Harold found Kelan near the fire pits where the recruits had settled for the evening. The young man still wore the weight of earlier decisions across his shoulders, but his hands were steady, sorting through a bundle of salvaged rope.

"You holding up?" Harold asked.

Kelan gave a sharp nod. "I don't like how some things were handled, but I'll do my part. The valley needs structure before anything else."

That was good enough. Harold clapped him once on the shoulder and left him to his task.

The smell of stew carried him toward the longhouse. Inside, Maela stood at the hearth with two of the younger girls helping her ladle steaming bowls. Brenn was stacking wood along the wall, whistling under his breath. The sight of normalcy—of people busy with simple, human work—was worth more than coin.

Harold accepted a bowl from Maela. "Thank you. It smells better than anything I've eaten in years."

Her tired face brightened. "It helps, having the extra hands you promised.

"I'm having a meeting with a lot of the leaders at dawn, can…" Yes yes Maela said shoving a spoon in my face "Tomorrow's breakfast will be ready for your meeting. Don't worry about that."

"I'll make sure the right people know to be there," Harold said. He leaned in slightly. "And thank you, again, for keeping everyone fed."

"You keep us alive," she countered. "I'll see that they stay warm and full."

He ate with them, the warmth of food settling into him in a way battle never could. Afterward, he moved through the hall and spoke with those who needed to know: Daran for the soldiers, Lira for the general work assignments, Illga for the forge plans, Brenn and Toren for timber. All nodded their acknowledgment. The meeting would come at dawn.

When the longhouse quieted, Harold finally allowed himself to retreat. His room was simple—timbers still raw, a small fire glowing in the hearth. A bed waited, layered with furs. For the first time in this new life, warmth wrapped him without cost, without watchfulness.

He sank into the furs, the crackle of flame whispering in the silence. Sleep came quickly, unburdened by alarms or blades. His new life had a room, a hearth, and a moment of peace.

....

Harold stepped out from his room, the faint warmth of the hearth still clinging to his clothes. Smoke from the central fire curled toward the rafters, and the smell of Maela's bread drifted across the longhouse.

They were waiting for him.

Lira stood nearest the fire, arms crossed, posture calm but attentive. Kelan leaned against one of the new beams, sharp-eyed and silent. Daran was a looming presence, scars etched deep and his aura not quite contained. Illga had a smear of soot across her cheek, the dwarf blacksmith already smelling faintly of forge-work. Brenn and Maela stood side by side, the lumberjack broad-shouldered and quiet, his wife carrying the air of someone who'd already been up for hours preparing. Toren and Torvik hovered near Brenn, sawdust still clinging to their sleeves. Even the merchant, Rynar, waited with measured patience, coin-bright eyes alert for what would be asked of him. Ferin wasnt here and Auren and Rysa were and Auren could relay to Ferin when he gets back.

This was the heart of it now. Not just survivors, not just wanderers—builders.

Harold crossed the room, the firelight catching the faint brand on his hand. He nodded to each of them in turn before stopping at the hearth.

"Thank you all for coming," he said. His voice carried through the timbers, steady, unhurried. "Today, we begin the real work. Not just surviving, but shaping what this valley will be."

The fire snapped and cracked, the sound filling the silence as Harold let his gaze pass over the gathered faces.

"This is the first time we've all stood together like this," Harold began. "And it won't be the last. A place like this doesn't survive on one man's will alone. I may be the Calamity that pulled you here, but this valley will only stand because of the work you put into it."

He let that sit for a moment, his voice steady but edged with iron.

"I can't always be here. When the Calamity calls, I'll be gone—and I'll take some of you with me. That means I need people I can trust to keep this place steady while I'm away."

His eyes swept across them—lingering on Illga, Brenn, Maela, Toren and Torvik, Rynar, Lira, and Daran. "You've each already proven your worth. For now, leadership will be tied to labor: the forge, the timber, the fields, the trade, the hearth, the guard. Each of you has a stake in this valley, and each of you will have a voice in what happens here."

He shifted, leaning a hand against the table at the center of the hearth. "This isn't about titles. Not yet. It's about trust. When I'm gone, people will look at you. They'll need direction, order, and someone who won't waste what little we have. So when I ask for your counsel, I expect honesty, not flattery. When I give a task, I expect it to be done. In return, you'll have my trust and my protection."

Harold straightened, letting the weight of his words fill the space. "This council isn't decoration. It is a privilege that I will revoke if your positions are abused."

The council fire cracked, shadows climbing the log walls as Harold spoke.

"These roles are provisional. Nothing in this valley is fixed—not the soil, not the walls, not the people. If you want to keep your role, then grow with it. Level your skills, strengthen your Dao, and prove you can carry more than yesterday."

He turned first to Illga. "Forge – Illga. The steel you shape will be the bones of this valley." The dwarf blacksmith puffed up, chin tilting, pride glinting in her dark eyes. "Then I'll see to it the bones are strong," she said.

"Lumber – Brenn. You and Toren, Torvik—trees fall under your hands. Roofs, walls, tools—without wood, nothing stands." Brenn nodded firmly, his calloused hands resting on the table. Toren and Torvik exchanged a grin, eager.

But I also know you two have eyes for adventure. Join Daran for training in the mornings. When the settlement's stronger, you'll have your choice—join the guard, or make your own path." The brothers straightened, glancing at one another, relief and excitement sparking in their tired faces.

"Hearth – Maela. You'll hold the fire and food. Keep us alive when the frost presses down." Maela smiled faintly, bowing her head. "I'll see no one goes hungry, Harold."

"Fields – Joran, Calric, Brennar. You've wrestled life from stone before. Do it here again, and this place will never starve. "Supplies and Trade – Rynar. Keep count of what we have, what we lack, and what we might barter. You'll be the coin-keeper of this valley." Rynar's mouth curved into a sharp grin, his hands rubbing together unconsciously. "A ledger and a future. I can work with that."

"Guard and Training – Daran. Thirty recruits and more besides. Discipline them, shape them. Make them into a wall." Daran inclined his scarred head. "They'll learn to stand together, or they won't stand at all."

Finally, Harold's gaze fell to Lira. "Children and Healing – Lira. The young, the sick, the wounded—you'll keep them steady." Lira's lips parted, hesitation flickering before she nodded once. "I'll see to them."

Construction- Kelan How this place grows will be on you, I know your passion and strength and you know how brutal this world is. I'm counting on you to allow us to weather it. Kelan gave a small smile and nodded, still saying nothing.

Harold leaned both hands on the table, his voice low, cutting through the fire's crackle. "These aren't titles. They're trust. Break that trust, and someone stronger will take your place. Keep it—and this valley will remember your names long after I'm gone."

Illga, Forge

Illga crossed her arms, streaks of soot still clinging to her sleeves. "The bellows are working, though the forge is only half-built. You brought me a small anvil from the supplies, but it won't be enough for long. Two of the prisoners volunteered to help. They've got strong backs but no skill—they'll need hammer training before they're worth more than fetching water. What I really need is good iron, and coal if we can find it. Charcoal will hold for now."

She jabbed a thumb toward the miners. "I suppose the four miners fall under me too. They've been hauling stone to deepen a ditch around the plateau. But let's be honest—if you keep bringing in people like this, this plateau won't hold us for long."

I looked to Kelan. "You can guide them to a proper vein. Stone, ore—whatever you've already found."

Kelan nodded. "I know where to send them. Deepening the ditch is smart, but it won't matter in the long run. This plateau is only the beginning. Sooner or later, this will just be the upper tier of something much larger."

I turned to Daran. "Station some of your men with the miners. We already know there are tunnels in these mountains. If they break into one, I don't want a beast crawling out and slaughtering them. Make sure they have a way to signal if trouble comes."

Daran gave a firm nod, accepting without argument.

Illga tilted her head, her expression softening for the first time. "As long as the ore flows and I can work… there's something about this place." Her voice trailed off, thoughtful. "I feel closer to something, but I can't put a name to it."

I studied her, considering. "Maybe it's your Dao," I said at last. "Some of us feel it stronger here. Maybe it's rubbing off on you." I gave her a small smile.

Illga snorted and shook her head, though she didn't deny it.

Brenn, Lumber

Brenn leaned forward, voice steady. "Six men with me. Toren and Torvik swing the axes at my side. We've got enough timber stacked for the barracks, but if we're to wall this plateau, we'll need twice what we've cut already. Rope, wedges, and time—that's what it'll take."

Before I could reply, Kelan spoke up. "Leave the walling to me. I started yesterday, and it'll take months, but I'll see this plateau ringed in stone. I'll just need hands to haul rock from the mine and set it in place."

Brenn raised a brow, surprised. "You can shape stone into a wall? That's not work most men can do until they're Tier 3."

Kelan only smiled and clapped Brenn on the back, the sound like a hammer striking a log. "Stick with us, old man. You'll see wonders."

Maela, Hearth

Maela folded her hands in her lap, glancing at Kelan and Brenn as they muttered over timber and stone. Then her eyes found me.

"Three women work with me now. Enough to keep everyone fed, though the stew stretches thinner with each new mouth. Salt and grain—we'll run short soon. A hunt every two days would steady us. Ferin has been a godsend with what he's caught."

She turned to Auren. "And you? I hear you're to help him."

Auren nodded, his gaze flicking to Daran with something like challenge. "Yes. Hunting, foraging. I intend to lead the scouts for the Vale Guard."

Daran's scarred face betrayed nothing. His reply was calm, his voice carrying the weight of steel. "Then I'll see you at the morning training."

The air between them tightened before Maela drew it back to task. She looked to me, voice level but grave. "We'll manage for fifteen, maybe sixteen days on what we have. After that, we'll be scraping the bottom of the grain sacks."

Joran and Brothers, Fields

Joran spoke for them, his younger brothers standing close at his side, quiet but steady.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. "We've one other willing to clear plots with us. Soil's hard and frozen, but thinner down in the valley bottom. We'll need seed. And sharper tools than the worn scraps we've been using. Give us that, and something will grow come spring."

Calric added, almost reluctant but firm, "Mushrooms, too. If the caves hold the right damp, we can cultivate enough to keep bellies full. Won't be pleasant, but it will keep us alive."

Brennar nodded in agreement, jaw tight with determination.

I regarded them, weighing their words. "Do it. Work with Maela—we'll need every foodstuff we can pull together, no matter how plain. For now survival comes first, then taste can follow."

Rynar, Supplies and Trade

Without waiting to be called, Rynar glanced up. "We have coin, but coin buys nothing out here. We'll need to gamble—merchants or travelers passing by the outer ranges. If one wanders close enough, I'll make the deal. Until then, I'll track every tool, sack, and scrap."

I frowned, letting him finish before answering. "You're not aware of what waits outside these mountain walls. It isn't possible for now. There are Frost human settlements further down—I ran into them when I first arrived—but they're a week's march at least. And that's not counting the wolf packs, the bears, the banshees. Likely worse besides. Trade will come, but not soon."

His shoulders dipped, but I pressed on. "For now, keep a proper ledger. Then work with Kelan—build a small general store. When I bring back things the settlement doesn't need—luxury, trinkets, or curiosities—you'll sell them there."

I pulled a pouch from my side, the clink of coin inside loud in the quiet hall. "Here. First pay for everyone who built this place. Ten silver each, three for every child. Make sure it gets split properly."

Rynar's face flickered, crestfallen at his larger dream being postponed. Still, he nodded and accepted the sack, clutching it like both burden and promise.

Lira, Children and Healing

Lira's hands rested lightly on the table. "A handful of the older girls and Rysa help watch the young. I've begun teaching them how to set bones and tend cuts. Rysa's healing skill is modest, but her control of mana is steady—she wastes none. What I lack are herbs. Without them, I'm binding wounds with prayers and rags."

I glanced at Auren, who was already leaning forward. "If you can describe what you need, I'll keep an eye out while hunting and scouting."

Lira inclined her head, her expression firm. "Then meet me after this, and I'll make you a list."

Daran, Guard and Training

Daran spoke last, his voice edged with command. "Thirty recruits. Broken, but willing. I'll drill them at dawn. Half will train, half will labor. If you want a barracks, it begins today. But they'll be green until they bleed together. I'll need weapons fit to swing—not sticks."

"Then get with Illga," I said. "She can forge the basics. Start with spears and shields, maybe small side-swords if there's iron enough. Nothing fancy—just enough to hold a line."

Daran inclined his head once, curt but approving. "That'll do. They'll learn to fight together—or not at all."

He paused, then added, "Two more things. Yesterday four of the older children came to me. They're a year from their first class, but if they're ever to take combat paths, they'll need training now. Do I have leave to drill them?"

I glanced at Lira. "Makes sense to me. Everyone here should be able to defend themselves."

Lira's expression tightened, but she didn't flinch. "Those kids came from the streets. They already know how to lift a purse, slip a knife. They love this place, and they want to guard it. I'll bring the older ones to you in the morning, and escort them back after. But—" her voice hardened "—I'll stay during the drills. Every injury, every cut, every broken bone—I'll be there to heal it. For them, and for your recruits."

"That solves my second ask" Daran said

Harold let their words settle into the smoke, then nodded once.

"Good. Rynar will keep the ledger of all this. Nothing asked for will vanish into the dark. We'll fill what we can, when we can. Until then—we make do."

The council's voices lingered in the air, echoing with plans and responsibilities. One by one, they broke off into smaller knots of conversation—Illga leaning over a scrap of charcoal and stone to sketch out forge needs with two miners, Brenn and his brothers already arguing over timber lengths with Kelan, Maela whispering with the women at her side about stretching the larder. Rynar sat hunched over his ledger, already scratching figures, while Lira gathered the older children near the hearth, her hand gentle on a girl's shoulder as she spoke softly.

I stood a moment at the center of it all, watching the sparks of responsibility catch and flare. It wasn't yet order, not yet a system, but it was something.

The scrape of boots pulled me from my thoughts. Daran stepped into my shadow, his presence as steady as an anvil. "It's time."

Behind him, Auren waited, leaning against the hearth with that restless glint in his eyes.

Daran's scarred face bent toward me. "Training. Now. The recruits need to see you swing a blade before dawn's fire dies."

I exhaled, glancing once more at the small groups forming around the room. The first council of the valley had ended, but the true work was only just beginning.

"Fine," I said, turning toward the door. "Let's get to it."

Hal's ears perked from where he lay near the threshold, as if sensing the shift in the air. I scratched behind his ruff as I passed. Together, we stepped into the cold morning, Auren and Daran at my side, toward the raw ring of recruits waiting in the snow.

The cold air bit sharper as we left the warmth of the hearth. Snow crunched underfoot, Daran's long stride steady beside me, Auren trailing just a half-step back, restless as always.

For a time we walked in silence, the settlement behind us a low hum of voices and work already resuming. Finally, Daran spoke, his tone low but certain.

"I'll make them soldiers," he said. "I'll beat discipline into their bones. But understand this—" his scarred face turned toward me, eyes hard as granite. "I did not sign on to command them. Their lives on the line, their orders, their battles—that's not mine to bear. Not anymore."

I glanced at him. "Yet you're the one they look at. The one they follow."

His jaw worked as if grinding stone. "Old habits. But command breaks a man in ways training never does. I'll take them as far as drills and sweat can carry, but no farther."

I let his words settle, then nodded slowly. "Fair. Then train them. Lead them for now. Until I find someone who can take that burden permanent. Someone who can be commander."

Daran's shoulders eased, though only slightly. "That, I can do." His voice had the same iron in it as before, but some of the weight seemed to slip away.

"Good," I said, facing forward again. "Because until then, they need you. And so do I."

His scarred face twitched into something close to agreement, and the three of us pressed on toward the training ground, where smoke rose from warming fires and recruits already stamped their feet against the snow.

The path sloped down toward the training ground, recruits little more than dark silhouettes against the pale snow. Daran broke the silence again, his eyes sharp on me.

"You've danced around it since I met you, Harold. Your class." His tone wasn't accusing, just direct. "I've trained men with weaknesses—sluggish reflexes, poor eyesight, brittle bones. But I've never heard of someone whose own hands can't spill blood. Never."

I exhaled, frost curling in the air. "It's the truth. My class bars me from harming anyone directly. No blade in my hand, no strike of mine, will kill or harm. Not even a rabbit, if I tried. All I can do is brand. Bind others, guide them, strengthen them. My blows don't land the same way yours would."

Daran studied me as though weighing steel on a forge scale. "That's not a weakness I've ever trained for. A commander who can't draw blood himself? That's a problem. Soldiers expect to follow someone who leads from the front."

"It's a problem," I admitted. "One I wrestle with every day."

He grunted, then tilted his scarred face toward me, voice dropping lower. "But the world doesn't give that kind of shackle without handing back something sharper. A chain on one side, a sword on the other. Your limitations—" he tapped his chest with two fingers, scarred knuckles white with cold—"they must come with equal power somewhere else. Else the system wouldn't have given it to you at all."

A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the wind. He wasn't wrong. The Brander class had carved out my flesh and chained my will, but in exchange it gave me something that could sway the fate of others. Something more dangerous than a sword.

"I'm starting to see that," I said quietly. My hand tightened on the haft of my axe. "I don't quite understand this Ascension system yet. I could use some tutoring on other topics, too. Are you available this evening after dinner to talk?"

Daran's lips curled into a humorless smile, his scar pulling taut. "Good. Then use it. Because a man who can't kill but still commands respect? That's a different kind of terror altogether." He tilted his head, measuring me again before adding, "And yes. I'll be there. Best way to keep men alive is to make sure their leader knows what game he's playing."

They arrived to the area they were sparring. The recruits moved in clumsy circles, wooden staves and scavenged sticks clattering against each other. At first glance, it looked almost laughable—children pretending at soldiers. Half-hearted thrusts, sluggish footwork, no real rhythm.

But when Daran strode onto the packed dirt, the air shifted. The recruits straightened instinctively under his gaze, though none had trained with him yet. His scarred face didn't soften; his eyes cut across the field like whetted steel. His Dao palpable in the air.

"What I saw before was boys flailing," he said, voice low but carrying. "This—" he gestured toward two recruits locked in an uneven clash, sweat streaking their ragged clothes, "—this is the beginning of men bleeding together."

The clash of staves suddenly seemed louder, sharper, as though the recruits themselves felt the weight of his judgment. Their strikes carried a new edge, desperation hardening into intent.

Daran stepped closer, watching every misstep. "They lack strength. They lack discipline. But they're fighting now, not just swinging. That's a start."

Harold found himself nodding. What had seemed lackluster before now looked like the rough shaping of iron—ugly, but promising in the hands of the right smith.

The clatter of staves paused when Daran's voice ripped across the field.

"Stop swinging like frightened children! Feet under you—back straight!" His bark hit them like a hammer blow. "You want to live through a real fight? Then act like it!"

He strode between two recruits, grabbing one by the wrist and shoving his stance wider. The boy stumbled, then steadied under Daran's glare.

"Strength comes later. First—balance. Without it, you're dead."

The recruits scrambled to adjust, eyes darting to him like he was the only thing holding them together.

"You!" Daran jabbed a finger toward Auren. "Pick up a stave. Show them what it looks like when someone fights with purpose."

Auren raised a brow but didn't hesitate. He stepped in opposite a recruit, staff loose in his hands, expression calm. The spar began—quick, sharp blows, Auren deflecting with clean precision before sliding inside and tapping the boy's ribs.

"See?" Daran barked. "Every strike has weight. Every step has intent. That's what separates a fighter from a corpse."

Then his eyes snapped to Harold. "You. With me."

Before Harold could respond, Daran tossed him a stave and planted his boots firmly. His scarred face didn't carry a shred of humor.

"Don't hold back," he said flatly. "Go all out. If you can't fight me with everything, you'll never stand against what's coming."

The world seemed to pause. The recruits whispered. Harold felt the weight of the stave in his hands, the raw demand in Daran's voice. This wasn't a spar. It was a measure.

The recruits pulled into a circle as Daran shoved a stave into my hands. "On me," he said flatly.

The first clash came before I even planted my feet. His stave struck, a clean downward arc. I caught it barely, wood cracking on wood, the shock numbing my fingers.

"Too rigid," he barked. "Bend, don't brace."

I stumbled sideways, trying to circle. He stalked after me, strikes sharp and controlled. Each blow looked simple—until I tried to block and found myself out of position again.

The circle of recruits grew quiet. Even Hal let out a low growl from the edge.

I lunged forward, swinging high and wide. He slid under it like water, the butt of his stave jabbing into my ribs. Pain made me gasp, but I shoved through it, answering with a desperate sweep meant to drive him back.

He didn't move. He stopped the sweep with a twist of his wrists, locked my stave, and yanked. I went sprawling, back hitting the dirt.

"Up." His voice was ice. "Fights don't wait for breath."

I scrambled back up, face burning. My chest heaved already, but adrenaline carried me forward. This time I kept my strikes tighter, faster. The stave rattled in my hands as I poured mana into my arms, letting strength swell my muscles. I darted in, thrust low, then snapped high.

For once, his eyes narrowed. My heart leapt—finally, a surprise.

But he flowed with it, turning my momentum aside. His stave cracked down across my shoulders, driving me to one knee.

"Better," he said, circling me like a wolf, "but you lead with strength. It screams what's coming. Use your eyes before your arms."

I forced myself back up, sweat dripping down my brow. My breath came ragged, but my blood surged hot. I charged again, letting mana thrum through every fiber. Strikes came harder now—wild, but brimming with desperation.

The recruits whispered, their eyes on the clash. The stave whistled through the air again and again, each strike shaking my arms. I thought I saw an opening, feinted left, swung right.

He was there, stave snapping mine aside, heel slamming into my stomach. The ground rushed up and knocked the wind from my lungs.

"Again."

I coughed, forced myself to my knees, then my feet. The world blurred, but I steadied. My stave trembled in my grip, not from fear but exhaustion.

I waited—this time waited—watching his shoulders, his stance. He advanced, smooth and certain. I saw the twitch before his strike. I parried, barely, stave screaming as wood cracked against wood. I struck back, not a swing but a thrust. For a heartbeat, I thought it would land.

He stepped inside, stave pressed against my chest, then gently tapped my throat.

"Time."

The recruits exhaled like they'd been holding their breath for the entire fight. My body shook, sweat-soaked and bruised. Ten minutes felt like a lifetime.

Daran stepped back, lowering his stave. "You've got hunger. Good. But hunger makes noise. Skill makes silence." His eyes flicked toward me. "Keep fighting like that, and one day you'll be worth the bruises."

My chest still heaved, lungs raw with the cold air. Sweat plastered my shirt against my skin, every bruise blooming like fire along my ribs and shoulders. Ten minutes had felt like hours. And still—I hadn't so much as touched him.

The stave felt heavy in my hands now, not from its weight, but from what it said about me. I had strength, yes. Mana thrumming in my veins. Will enough to stand up every time he knocked me down. But all of it was smoke without skill.

And worse—I couldn't even finish a fight on my own terms. My class bound my hands as much as the stave had. What did it mean to talk about freedom when I couldn't even swing to kill if I wanted to? What did it mean to bind others into my service and then preach about choice?

I tightened my grip, forcing the thought down. If I can't fight like him, then I'll fight in my own way. If I can't kill with my hands, then I'll make sure my people can kill with theirs. That's my role. That's the weight I carry.

"Circle up!" Daran barked, his voice cracking through the recruits like a whip. They scrambled into pairs, staves lifted. "You—elbows in! You—stop crossing your feet or you'll trip into your own grave!"

I staggered back out of the circle, Hal padding at my side, watching as Daran stalked among the sparring recruits. Every correction was sharp, merciless, but precise. He didn't waste a word. Didn't waste a breath.

Where I saw broken men swinging sticks, he saw warriors being shaped blow by blow.

I exhaled slowly, bruised but not broken, and went to join a group that was sparring.

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