The chamber was lit only by oil lamps and the slow crawl of crimson fire from the braziers. Maps and ledgers were spread across the campaign table, lines of patrol routes and supply markers sketched in neat ink. Lady Marrowen Bloodnight stood at its head, one pale hand resting on the wood, her crimson eyes studying the lines with quiet calculation.

The doors opened. An elder entered, his expression sharp but troubled, and bowed low.

"Matriarch."

Marrowen did not look up at once. "Report."

The elder hesitated, Tier 4 in his own right but still cowed by the matriarch of his family. "During the sentry hand-off at dusk, we discovered a gap in the line. One of the sentinels never returned. At first, we thought it carelessness."

Her gaze lifted, cool and unblinking. "And it was not."

"No, Matriarch. His blood master attempted to follow the bond. The thread led into the forest… and ended. Nothing. Not even an echo. His blood is gone."

The table went silent.

Marrowen's fingers tapped once against the map. "How long was the gap?"

"Several hours," the elder admitted. "Long enough for an intruder to slip the perimeter unseen. Our patrols have found no trace, but—"

"But one of ours is missing," Marrowen finished, voice like ice. She straightened, her gown whispering across the stone floor. "A Knight-tier, erased from his bond, and no sign of his death but silence."

Murmurs stirred among the other gathered elders.

Marrowen cut them short with a single raised hand. "This is no accident. Something moved against us — tested us. And succeeded."

Her gaze shifted to the map, to the thick green strokes that marked the forest beyond their walls. "A hole was cut in our line. The question is not if we are being hunted, but by whom."

The elder's words hung in the air like a noose.

Marrowen's hand clenched on the edge of the campaign table. For a heartbeat, the room itself seemed to tighten, the shadows drawing long as her Dao pressed outward. Her voice was steady, but fury burned through every syllable.

"A Knight-tier. Taken. Silenced. Under my watch."

Her eyes swept the chamber, crimson light flaring. "This is an insult to the Bloodnight name. To me. To the vows I swore when I took this mantle — that no hand would touch my family without being answered in kind. Honor demands we make the Calamity pay for this wound."

She let the words hang, her rage cutting sharper than any blade. "If we allow this to stand, then we dishonor every oath and every drop of blood that binds us together. That will not happen. Not while I draw breath."

The gathered elders bowed their heads, the weight of her wrath pressing down.

Marrowen turned back to the map, stabbing a finger at the forest lines. "From this moment, no sentry will stand alone. They will patrol in trios. It will stretch us thin, but no more of my kin will be picked off like prey."

The elder nodded quickly. "Yes, Matriarch."

"And the city," Marrowen continued, her tone shifting cold, deliberate. "Keep ears open. There are always whispers against us. Even with the mercenary pact, there are those who would smile at our backs while sharpening knives at their tables. If the Calamity is here, they may see it as their chance to break the truce."

Another elder inclined his head. "We will lean on our informants. Quietly."

Marrowen's jaw tightened. "Do so. The city may tolerate our existence, but it does not mourn us. I will not allow them the luxury of thinking us weak."

Her hand lifted from the map at last, curling into a fist. "The Calamity thinks to test us in shadows. So be it. We will drag him into the light and end him as Bloodnights do — with steel and with honor."

The chamber echoed with the elders' assent.

The fortress smelled of blood and sweat.

Harold stood with his arms crossed near the firelight, watching as Lira knelt beside the Shadow Wolf's trembling form. Her hands glowed faintly, Dao threads weaving light into the ragged wounds along its ribs. Each touch sent a ripple of frost and shadow curling off the beast, its body shuddering under the strain.

Nearby, Ferin's wolf lay on its side, panting shallow. The mastiffs were down as well, one bandaged tight where darkness had cut deep. Rysa crouched beside them, steady hands pressing cloth to wounds while Ferin murmured low to keep his beasts calm.

"They collapsed on the way back," Harold muttered, half to Holt who stood at his shoulder, shield grounded. "Wouldn't have made it in time without Hal and the pack dragging them through."

Hal paced a few steps away, restless, his fur bristling at every pained whine. Through the bond Harold could feel his anger, sharp and raw — wolves had bled under his watch. The frost wolf's ears twitched, head jerking each time one of Lira's patients groaned.

Lira exhaled slowly, sweat streaking her brow. "The Shadow Wolf's wounds are… deep. His form is stable, but he's barely holding together. He'll recover if he rests, but…" She trailed off, pressing harder as the wolf whimpered. "But it was close."

Her hand shifted to Ferin's wolf next, threads of healing Dao knitting skin over torn muscle. "This one's more straightforward. Painful, but survivable. He'll walk again soon."

Ferin rubbed his jaw, eyes locked on the wolf. His dogs crowded close, whining, sensing his strain. He didn't look at Harold, but his voice carried. "They fought like they were born for it. But we can't afford hunts like that every day."

Harold's eyes narrowed on the Shadow Wolf's wounds as Lira worked, his voice breaking the quiet.

"You said he was a Darkness Dao user?" He looked to Auren and Ferin. Both nodded. Harold's jaw tightened. "I wonder if that's their natural affinity… or something they gain as consequence of turning into vampires."

He turned, gaze falling on Lira where she knelt, hands still glowing faintly as she sealed a gash. "Your Death Dao. How does it affect vampires? They're already dead, aren't they?"

Lira didn't pause her work, but her eyes flicked up, sharp. "No. Not dead. Not in the way you mean. Their hearts beat. Their blood runs, though it's… changed. Their flesh heals, but slower. They're twisted, yes, but not corpses."

She pressed harder, the wolf whining under her hands. "A type of death dao and mana still binds them. Which means my Dao can cut that bond. It won't be clean, but it will bite deeper than it should. My life qi will actually disrupt them more than my death will."

Harold considered that, expression grim. "Good."

Lira lowered her hands at last, brushing sweat from her brow. "Edge or not, Harold, they won't break like that Knight did. It took Ferin calling a hunt on that guy, a tier 2 Branded shadow wolf, and Auren who just had a breakthrough to kill one Tier 3 Knight Dao user. And they still walked away almost dead. This was the easy one."

Harold's lips pressed thin, eyes flicking back to the wolves. "I know. That's why I'm asking the questions now."

Harold let the silence linger a moment longer, then pushed away from the fire. His gaze swept the compound.

The forest had been pushed back, the treeline cut down into ragged stumps and clear lanes. Fresh logs were still being hauled in and stacked, sweat-slick soldiers moving in teams under the axe sergeant's orders. Hal's pack remained out in the dark beyond, their presence faint but steady through the bond, padding circles that stretched wide around the fortress.

Near the wall, the brothers swung axes in steady rhythm, splitting logs for braces. It was their penance for this morning's stupidity, and Harold noted with grim satisfaction that neither looked eager to test the wall again. Their shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but the woodpile grew high.

Along the southern stretch, a crew worked under makeshift scaffolds, hammering supports into place for a broad overhang. It wasn't a hall, but it would give shelter against rain and sun, and keep the men off the dirt when they rested. Practical, fast.

In the center of the settlement, Kelan knelt with his hands pressed into the earth. Sweat plastered his hair, his breath ragged. The beginnings of a deep well yawned before him, the soil packed neat and lined where his Dao had bound the stone. Harold could feel the weight of it — not just the work, but the constant drain. Kelan had been spending mana and Qi without pause, weaving his class deeper into the ground, stitching his claim into the bones of the land.

The earth thrummed faint under Harold's boots. This place was becoming Kelan's as much as Harold's.

Harold's jaw tightened. Every log split, every drop of sweat, every flare of Qi — it was all being spent to turn this clearing into a fortress worth bleeding for.

And yet, when he looked toward the forest beyond the ditch, he knew it still wasn't enough.

Harold found Hal near the gate, the frost wolf's head lifted toward the forest. His fur bristled faintly, hackles stirring at scents that clung to him from patrol.

Harold laid a hand on his ruff, letting the bond tighten. What did you find out there, Hal? Anything interesting? Any dangerous beasts?

The wolf's mind brushed his, carrying back impressions — raw, sharp, wordless.

A bear, massive and scarred, pacing a stream to the west. Its temper foul, its bulk enough to scatter a squad if they blundered into its path.

Farther north, a tusked boar with a back bristling like spears. Quick for its size, rage boiling beneath its hide. The wolves had given it space.

And deeper still — the grove of twisted oaks, where the wind carried the stench of blood and decay. Shadows pooled there thicker than they should, and the pack had refused to push closer.

Harold rubbed his jaw, considering. A bear like that could be driven. Pushed into a patrol, maybe. The boar too, if we set it off right. Dangerous to herd, but worth the risk if it tears into the enemy before they reach the wall.

Hal's growl rumbled low, a mixture of caution and readiness. Through the bond, Harold felt the wolf's instincts — yes, it could be done, but it would cost control, and it might bite both ways if not managed.

"Noted," Harold murmured aloud. "No sense fighting Barons head-on if we can make the forest bleed them first. Beasts don't care about honor."

Hal swung his head toward him, eyes glinting, as if in agreement.

Harold let his hand fall away, gaze narrowing on the dark line of trees. "We'll see if we can make the wild work for us. If they want to step into this forest, let them find its monsters first."

Harold's gaze swept the clearing one last time — the stacked logs, the half-built shelter, the wolves nursing wounds under Lira's hands. Every face was tired, every blade worn. Against the Bloodnights, even this fortress wouldn't be enough.

"Lira. Kelan." His voice carried across the firelight, steady as steel. They both looked up.

"I have a job for you in the morning."

The words hung heavy in the summer night. Harold didn't explain further, not yet. The truth was simple: they couldn't win by meeting the Bloodnights head-on. Not even behind these walls.

If they were going to survive, then Harold would have to change the rules of the game.

The morning broke hot and clear, sunlight slanting through the thinning trees as the road uncoiled toward the distant walls of the city.

Kelan shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulders, the clink of coins inside reminding him

The morning broke hot and clear, sunlight slanting through the thinning trees as the road uncoiled toward the distant walls of the city.

Kelan shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulders, the clink of coins inside reminding him of Harold's last words. Two days. That was all the time they'd been given to scout the city, to find allies, to fill the empty Brands that meant the difference between survival and collapse.

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"Two days," Kelan muttered under his breath. "To walk into a city we don't know and drag strangers into a war they don't understand." His jaw worked, his expression grim. "Feels thin."

Beside him, Lira walked with quiet grace, the morning light catching the steel edge in her eyes. "Thin or not, we don't have a choice. Harold needs more than soldiers. We all saw how close we came last night."

Kelan grunted, but didn't argue. His mind was already churning through the task ahead. "If we're going to make this fortress into more than walls and ditches, we need builders. Architects. Formation masters, if we're lucky enough to find one. People who can raise something that lasts. That's what I'll be looking for."

"And healers," Lira said sharply, without hesitation. "Pill makers, potion brewers, anyone with the craft to keep us on our feet. I've already taken Rysa's Brand from you — I'll carry the burden for that one. But one healer won't be enough. Not against vampires. If I don't find more, people will die."

She fell silent for a moment, gaze turning inward. Finding people willing to risk everything on me… who believe in me… who are willing to take a chance on the Calamity's side? Her lips pressed into a thin line. It will be hard. But I won't fail Harold. Not when he's counting on me.

The walls of the city rose higher as they crested a hill, banners rippling above the towers. Smoke curled from a dozen chimneys, the murmur of thousands faint on the wind.

Kelan exhaled through his nose. "Two days," he repeated. "We'd better make them count."

Lira's fingers brushed the Brand hidden on her wrist. "We will."

Together, they walked on toward the gates.

The road narrowed as it cut through a stand of low hills. Ahead, hooves struck stone, echoing sharp against the morning air.

Kelan and Lira slowed as a mounted patrol crested the rise — half a dozen riders in dark steel, crimson cloaks draped at their shoulders. At their head rode a figure clad in full plate, the blackened armor etched with faint silver lines that caught the light like veins of frost. His helm was open, pale skin and crimson eyes unmistakable. The warhorse beneath him was massive, its barding heavy enough to crush the path with every step.

The leader reined in, gaze locking on them with predatory precision. "Halt." His voice carried like a weight. "State your names."

Kelan's hand tightened on the strap of his pack, but he forced his voice level. "Travelers. From the hills north of here."

"Travelers," the vampire repeated, tasting the word. His eyes narrowed, lingering on their faces. "And those lines. What are they?"

Lira touched her cheek reflexively, the faint streaks from Harold's Brand etched there. She lifted her chin. "Marks of oath. Nothing you need concern yourself with."

The vampire's expression did not change. "They are not of the city. Nor of the mercenary orders. What do they mean?"

Kelan's jaw tightened. "Why are we being stopped? We've broken no laws, we're not armed for war, and we're bringing coin to your city."

The vampire ignored the protest, leaning slightly in the saddle. His horse snorted, stamping the dirt. "Answer the question."

Lira's eyes flashed, her voice sharp. "And if we don't?"

The silence that followed was heavier than steel. The vampire's hand rested casually on the pommel of his blade, crimson gaze unblinking. The riders behind him shifted their lances, points glinting in the sun.

He did not repeat himself. He only waited, pressure thick in the air.

Kelan shifted his pack higher on his shoulders, meeting the vampire's stare without flinching. "We told you already. Travelers. Bringing coin to your markets. If you want our names written down for your ledgers, fine. But we won't be bullied off the road for marks you don't understand."

The vampire's crimson gaze narrowed, but Kelan held it, voice hardening. "You've got a city to watch, not two tired travelers. If you think we're worth your time, then you're wasting it."

One of the riders behind the leader growled, his lance twitching forward, but the armored vampire stilled him with a hand. His eyes slid back to Lira. "And you? You carry yourself too straight to be just another peddler's wife. What power do your marks hide?"

Lira's lips pressed into a thin line. She let the silence stretch, then exhaled slowly and lifted her hand.

Life Qi bloomed in her palm. Bright, vivid, raw — a wash of emerald light that spilled against the vampire's steel like sunlight on oil. The air stirred, the grass at her feet shifting greener, straighter. Even the warhorse tossed its head uneasily, nostrils flaring.

Her eyes locked on his. "I don't hide what I am. I'm a healer. And I won't be harassed on the road like some bandit's prize." She took a step forward, the glow spilling across her arms now, her voice calm but firm. "Back. Off."

For the first time, the vampire's helm-etched face twitched. Not fear, but a grudging respect. Life Qi pressed sharp against his undead flesh — not enough to kill, but enough to sting and force him to use his own qi to shield himself.

The warhorse stamped, and the vampire's hand slipped from his blade. "Very well." His tone was flat, but he eased his reins, the riders behind him falling into line. "Go, healer. Go, traveler. But remember this — the Bloodnights see more than coin and peddlers when they look at strangers on their roads."

Kelan exhaled through his nose, stepping past without breaking stride. "Then they'd better learn to look harder."

Lira let the glow fade as she followed, but her hand lingered at her side, trembling faintly from the effort. Only when they were out of earshot did she mutter, "Two days. We'd best make them count."

The morning came quiet, broken only by the steady thud of axes. Harold stood atop the palisade, the sun cresting behind him, watching the forest mist curl and burn away.

Below, the compound stirred to life. Holt had the platoon running weapons checks, shields lifted, edges sharpened. The axe brothers, still paying penance, were already swinging their tools into fresh-cut logs, sweat dripping from their bare backs. Smoke rose from a small fire where the cook ladled out bowls of thin porridge — enough to keep the men moving, if not satisfied.

Hal's pack was returning from their night patrol, paws dark with soil, muzzles flecked with dew. The frost wolf padded up to the gate, giving Harold a low rumble through the bond: quiet, but watching.

Harold's gaze swept the work sites. The overhang along the wall had grown overnight, sturdy enough to shelter a dozen men in its shadow. The well Kelan had carved yawned in the center of camp, stone rings neatly bound where his Dao had anchored it. Already men were drawing the first buckets of clear water, passing them around with tired grins.

Everywhere Harold looked, he saw movement — soldiers, wolves, smoke, steel. A living thing taking shape out of nothing.

He let out a breath, low and steady.

It wasn't enough. Not yet. Against the Bloodnights, against Barons, it would never be enough unless he made it so.

"Sergeant Holt," Harold called down.

She looked up from the drills, shield balanced on her arm. "Sir?"

"Have one of the runners fetch Jerric from chopping trees, I have a job for him and Its time for me to open the portal home."

Holt barked an order, one of the younger soldiers breaking from the drill line at a sprint toward the treeline where Jerric was swinging an axe.

Harold stayed where he was, one hand pressed to the timber of the wall, the other resting against the Brand etched on his skin. The bond thrummed faintly, the promise of that impossible thread stretching back to his valley.

The men below quieted as word rippled through the compound — their Calamity was about to tear the air again, to bridge worlds as casually as others might open a door. Faces lifted toward him, some expectant, some wary.

Hal settled at the gate with a low growl, his pack crouched tight around him, as if even they understood what was coming.

Harold set his hand against the mark, focusing, the bond thrumming through his core.

[Tactical Recall — Anchor Point Engaged.]

The air tore open in the center of the compound. Light spilled out in jagged arcs, widening into a circle that shimmered like a standing pool of water. On the other side, the familiar sight of his valley settlement flickered — the longhouses, smoke rising from the forge, the bustle of people at work.

The first figures through drew a shout.

Brenn stumbled across, both arms loaded with baskets, and behind him Meala was right on his heels. "Hold them steady, you lout! If you drop that bread after I spent half the night kneading it—"

"I've got it, woman!" Brenn barked back, though his eyes were wide at the wall towering over him. "Just—don't shove me while I'm carryin'—"

The smell hit the compound first. Fresh, warm bread, still steaming. The soldiers nearest the portal erupted in cheers, laughter breaking out as the scent curled through the air. "Bread! Fresh bread!"

"Gods bless Meala!" one of the younger men shouted, already running forward to help unload. Brenn nearly toppled as soldiers swarmed, grabbing loaves from the basket with greedy hands but reverent care, as if they couldn't quite believe it was real.

Meala planted her hands on her hips, glaring until one of the men had the sense to murmur, "Thank you, ma'am," before darting off with his prize. Only then did her scowl soften, just a touch.

More figures stepped through — soldiers hauling bundles of freshly cut plants, roots and herbs still dripping with soil. They were passed off quickly to waiting hands; the settlement would always need more, and Harold's foragers wasted no time making use of every scrap.

Then Illga came striding through, her shoulders broad beneath a patched leather vest. A great wicker basket rested against her hip, the weight making her sway only slightly. The faint rattle inside made Harold's lips twitch.

"Caltrops and nails," she said with blunt pride, dropping the basket at his feet with a heavy thunk. "Enough to make anyone think twice about running at your walls."

Harold crouched, pulling up one of the iron caltrops, the wicked little points catching the light. Perfect. He glanced up at Illga and gave a single nod. "Good work."

Illga sniffed, but there was satisfaction in the set of her jaw.

Harold turned the caltrop in his hand once more, then set it back into the basket. His gaze lifted to Illga. "How are we on bolts?"

Her expression darkened, lips pressing into a thin line. "Not good."

"Explain."

"I can forge heads all day," she said, crossing her arms, "but we don't have the shafts. No fletchers, no seasoned wood. What little we brought from the dungeon is nearly spent. Without another raid, there's no resupply. What we have is what we have."

Murmurs rippled among the men close enough to hear.

Harold's jaw tightened. "So once our quivers run dry…"

"We're down to blades and whatever stones you lot can throw," Illga finished flatly. "Don't mistake me, sir — I'll stretch the iron, make every head sharper than the last. But without shafts? They're just paperweights."

Silence pressed in. The smell of bread still lingered, but the cheer had faded at her words.

Harold gave a slow nod, his face hard as stone. "Understood." He looked past her, to where the soldiers leaned on the wall, crossbows slung over their backs.

Harold found Brenn and Meala preparing to step back through the portal, baskets finally lightened. Brenn still looked rattled, though whether from the portal or Meala's tongue was hard to say.

"Brenn. Meala." Harold's voice softened just a fraction. "Thank you. The men needed that more than you know."

Meala gave a firm nod, lips pressed thin. "They'll fight better on full stomachs. Don't let them waste it."

"They won't," Harold said, inclining his head. Brenn managed a lopsided grin before Meala herded him back into the light. The portal shimmered once, then snapped shut, leaving only the smell of fresh bread in the air.

Illga stayed behind as the portal winked shut, her thick arms crossed over her chest, her face shadowed with something more than fatigue.

"There's something you need to hear," she said, her voice low. "On the way here — above the settlement. Six of them. Flying close, like a flock. Big shapes. Wings like sails. Could've been dragons, wyverns, or something else with scales."

Harold's eyes narrowed. "Above our settlement?"

Illga nodded. "They didn't dive, didn't circle. Just passed over. Could've noticed us, could've not. Hard to say. But six of them, flying together that tight? That's not chance."

Harold stared toward the distant ridges, jaw working. "If they didn't notice us, good. If they did, and they weren't interested…" He exhaled slowly. "That's worse. Means they're waiting for a reason."

Illga's lips pressed thin. "What do you want done?"

"Shelter," Harold said without hesitation. "Quiet and quick. Get with the miners. I want a fallback dug into the mountain itself — deep enough the civilians can vanish if the sky turns against them. Timber braces, stone face if possible. Nothing fancy, just something that can't be burned or crushed in a single pass."

Illga gave a short nod. "A hole in the mountain, hidden if we can manage it."

She turned without another word already set to get working.

The portal shimmered open again, light bending across the compound. Master Olrick stepped through, brushing dust from his coat, his sharp eyes scanning the wall, the drills, the wolves pacing at the gate.

"Olrick," Harold called, his tone flat but carrying. "With me."

The old man's brows furrowed, but he followed without hesitation. Harold led him a few paces aside, where the crack of axes and clatter of shields muffled their words. From a distance, it looked like two men speaking quietly over maps that weren't there.

Their voices didn't carry, not clearly. Only fragments slipped through.

Harold's, low and measured: "Two days."

Olrick's, sharp, almost breaking: "No. Not with—"

A pause. The rasp of Harold's reply, harder now: "We need them. Honor will bind them."

Olrick's face twisted, his shoulders stiff. His words came through only as a growl, indistinct but bitter. He turned half away, one hand raking down his beard, the other curled into a fist.

Harold's final words were little more than a breath, but the weight of them pressed into the silence: "It has to be done."

Olrick stood there a moment longer, jaw tight, then exhaled, shoulders sagging in defeat. He muttered something too low to catch, then turned sharply and walked back through the portal. The light rippled, shuddered, and snapped shut behind him.

Harold lingered alone at the center of the compound, his face grim. He didn't look proud. He didn't look pleased. But he didn't waver.

"Two days," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The portal winked shut with a final shimmer, leaving only the dust stirred by Olrick's boots.

For a moment, the compound was still. Then Harold turned back toward the yard. He caught the way some of the soldiers were watching — eyes lingering too long, drills slowing as their minds wandered. Even Holt's jaw was set tighter than usual, her shield edge biting into the dirt.

Daran stood near the well, arms folded, his broad sword strapped at his back. He wasn't a man prone to showing doubt, but even he looked unsettled, his gaze tracking Harold a moment longer than it should have. He said nothing. None of them did. But unease hung heavy in the air.

Harold let it pass without acknowledgment. His face gave nothing away. He stepped down from the wall, boots crunching against the earth, and made his way toward the clearing where Jerric waited, still flushed from chopping trees.

"Jerric," Harold called. His voice was steady, businesslike. "I've got work for you."

Jerric was still catching his breath when Harold found him, axe resting against his shoulder, sweat streaking down his face. He straightened quickly, trying to look less tired than he was.

"Sir?"

Harold studied him a moment, then asked quietly, "The dungeon. Can you still feel it here?"

Jerric blinked, surprised, then nodded slowly. "Faint. Like it's behind a wall, but… I can still hear it. The hum of it. And my abilities still work."

"Good," Harold said. His eyes flicked toward the forest where the stumps marked fresh clearings. "Tell me, does the dungeon have kobolds? The kind that specialize in traps?"

Jerric hesitated. "Yes. Small, vicious little bastards. When I think about summoning them I see them build wire pits, string trip-lines, dig spike-holes."

"Then start summoning them," Harold ordered, his voice flat. "As many as your pull power can handle. I want them laying traps in the woods outside, where the trees have already been cut back." He pointed, marking a rough sector beyond the palisade. "That's your ground. Make it so a patrol that strays in doesn't come back out."

Jerric swallowed hard but nodded. "Aye, sir."

Harold handed him the wicker basket Illga had left, the nails rattling inside. "Here. Iron enough to make their work meaner. Use it."

Jerric hefted the weight, eyes widening as he looked down at the crude but plentiful supply.

"When it's done, come back to me," Harold finished, his tone never shifting. "I'll have another job waiting for you."

For a moment Jerric only stared at the basket, then at the dark line of forest where his task lay. He gave a sharp nod, clutching the nails tighter. "I'll see it done."

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