking?"
Hale answered without hesitation. "One full century. Almost 100 men. Four Optios or our new squad leaders. We are going to go with the Roman rank structure. Two from the original squad leaders, two of the veterans that came through the recruitment portal in the last couple of days. They've drilled together."
Margaret didn't blink. "And the adventurers?"
"Five full teams. Mixture of roles. Two we already vetted. The others volunteered after the last post about our hunting efforts and the silver that one team gained by bringing back that grain."
Harold's brow lifted slightly. "Reputation's useful, then."
Caldwell snorted. "But bad for my treasury."
"Which is why this will move fast," Hale said. "No hunting detours and no lingering. They will travel light, herd and gather fast, and return heavier."
Beth leaned back. "This means food, hide, and bone. This changes everything."
"And milk," Caldwell added. "If we get females in decent health, we can start early domestication."
"Noted," Beth said dryly.
Harold glanced toward the edge of the map. "And what about the threats?"
"The same predator that tracked our last runner is still out there," Hale confirmed. "It's a big and fast cat, from what we've seen. The force we're sending is strong enough to handle it; the adventurers already said they'll be looking to hunt it. I think one team pooled their resources with another to buy a net."
Harold stayed silent a beat longer. Then nodded slowly.
"Alright, no one dies for cattle." He said. The words landed with weight.
"Copy that," Hale said.
"Get it done," Harold continued. "But remember, this is only worth it if they come back."
He stepped back from the table.
"I want a report through the relay every day. If anything delays you, let me know. Losing most of the garrison makes me uncomfortable."
Hale nodded. "Understood."
Harold looked at Mark. "You'll coordinate response if they call for help."
"I've already assigned the runners."
He turned to Caldwell. "You'll track the barter outputs. If this works, we scale."
Caldwell scratched his beard. "Already lining up another chicken trade. Some poor bastard on the forum is offering goats."
Harold gave him a look. "Live?"
"Hopefully," he laughed. "We are doing better, but we could be doing more if we had more potions."
The meeting began to dissolve as chairs scraped and slates closed. Optios would already be forming ranks outside.
Hale lingered at the edge of the room. Mark was beside him, rechecking the route etched into a map roll.
Garrick moved to follow but stopped beside Harold. "You coming to drills?"
Harold gave a half-smile. "That's the plan."
Garrick's eyes glinted. "Don't fall behind again. The lads still talk about that time your helmet flew off."
Harold groaned.
"I told you the chin strap was loose."
"Sure you did," Garrick said.
The last voice in the room belonged to Caldwell, who was poking at the leftover bread someone had forgotten on the table.
"You have no idea how much silver I can squeeze out of leather and tallow right now," he said, almost to himself, a little too pleased.
"As long as what we need is satisfied," he said.
________________________________________________________________________
The path east wasn't a road. It was a rut. A long, trampled smear in the ground, wide enough for carts to pass single-file and worn deeper each time another expedition trudged through. In places, stagnant puddles gathered, shimmering with a metallic sheen, harboring life forms unknown and hinting at hidden threats. Scavenger tracks crisscrossed the mud, traces of creatures opportunistically trailing each caravan. Grass had been beaten down to dirt. A hundred boots had kicked stones aside. But no one had laid logs, no one had dug drainage, and no one had time. Every scrap of lumber in the settlement had a purpose: walls, shelters, kitchens, scaffolds.
A full century of soldiers assembled in staggered rows, armor patchwork but functional, shields slung across backs. They weren't uniform, but they moved like they'd learned to be. Hale stood at the front, speaking in a low voice with his four Optios. Each wore a strip of dyed cloth wrapped around one arm. Red, green, blue, and yellow. Hale's idea was to keep field commands clean.
To the side, five adventuring teams gathered in uneven clusters. They were armed, alert, and loud—no matching colors. No real ranged weapons, either — those didn't exist yet. The few that had ranged weapons carried packs of short spears or crude javelins. Most of them wore leather scavenged from goblins or crudely worked from early hunts.
One group passed around a large wooden club still dark with drying sap. Another was arguing over whose pack weighed more.
Harold watched it all from beside the barracks, Garrick at his shoulder.
"That's more people than we've ever sent out at once," Harold said quietly.
"Twice over," Garrick agreed. "And you're sending the good ones."
Harold nodded.
Below, a pair of carts creaked under awkward loads. The bundles of rough cordage twisted from bark and dried vines groaned with tension as the wheels rolled. Rolls of canvas sewn from salvaged clothes rustled with each bump, while bundles of sharpened sticks clattered ominously, as if ready to spill across the ground like brittle bones. No part of this ramshackle array seemed like it belonged in a real herding operation. Every sound hinted at fragility, as though everything was moments away from falling apart.
Hale turned, made a sharp gesture. Soldiers snapped to readiness.
Harold noticed some villagers pausing nearby. Watching.
"They're nervous," Garrick said.
"They should be," Harold replied. "We're gutting our defenses for a herd of animals."
"Yeah," Garrick said. "But if we don't start thinking like a real settlement, we'll stay a refugee camp forever."
That earned a nod, and the carts began to move.
Hale walked a few paces ahead of the column, pace steady. His Optios called the march; each voice staggered down the line. The soldiers followed without complaint.
Adventurers fell in behind, more casual, but still moving as a unit. Some of them waved to villagers as they passed. One whistled, loud and out of tune.
Then the chickens escaped.
A blur of feathers darted under one of the carts, then another. Squawking. Flapping. A second bird followed, then three more. In seconds, a half-dozen chickens were everywhere.
"Shit!" someone yelled. "Get 'em!"
A young soldier tripped trying to avoid one and caught himself on a cart wheel. One of the adventurers actually drew a knife, paused, and reconsidered. Another tried to chase a hen and got pecked in the shin for his trouble.
Harold blinked. "Why are they—"
"Caldwell's chickens," Garrick muttered. "Forum trade."
"They were penned."
"Were," Garrick said.
Three villagers sprinted after the birds, baskets and curses in hand. One soldier snatched a flapping hen out of the air and tucked it under his arm as if he'd just claimed a trophy. Somewhere down the line, someone cheered.
Harold let out a breath. "I can't decide if that was a bad omen or a good one."
"Let's call it morale," Garrick said.
The noise faded as the column moved farther down the trail. Soon, only dust and bootprints marked where they'd passed.
Garrick was already checking names off a slate.
"Fifty-one still here," he said. "Most are green—four proper veterans. I'll rotate double patrols through the inner fields. You'll get your night shift volunteers again."
Harold nodded. "Keep them moving. If the village feels busy, they'll feel safe."
Garrick made a noise halfway between agreement and resignation.
"You want me to give a speech?" Harold asked.
"God, no," Garrick said immediately. "Just show your face once or twice. That's worth more."
They walked a short distance together, boots crunching over dry soil. The sky was clear, but cold was coming in on the wind.
"No real wall," Harold said. "Our only fallback is the half-built palisade around your barracks. Not even a damn gate."
"We've got the barracks," Garrick replied. "If things go wrong, we fit what we can inside. Everyone else… runs or fights."
Harold didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Tell the kitchen to prep extra broth for tonight. I want people to be warm."
Garrick gave a short nod. "Alright. Still joining us for drills?"
"I said I would."
"You'll regret that," Garrick said, smiling.
Harold smiled faintly. "Already do."
The barracks field was mostly dust by now. Whatever grass once grew there had long since been stomped to pulp. The dirt was packed down like stone in some places, soft and chewed up in others — the scars of weeks of drills, sparring, and exhaustion.
Soldiers stretched in loose ranks. Some rolled their shoulders. Others checked the bindings on their makeshift padding — hide jerkins, scavenged leather, padded cloth stiff with sweat. They weren't uniformed. But they were shaping into something close.
Garrick paced in front of them, dragging a bent stick as he walked.
"No using mana today," he called, voice sharp and dry. "You try and cheat, and I put you on night latrine detail for a week."
A few grunts of laughter answered him.
Harold stood three rows back, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat already sticking his shirt to his back. He wore no lord's colors. No officer's insignia. Just a blunt wooden shield and a sand-filled practice pole, same as everyone else.
To his left and right: Ren and Corwin. The two former soldiers who'd once walked him to the forest edge and talked shit the entire way. They had been his constant guard since that day.
"Still remember how to hold that thing?" Ren asked, nodding at Harold's weighted pole.
"I've hit people with worse," Harold muttered.
"Hopefully not from the same side of the formation," Corwin added. "That's how you break a line."
Harold just shook his head.
They started with footwork. Garrick barked cadence as the rows shuffled forward, shields angled, poles held low. No striking. Just positioning. Balance. Moving as a wall.
"Keep the spacing tight," Garrick snapped. "Don't watch your damn feet — watch the man ahead."
Harold kept his eyes up. He stepped when Corwin stepped. Matched speed. Matched angle.
They rotated. Reversed. Practiced line turns. Twice, Harold's shield drifted wide and tapped Ren's. Ren said nothing — just nudged it back with his own.
Then came pressure drills.
Each man squared off with another. One held their shield. The other pushed.
Garrick pointed. "Switch on my call. No stepping back. If you move, you lose. That's the rule."
Harold squared off with Ren first. The older man grinned and stepped in close.
"No mana," he reminded. "You cheat, I bite you."
"You'd like it." Harold smiled right back.
The first impact drove Harold back a half-step. Not far. But it counted.
Garrick saw it. "Reset."
They squared again. This time, Harold braced lower. Dug his heels in. Took the hit.
Then pushed back.
Ren grunted. "Better."
Switch.
Now Corwin.
He didn't charge. He leaned—applied slow, constant weight like a rising tide. Harold adjusted, teeth clenched, legs screaming.
Corwin's brow didn't even furrow. "Get under it. Not against it."
Harold bent deeper, pulled his arm in, and held.
Switch again.
By the end of the round, Harold's arms burned, and his ribs felt like they'd been boxed with bricks. But he hadn't moved.
They ended with a mock formation push.
Three ranks, shoulder to shoulder, poles braced across the second row's shoulders. Garrick walked the front, checking lines.
"You're not swordsmen," he said. "You're not mages. You're weight, pressure! Hold together or break and die."
Harold was in the second row.
Ren and Corwin were behind him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders.
Garrick raised a hand.
"Advance."
The line moved, and Harold moved with it.
It wasnt clean or fast, but he didn't trip. He didn't lurch. He didn't fall out of sync. The shield wall ahead of him held steady, and he followed the rhythm. Left foot. Right. Press. Brace.
The weight of the poles bore down across his shoulders, trembling from each tiny movement behind him. The distant cry of a wolf, barely discernible over the cacophony of drills, sent an involuntary shiver through the ranks, a reminder of the still-untamed wilds beyond the settlement's fragile boundaries. They hit the marked line in the dirt and stopped on cue.
Garrick nodded once. "Acceptable."
Which was as close to praise as anyone got.
Later, sitting on a crate and peeling off his soaked shirt, Harold sucked in slow breaths and tried not to collapse.
Corwin dropped beside him, tossed over a skin of water.
"You're not useless," he said.
Harold raised a brow. "Thanks?"
Ren leaned against the wall across from them, arms crossed.
"You're still soft," he said. "But you move like someone who knows what happens if he screws up."
"I've had practice," Harold muttered, drinking deep.
"Mm," Ren said. "You're gonna make a passable Legionnaire yet."
Harold snorted. "Let's not go crazy."
They shared a few seconds of silence, broken only by distant hammering from the construction crews.
Then Corwin said, "This way of fighting is different from what we learned in the city I came from. I was skeptical at first, but… I think I can see the thought behind it."
Harold glanced at him. "And?"
Corwin shrugged. "Takes discipline and trust. But it works."
Ren snorted. "Mostly works. Unless the front line's full of rookies with soft feet."
Harold stretched one leg out, wincing. "Soft everything, I think."
They sat in quiet for a moment longer. Distant hammering echoed across the settlement.
Then Ren nodded toward the training line. "Tomorrow's another round."
Harold sighed. "Can't wait."
The Lord's Hall thrummed with a subtle, off-key heartbeat of mana, an undercurrent that pulsed just beneath the tangible scents of smoke and sweat.
The grand fireplace along the far wall was burning hot, with logs stacked so high that heat radiated across the room in steady waves. Shadows crawled up the beams overhead as the flames shifted, painting the space in orange and gold. Suddenly, a log shifted unexpectedly, collapsing into the ash with a dull thud. The flames flickered violently for a moment, casting elongated shadows that danced erratically across the walls. It was as if the fire mirrored the uncertainty lurking in the room, reflecting the students' fluctuating control over their mana.
Most of the furniture had been dragged aside, but not carefully. Benches leaned against walls. Tables were pushed back just far enough to clear the floor. Practicality won out over form.
A dozen people sat on the floor in a loose half-circle around the fire.
Some leaned against the stone hearth. Others sat cross‑legged, boots kicked off, hands resting on knees or pressed flat against the floorboards. No one was speaking. The only sounds were the crackle of burning wood and the slow rhythm of breathing.
Harold stood near the edge of the group, arms folded, watching.
They were getting it now. Not all of them, and not in a complete, polished way. Harold felt a wave of relief mixed with a cautious optimism. His mind briefly flickered back to the early days, to the daunting challenge of igniting any spark of understanding of mana within these students. Their initial struggles mirrored his own fears—the fear that he may push them too quickly, that they would falter, or worse, give up. But here they were, proving him wrong, giving him hope. He knew they would get it, but he needed them to get it now. The first hurdle had been the hardest: getting them to feel the mana at all. For days, most of them had chased ghosts—tension where there was none. Imagination mistaken for sensation.
That part was over. Now the problem was control.
Harold could feel it in the room. The mana didn't pack much power yet, but its presence was unmistakable—the movement was like soft currents just beneath the surface of their skin. Mana rose with their breaths, then fell back as they exhaled. Though it seemed uneven and sloppy, with occasional sparks flickering out and dimming, it marked real progress. The sensation wasn't entirely pleasant; students occasionally winced as if they experienced a mild burn, a consequence of their yet untamed control.
A man near the fire grimaced and shifted, rolling his shoulders as if something itched beneath them.
"Don't trap it," Harold said quietly. "Let it move. You're not pinning it down — you're guiding it."
The man exhaled and relaxed, and the tension in the air smoothed just a little.
Another woman frowned, brow creased, hands clenched too tightly.
"You're pushing," Harold told her. "Stop. It's already there."
Her fingers loosened, and her breathing slowed. It was fortunate that Harold had refined his senses enough to sense mana around him. Without it, it would have been impossible to really guide these people.
Harold walked slowly behind them, boots soft on the wood. No lectures or diagrams tonight. They'd done those already. This was repetition and learning familiarity. Teaching their bodies what their minds already understood.
Mana wasn't a tool you grabbed. "Unless you're using the soldier's method," Harold thought to himself.
It was something you let flow through you without letting it run wild.
Several of them were managing it now, moving it from chest to arms, arms to hands, then back again without losing the thread. Crude, uneven paths, but intact. As the mana circled back, a subtle warmth spread through their fingertips, a tingling sensation skimming the surface of their skin, signaling the first complete circuit. This tangible feedback marked a milestone, igniting a gleam of recognition in their eyes.
Elia sat with her back straight, hands resting loosely on her thighs. Her breathing was slow and even, not forced. The firelight flickered across her face, and she didn't react to it at all. She was one of the people who came in the second wave.
Her mana wasn't pooling in one place. It was moving. Harold tilted his head slightly, focusing.
The flow ran from her chest down her spine, spread cleanly into her legs, then back up again. Not fast. Not powerful. But smooth, like the hum of a bowstring pulled just right, vibrating with a steady rhythm it had always known.
She adjusted her posture without opening her eyes, a tiny correction at the hips.
The flow didn't break.
Harold felt something in his chest ease.
Around them, the fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Someone swallowed. Another person shifted position.
But Elia stayed still, and for the first time since they'd begun these lessons, Harold saw someone who wasn't fighting their mana at all.
Harold crouched beside her, slow and quiet.
"Elia," he said softly.
She didn't startle. Her eyes opened, steady and calm, the reflection of the fire catching in them like gold dust.
"You already feel it," Harold said. "And you've flowed it — a full, clean circuit. But now I want to see if you can do something harder."
She listened and didn't reply. Her eyes were still closed as she worked to sense the mana within her.
Guide it again," Harold continued. "This time, don't just let it follow the path it wants. Shift it. Redirect it, change speed, and pressure. Even just a little. Show me you're not just riding the current. Show me you can steer it."
Elia gave the slightest nod.
At first, Harold felt the same steady rhythm as before. The mana gathered, coiled low in her body, then climbed again — smooth, practiced.
But then it changed.
There was a pull—a slowing.
She hesitated the flow just above her solar plexus — holding it back for a moment, then releasing it in a thinner thread, like a trickle instead of a wave. Then she reversed it. Not fully — just a slow backspin of pressure against the direction it had taken before.
It wasn't clean. The edges of it stuttered a bit. She caught it, lost it, caught it again. But she was doing it.
Harold felt it clearly: her will, layered over the motion. She was showing control.
When she let the flow complete its cycle, it was slower than before — but deliberate.
She opened her eyes. Still calm and breathing.
Harold didn't speak at first. He studied her like a craftsman inspecting a new tool. He didn't doubt her, but he needed to be sure what he'd seen wasn't an accident.
He stood and extended a hand. "Come with me," he said.
Harold led her to the back corner of the hall, where a rough table had been set up beside the hearth. The table was nothing elegant, just a work surface cleared of tools and dusted clean. Two slates leaned against the wall nearby, smeared with chalk diagrams and half-erased notations. Everything else sat in neat rows: shallow clay bowls, a battered kettle, a cracked wooden spoon, and a folded cloth holding dried herbs, scraped bark, and a small jar of thick, amber-colored honey sealed with wax. Among these, a particular bowl stood out, cracked but nonetheless still used—it had been one of the first vessels ever crafted in Harold's settlement, now a symbol of endurance and resourcefulness. 'That crack,' Harold thought, 'a reminder of what can be mended and what cannot.' This thought mirrored the challenges they faced, hinting at the potential for severe resource scarcity if their current efforts failed.
Harold poured clean water into the kettle and set it on a wide iron trivet placed just above the hottest stones in the hearth. The flame didn't lick the metal directly but the heat radiated fast. It was the best way to control the heat.
He pointed to the ingredients.
"You've got bitterleaf. Stalkroot. Ash-flower petal. Cracked pinebark. And honey to bind it. That's the base."
Elia studied them with careful eyes.
"You don't just drop it all in," Harold said. "And you don't blast it with mana and hope it cooks right."
He picked up a spoon and pointed to the steaming kettle.
"You have to listen. The water needs to be hot enough to draw out the essence and break down the ingredients, but not so hot as to destroy them. Sometimes that temperature is different for the ingredients you need to add. You start with the roots and bark — things that need time to break down. When they're softened, you add the volatile ones. Petal. Leaf. The honey goes in last to stabilize it."
Elia nodded once. He looked her over carefully. "How's your mana?"
"Steady," she said, smiling up at him a little.
He placed her hand on the kettle handle. "You'll keep that there the whole time. If your flow breaks, you'll burn, and the potion will fail."
. Her fingers wrapped the handle — and she didn't flinch.
Harold stepped back.
"Go." He said.
She inhaled once through her nose, then released it. Her other hand moved slowly, selecting the first ingredient — a broken sliver of stalkroot — and dropping it into the steaming water.
The reaction was immediate — a faint hiss and a muddy swirl that darkened the surface.
She reached for the pinebark next. Dropped two curled flakes into the mix.
Harold watched her knuckles. No tension. No recoil from the heat.
"Now one at a time," Harold said.
A faint glow had begun to build around her shoulders, not visible but rather subtly inferred by the tiny disturbances it caused—like air rippling lightly in the heat or small motes of light momentarily shimmering before fading away. Her mana wasn't just flowing; it was extending, feathering out from her skin like a second pulse.
The handle should have been scalding, but she didn't blink.
Instead, her other hand now hovered above the kettle, shaping the flow with careful intention. Her mana didn't surge all at once. It came in slow pulses, matching her breath. Each time she exhaled, she pushed a thin layer into the water, threading it through the dissolving bark, teasing the essence out without boiling it away.
The scent shifted. It was less pungent and richer.
She let it sit. Harold talked her through the next steps.
Then, she added the bitterleaf — torn into small pieces and scattered across the surface like herbs in a stew.
Again, she adjusted. Shifted the mana flow. This time she split it — one thread for the leaf, one for the still-breaking bark. Her hand on the handle trembled briefly. She stilled it. The mana circulated roughly. Controlling two threads. It tested her control, and it showed.
Sweat rolled down her neck, and Harold didn't speak.
The last step came slowly. She uncorked the honey jar with her thumb, dipped a spoon just slightly, and let a single ribbon fall into the center of the mix. It pooled on the surface for only a second — then vanished beneath, swallowed clean.
Her mana thickened like fog rolling low across warm stone. It now completely wrapped the kettle's contents, and Harold could feel the difference.
Everything was integrating. Not separated ingredients soaking in water. A single mixture, bound by will.
When she finally pulled her hand away from the handle, the skin was red. But not burned.
She stepped back from the kettle and looked up.
Harold stepped forward, leaned slightly, and stirred the contents once with the spoon. The mixture clung. The scent was new — layered and complex.
And the surface shimmered when the light from the fire hit it; the color shifted in the liquid, like oil catching sunlight.
The quality wasn't there, but it was a potion. As Elia leaned in to take her first full breath, the scent enveloped her. It was a deep, layered aroma, reminiscent of the herbal remedies her grandmother used to prepare back home—an earthy blend mixed with the sweetness of wild honey and the sharp bite of pine.
Harold met her eyes. "Elia," he said. "That's real."
She blinked, sweat trickling past her temple.
Then something chimed — clear, distinct, and not heard by anyone else in the room.
The sound hit Elia like a hammer.
She staggered, one hand snapping to the table's edge. Her breath caught, sharp and sudden.
Harold was there instantly. "Elia."
She didn't answer at first.
Then she swallowed and spoke, voice tight.
"I got a World First. It just popped up." The room froze.
Her eyes unfocused as words burned themselves into her vision.
WORLD FIRST ACHIEVEMENT
POTION BREWED
PERK GAINED: FIRST ALCHEMIST (Epic)
Foundational Mastery
• Potions you brew have a 15% increased chance to succeed.
• Mana loss during potion infusion is reduced by 10%
• Early-stage instability during brewing is suppressed by 10%
• First-attempt brews are less likely to fail catastrophically.
Elia sucked in a breath as the weight of it settled into her.
Then the subsequent notice followed immediately.
PERK GAINED: COMMON POTION BREWER (Uncommon)
Refined Basics
• Common-grade potions you brew have improved potency by 6%.
• Ingredient integration is more efficient by 6%
Another chime.
PERK GAINED: HEALING POTION BREWER (Uncommon)
Restorative Focus
• Healing potions you brew restore 8% more health.
Elia let out a shaky breath and finally looked at Harold.
"I… I got three."
The silence was shattered.
"Three?" someone breathed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
A man near the fire dragged both hands down his face. "I knew I should've gone first."
"You couldn't even keep your flow from leaking," someone snapped back.
"Still!" he shouted back.
Harold let out a low breath, more like a whistle.
"That's not small, if I had that before…" he muttered.
Harold raised a hand. The room quieted — not instantly, but enough.
Harold turned to Elia first, "You earned it," he said plainly. "All of it."Then he turned to the group.
"Listen carefully. This wasn't luck."He gestured to the kettle. "Can anyone tell me what she did right?"
One of the trainees hesitated but then spoke up, "She didn't rush, right? She waited until she was ready before starting."
Harold nodded, "Exactly, she stabilized her body before touching the brew. What else?"
Another voice piped in, "She followed the order. Roots and bark first, then the others."
"Right," Harold said, holding up two fingers. "Timing is crucial. And?"
Someone in the back ventured, "She didn't force it with too much mana."
"Correct," Harold confirmed. "she used mana to bind and empower, not overpower. That final infusion with the honey was timed correctly. The infusion melds the ingredients into one whole. That's why it registered.""Elia swallowed, nodding along. Harold's tone shifted slightly.
"And what she did wrong." A ripple of attention.
"You over committed early," he said to Elia. "If I hadn't told you to slow the flow, you would've destabilized the base. You tried to infuse two ingredients at a time. If you had done one at a time, it would have gone smoother."
Her shoulders tensed. "I felt it slipping."
"And you corrected," Harold said. "That matters more than being perfect."
He turned back to the others.
"The Epic perk didn't make the potion. The potion earned the perk. Remember that."
The kettle still shimmered faintly, catching firelight in rippling color.
One of the trainees leaned forward. "So… this means we can actually do this?"
Harold nodded.
"Yes," he said. "As long as you can control the mana flow through your body. More complicated potions will require more control."
Elia stared down at her hands — hands that had just changed the future of the settlement.
Harold's voice softened, but only a little.
"Tomorrow, you'll do this again."
Her head snapped up. "Tomorrow?"
"You're the first Alchemist of the Landing," he said, smiling at her. "We're gonna work to make you better, all of you," he said to the room.
She nodded slowly.
Around them, the fire cracked and shifted, throwing light across the walls of the hall. The shimmering potion cast a luminous glow, catching in the eyes of those gathered—a glint of hope and promise. It reflected the beginnings of a brighter future, whispered in the quiet anticipation shared among them.