The morning hit me like a hammer. My body ached in every joint, each muscle stiff as if I'd been trampled in my sleep. In a way, I had. Forcing my mana to shape, bend, and empower me had wrung me out like wet cloth, leaving the echoes of strain lodged deep in my bones.

And yet, beneath the soreness, there was progress. I could feel it—threads of mana that didn't slip away as quickly as before, Qi that hummed closer to my pulse, a little more responsive to my will. The exhaustion was worth it. It meant I was getting somewhere.

I rolled out of the bedroll in my room, the wooden floor creaking beneath me. Warmth clung to the air still—the fire in the hearth hadn't burned down entirely overnight. The sound of voices and clatter outside reached my ears, sharper than it had days ago. Settlement life. Real and steady progress, no longer just survival in the snow or ash.

For the first time in longer than I cared to count, I felt something like excitement pulling me forward. A new day. More stone laid, trees chopped, people trained, raised, more food gathered. More of a chance to turn this hidden valley into something lasting.

I stretched, groaning, then muttered to myself, "Alright. Time to see what kind of mess we can make today."

The quiet of my little corner ended the moment I stepped outside.

The longhouse was bursting—more bodies than it was ever meant to hold, the air thick with smoke, chatter, and the smell of too many breakfasts cooking at once. Children darted between legs, carrying water sloshing in buckets. Brenn and Torvik were arguing near the door about the right size of logs to split. Maela was barking orders from the hearth, ladle in hand like it was a general's baton.

The extra mouths I'd dragged in yesterday only made it worse. Twice the noise, twice the elbows jostling, and no one seemed to realize the longhouse couldn't stretch itself to fit us all.

I shouldered through to the central table where the council gathered. Illga was already there, arms streaked with soot even this early. Rynar hunched over his ledger, lips moving as he tracked something no one else could follow. Daran stood like a slab of stone, his new sergeants behind him.

And at the end of the table sat the gnome mage teacher I'd hired the night before. His beard nearly touched the ledger he was peering over, his voice a calm but firm counterpoint to the chaos. Two of his orphans clung to his tunic, wide-eyed, while the older ones huddled near the wall, trying to stay out of everyone's way.

The longhouse was cramped, noisy, and alive.

"Morning," I said, dropping into my chair. "Let's get to it before someone loses a hand in all this."

I raised my voice above the chatter, letting it cut through the crowded noise of the hall.

"Before I get into what I want accomplished today, let's go around the table. Updates first. What did we actually get done yesterday?"

The effect was immediate—murmurs fading, a handful of heads turning toward me. Illga folded her soot-stained arms, already looking ready to talk about the forge. Rynar slid his ledger closer like he'd been waiting all night for someone to ask. Brenn leaned forward, one hand still absently flexing like he'd been swinging an axe all morning already.

I let my eyes sweep across them, steady, giving each of them their turn.

"We've got more people than ever before crammed under this roof. The only way that doesn't spiral into a disaster is if we know where we stand. So—yesterday's work. Start with the forge. Then lumber, hearth, fields, supplies, healing, and the guard. One at a time."

I sat back in my chair, listening as the first voice rose, steady and practical, cutting through the smoke and the chaos.

The noise in the longhouse dimmed as each of them gave their reports in turn.

Illga, Forge: She had the bellows working and iron bands tested, with two volunteers beginning hammer training. More ore and charcoal were the limiting factors but the forge was operational. They were beginning construction on the forge building itself but the time was split between making nails and construction.

Brenn, Lumber: His crew had lumber stacked for the barracks and were already cutting more. Rope and wedges would keep things moving faster. Right now they were cutting and transporting lumber faster than it could be used.

Maela, Hearth: Three women helped her, food stretched thin but still holding. With Ferin's hunts and Auren's foraging, they could last another eleven days before the grain ran dry.

Joran and the Brothers, Fields: They'd cleared their first small plots and confirmed mushrooms would take in the caves if needed, but space in the cave/mine was very limited and the miners needed time to make an area for the mushroom farm. The valley bottom would serve better come spring.

Rynar, Supplies and Trade: He kept close count of every tool, coin, and scrap. Trade was impossible for now, but he'd be ready when the time came. Funds were limited and supplies even more so.

Lira, Children and Healing: She and Rysa kept the young safe and had started teaching them basics. Healing herbs were scarce, but they made do with skill and patience.

Daran, Guard and Training: Thirty recruits split time between training and labor. The barracks' foundation was cut and laid and work continued, but the men were still green. The barracks was going to have a small wall and tower attached to it which made it more work to accomplish but the physical activity was good for them. It would take another 5 days to finish building it mostly because of the need to transport stone.

When they finished, I let the quiet settle for a heartbeat before gesturing to the small figure near the edge of the firelight.

"Yesterday we also gained a teacher. This is Master Olrick," I said, nodding toward the old gnome. He bowed slightly, the children he'd brought with him watching wide-eyed.

"He'll be taking charge of the settlement's children—half the day spent helping with work they're interested in, so they get the skills and experience that'll matter when it comes time for their first classes at sixteen. The other half, he'll have them in lessons. Mana shaping, reading, writing. If they're going to grow into something more, this is where it starts. Lira can you and yours help out where you can but I want your focus on building up healing supplies. When the time comes to bring Calamity I dont want one of us dying because of the lack of healing supplies."

The room shifted, murmurs running through it—hopeful, doubtful, but above all attentive.

The longhouse was too full—voices overlapping, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, tools leaned against walls where beds should have been. If we didn't get more roofs raised soon, frayed tempers would follow.

I stood, letting the noise fall away. "Yesterday we got the foundations in. Today, we pick up the pace. The forge is the first priority. Illga—focus on nails. As many as you can make with what ore you've got left. Nothing fancy, just enough to hold beams and planks together."

Illga gave a curt nod, soot-streaked arms folding across her chest. "Nails I can do. Won't be pretty, but they'll hold."

"Good," I said. "Everyone else, that forge building gets finished first. Every pair of hands that isn't cooking or guarding is moving stone, hammering wood, or hauling beams. Once that roof's over Illga's head, her work moves faster—and we free up space in here."

A ripple went through the room—relief and resolve in equal measure.

"Second," I continued, voice harder now. "We start another barracks. No wall, no tower this time. Just a solid roof and bunks for men to sleep in. If we push it, two days will see it done. That buys us space and buys us calm. The longhouse is for council and hearth, not for everyone crammed in like pigs before slaughter."

Daran's jaw flexed, but he nodded. Brenn leaned back, already muttering to Toren and Torvik about timber.

I let my gaze sweep the circle. "Two days. Forge first, barracks next. Everyone helps, no exceptions. We do this, we breathe easier by the week's end."

The next thing....Kelan, Lira, now that you are tier 2 how much better can you run the dungeon? I don't want you taking risks but the population there needs to be reduced. Can you loot their crossbows and bolts? Their weapons? Can Illga smelt the bad ones down and use the metal? Do they have shields? Daran I want you to take the same group to run it again as safely as you can and bring back what supplies you can get. How possible is that?

Kelan leaned forward, arms resting on the table. "Tier Two makes me sturdier, but it doesn't change that everything in there fights like it's a rank above. These tier 3's have the Dao to match and that is very rare. The kobolds don't come all at once, though. They're in rooms—guard posts, choke points. Trapped hallways. We clear one, then we can strip bodies before moving to the next. That buys us time."

Lira nodded, her auburn hair still loose from sleep. "It's dangerous, but it's not a flood. When we finished a chamber yesterday, I had time to breathe, heal, even catch my mana again before we pushed on. If we pace ourselves, we can loot their crossbows, bolts, blades—whatever they carry. That much, at least, is manageable."

I tilted my head. "And the quality?"

Kelan gave a humorless chuckle. "Mixed. Crude iron, some better steel. The shamans carry charms, bone fetishes. Shields, yes—but small, light. Still, iron is iron. Illga can melt the bad down, keep the rest."

All eyes turned to Daran. He sat forward slowly, scarred hands steepled. "Then we plan for that. Advance, clear a chamber, strip it bare, haul what we can out. Then reset before we go deeper. That way we don't push past the point where Lira can't keep us up. It means progress will be slow, but steady. Safer than trying to sprint through and grab everything at once."

He locked eyes with me. "It's possible. We'll bring back weapons, shields, anything not nailed down. But understand this—every room will bleed us a little. If you want the forge stocked, it'll come one chamber at a time."

I nodded once. "That's all I ask. No glory runs. Bring back what you can carry, not what kills you trying to lift it."

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The fire cracked, a stray spark snapping into the air. I leaned forward on the table, looking past Lira's tired but steady gaze.

"Now the next big ask," I said, my voice carrying across the longhouse. "How many of your undead can you support? This place will go up faster if we can put them to work. Chopping trees. Mining. Hauling stone. They don't tire out, and they don't complain. That's labor we can't afford to ignore."

A hush fell over the room. Even the recruits shifting near the door quieted.

Lira's hands tightened in her lap, her expression caught somewhere between weariness and resolve. "You're right. They don't tire. And simple commands—yes. They can handle those. But every corpse I raise takes a piece of me to maintain. The more I hold, the more of my will is bound. If I push too far, I won't just be tired—I'll collapse and I'm not sure if I can maintain my control when I lose consciousness like that. Or worse."

Her eyes flicked toward the kobolds at her back, standing like statues in the shadows, faint green light smoldering in their eyes. "Four like these I can control with ease. Six would strain me if I kept them working constantly. Eight, maybe, for short bursts. But that would leave me raw—my healing weaker, my casting slower."

Kelan crossed his arms, stone dust still clinging to his sleeves. "So we use them sparingly. Put them on the heaviest labor—the hauling, the digging. Let the living handle what takes judgment. That way we get the work without breaking her down."

Daran's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Undead labor in a camp will unsettle men. Half of those recruits already sleep jumpy. Wake them to kobolds carrying stone and lumber past their tents, and they'll bolt."

"Then they'll learn," I cut in, sharper than I meant. "We don't have the luxury of soft stomachs. Everything here depends on us getting ahead of the cold. If Lira can give us four, we use four. That's the line I'll draw."

Lira held my eyes for a moment, then dipped her head. "Five. I'll manage it. But you'll need to watch me. If I falter, you'll know why."

I let the silence stretch, then gave a single nod. "Done. Five corpses at work. No more until you're stronger. We'll take the risk—but we'll take it with eyes open. You'll gain levels today that I can only assume will help."

Harold's eyes swept the longhouse—over the council, a couple of recruits hunched near the walls, the nervous children huddled close to the fire, even the still kobolds that made half the room flinch whenever their green eyes flickered. The air was thick with tension, with fear, but also with possibility.

The weight of it all pressed against him, and then he straightened, voice cutting through the low murmurs.

"Alright," I said, letting my gaze hold each group in turn. "Forge. Lumber. Hearth. Fields. Supplies. Healing. Guard. We know what needs doing. So let's get to it."

The words weren't loud, but they carried, and people began to move. Benches scraped, men and women rose, recruits filing after Daran's barked orders, children pulled along by Rysa's easy laugh. The firelight caught the edges of steel, stone, and determination alike.

The longhouse emptied in ripples, until only the council's embers of discussion remained.

Harold exhaled slowly, then pushed himself to his feet. It had begun—again.

The morning air cut sharp as Harold descended to the cleared patch of ground where the recruits drilled. Frost still clung to the edges of the practice yard, boots crunching over stone packed flat from days of sparring.

Toren and Torvik were already there, stripped to their shirts despite the cold, blunted axes resting across their shoulders. They looked every bit the part of brothers—broad-shouldered, scarred in the same places, and sharing the same half-grin as Harold approached.

"Thought you'd sleep through, Calamity," Torvik called, flipping his axe into both hands.

"Not a chance," Harold said, hefting the blunted practice axe one of the recruits passed him. The weight still felt wrong in his hands, more clumsy than natural. But that was the point.

The first clash rang out a moment later, steel striking steel with a flat thud. Toren pressed him hard, driving him back with short, efficient blows. Harold caught one, two, then missed the third, his ribs smarting even through the padding.

"Keep your shoulders square," Torvik barked from the side, watching like a hawk. "You swing like you're chopping firewood, not fighting for your life."

Harold grunted, reset his stance, and came again. Sweat built quick, breath hissing through his teeth as the axe grew heavier in his hands. He lasted longer this time, enough to force Toren back a step with a clumsy overhead strike.

"Better," Toren said, eyes gleaming. "But you're still slow."

The sparring turned into a rhythm: strike, parry, correction. Harold pushed himself through each exchange, using his Mana Empowerment sparingly—enough to give him speed for a heartbeat, enough to test himself—but never lasting long and still not used to empowering himself quickly then turning it off. Every time he tried to surprise the brothers, they adjusted, relentless and unshaken.

By the time he hit the dirt, chest heaving, Torvik's axe at his throat, Harold was grinning through the ache and the few hit points he had lost. He could see Lira looking at him shaking her head as she healed another of the recruits.

"Again tomorrow," Toren said, offering him a hand up. "You're starting to fight like someone who belongs with an axe in his hands. You should have gotten the Axe Fighting skill, and you'll be good when you get used to using that strengthening skill you've got."

The clash of axes still rang in Harold's bones when Daran arrived, arms folded as he watched from the side. The recruits drilled in pairs behind him, their sparring sharper now under his constant corrections.

"You're improving," Daran said flatly, eyeing the sweat-streaked axe in Harold's hands. "But you still swing like a soldier who hasn't learned how to kill with it. Fix your stance. Feel the weight. Don't just force it—control it."

Harold bristled, but he reset anyway, moving through the motions again and again until his shoulders burned. Each correction landed like a hammer: elbows too wide, feet too heavy, swing too long. Every strike left him winded, but he kept at it.

By the time the recruits were dismissed, his arms felt like lead, but something had clicked—the first faint edge of instinct where before there was only clumsy strength.

The rest of the day he threw into his mana shaping exercises.

He sat in the quiet of the valley, forcing mana into patterns, holding it as long as he could until his focus snapped and it bled away. Again and again, sweat dripping, lungs burning. Each success stretched a little longer, each failure burned a little less.

When his strength faltered, he turned to Mana Empowerment, channeling power through his body until his muscles thrummed, then releasing it before it tore him apart. The two practices blurred together: shaping, empowering, failing, reshaping. Progress was slow, but it was there.

By the time shadows stretched long across the plateau, word reached him: the group was ready. Kelan, Lira, Auren, Ferin, and Daran—the strongest they could field—were gathered at the base of the plateau, recruits already whispering about another venture into the dungeon.

Harold wiped his brow, shouldered his axe, and turned toward them. The day of work was done. The building around the forge was completed. Illga taking advantage of the extra labor to build a little more space into the forge. Now it had room for a couple anvils in there when they could loot or make them. The foundation for the next barracks was in place. This time with stone as the floor. The extra labor from the undead hauling stones helped a lot. The next test lay underground.

At the base of the dungeon, the camp was already busy. Ten recruits worked under Daran's terse orders, axes ringing against trunks, saws rasping, stone dragged into place for the beginnings of the fortification. The sound of it all echoed faintly against the dungeon's black arch, a reminder of why we were here.

Kelan was bent over a rough sketch on the ground, outlining his plan for a watchtower. Lira leaned against a stump, pale but steadier than yesterday, her satchel of herbs and vials clinking softly as she adjusted it. Auren and Ferin stood apart, comparing bows, their quiet discussion punctuated by the occasional bark of Ferin's dogs. Auren had a bandolier of vials that must have come from Rysa.

That was when Hal appeared.

The frost wolf padded out of the treeline with a slow, deliberate stride, his shoulders broader, his fur bristling in the cold light. Blood streaked his muzzle, drying dark against the pale white and grey. His eyes locked on me, burning with a sharp, almost knowing gleam.

He reached me in three strides and thumped his head hard against my chest, the impact rattling my ribs. My hand went automatically to his fur, ruffling the thick mane at his neck. He smelled of iron and snow, wild and heavy.

"You've been busy," I muttered, brushing at the blood on his muzzle. Through Oathsense, a pulse of pride rolled across the tether, fierce and unashamed.

I glanced around at the others. The recruits had stopped their work, eyes wide, whispers flicking from one to another. Hal was already taller than most of them, the new weight of his presence undeniable.

"Back to it," Daran barked at them, snapping the moment before it could stretch too long. But even his tone couldn't stop the way their eyes lingered on the wolf beside me.

Hal pressed closer once more before stepping aside, his pack slinking out of the shadows to settle around the worksite, keeping silent watch as if they owned it. In a way, maybe they did.

I exhaled and turned back to the group. "Alright. You know why we're here. The fort's foundation continues. Then—" I let my gaze flick toward the dungeon's black mouth, "—they're going to see just how far inside they can go."

Kelan disappeared at the dungeon's threshold, the shadows curling against the stone like a living thing. His voice came steady through Oathsense. "Test it now, Harold. Make sure we can still reach each other. If this link breaks, I need to know before the blades come out."

I reached along the tether between us and pushed, my will brushing his. It wasn't as easy as before—like shouting across a distance in a storm—but it was there. Faint, but steady. "I've got you," I replied. I could feel Kelan gave a short nod, then turned into the dark with Daran at his side.

That was when Hal padded over, his bulk forcing recruits to edge out of his way. He stopped in front of me, ears twitching, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the valley walls. Through Oathsense came a pulse I didn't expect: not pride, not hunger—but yearning. A direction.

He pressed his head into me again, harder this time, and the impression grew clearer. Pack. More. The bond thrummed with it, restless energy sparking in his chest. He wanted to go. Not just to hunt—something was calling him or maybe the Brand was guiding him.

I rested a hand on his muzzle, searching his eyes. "Outside the valley?" I murmured. His tail flicked once, sharp, and the sense of confirmation rang through the tether.

I exhaled, reluctant. "Not somewhere. Someone. He feels them."

I reached for the Brand without activating it, letting the tether hum in my chest. Being a Brandwright meant there was more to it now—more layers to feel if I leaned into them.

The light unfolded before me, weaving itself into the air in curling threads of silver-blue. Not just a mark on Hal's spirit anymore, but a living lattice that shifted and pulsed like veins of ice over stone. I watched the glow wind outward, threads splitting and reconnecting, forming not just one node, but many.

Each strand pulled toward Hal, but others stretched faintly further, tugging at directions I couldn't see. Possibilities. Connections.

I let my hand hover closer, and Oathsense carried more than words this time—it carried instinct. The Brand wasn't just a chain of control or guidance. It was drawing Hal's soul toward something greater than himself. His instincts weren't drifting. They were sharpening. His will was pressing against a greater shape.

The image that bloomed in my mind wasn't of a single wolf but of a circle of them. Shoulders brushing. Teeth bared outward. Howls rising in unison. The bond thrummed harder when I thought it: Pack.

A Dao insight, maybe not his yet, but the first tug of it. My chest tightened as I realized the Brand wasn't forcing that onto him—it was nudging, guiding. Showing him where his own nature wanted to go. He was becoming not just stronger, but something truer.

Hal's low rumble broke through my focus, his muzzle pushing harder against my chest. The light scattered into the air before folding back into his body, leaving only the faint echo in me of what I'd seen.

I swallowed, the realization sinking deeper than I wanted to admit. "Not just someone," I muttered. "Something. A path. You're chasing your Dao now, Hal."

He broke away, restless energy radiating from him, pacing toward the treeline with his pack bristling behind him. They felt it too—drawn along the threads he carried inside him.

"Go," I said finally, my voice low. "Find them. But come back."

Through Oathsense, his reply wasn't words but a thunderclap of intent: Always.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the woods, leaving me staring at the place where the Brand had lit up the air, half shaken, half exhilarated.

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