The night pressed close as Harold and Holt crossed back through the gates. Sentries settled into their posts, bows glinting on the walls, spears braced in neat ranks behind the battlements. The trench outside yawned black and wide, fifteen feet deep and six wide, a killing field no one sane would cross in the dark.

Then the treeline rippled.

A figure blurred forward, silent as shadow until steel flashed. His dagger darted straight for Harold's throat, faster than most eyes could track.

Holt was already moving.

Her shield rang out, catching the blow at the rim. Sparks spat into the night. The assassin flowed with the rebound, twisting low and stabbing for Harold's ribs. Another shield-bearer blocked, but the strike bit deep into the metal, leaving it hissing with venomous smoke.

"Poison Dao," Holt spat. Her stance widened, her shield glowing faintly as qi pooled through the steel.

The Baron pressed harder. He was no common killer — his speed was blinding, his movements exact, each thrust a perfect line angled at Harold. Holt's shield flared with every clash, qi extending just enough to catch the edges that should have slipped through. Twice the assassin darted wide and hurled knives in rapid sequence. Both slammed against shields at the last moment, the force rattling arms to the bone.

"Hold the line!" Holt barked, teeth clenched. Her detachment locked tighter around Harold, shields forming a shifting dome as the Baron prowled.

The force rattled arms to the bone.

"Hold the line!" Holt barked, teeth clenched. Her detachment locked tighter around Harold, shields forming a shifting dome as the Baron prowled.

Harold drew a slow breath, pressing down the surge of panic. Quietly, he funneled mana into his core. Freedom's Surge began to coil through his veins, power straining like a storm held behind iron gates. One heartbeat, one falter in Holt's shield wall, and he would let it loose.

But he wasn't done.

Oathsense flared, sharp and deliberate. Kelan. Lira. Hal. Tactical Recall.

The bond ignited.

In an instant, the air around Harold cracked with light. Kelan slammed into being at his left flank, hammer already drawn, his presence settling like a mountain dropped into the dirt. On Harold's other side, Lira appeared with a flare of life mana, staff leveled, her eyes burning with fury. A blast of frost swept the air as Hal emerged in front of him, claws gouging deep furrows into the ground, his growl shaking the night.

The assassin skidded to a halt, his dagger hovering an inch from Holt's shield. For the first time, his balance faltered.

"You picked the wrong prey," Harold said, voice low and steady.

Hal's snarl was answer enough.

The Baron didn't retreat. His lips peeled back into a thin smile, poison qi and mana mixing then hissing faintly from the dagger in his hand.

Then he moved.

He blurred sideways, his form folding into shadow, reappearing at Kelan's flank. The hammer swept out, stone qi roaring as it struck — but the assassin was already gone, sliding low, his knife darting for Harold's legs.

Hal slammed into him with a burst of frost, claws gouging at the air. The Baron twisted, his dagger flashing up to score a line across the wolf's shoulder. Poison steamed in the wound, but Hal shook it off with a roar, snapping jaws inches from the man's throat.

Lira's staff flared, vines of green light bursting from the earth, lashing around the Baron's legs. For a heartbeat they held — then poison qi hissed, the vines blackening and shriveling as he cut free. His eyes flicked to her, calculating, before Holt's shield crashed into him, forcing him back again.

The fight became a blur of motion:

Kelan hammering down blows like avalanches, stone qi shuddering through the ground.

Lira striking from behind the shield wall, her staff unleashing bursts of life mana to keep her allies moving.

Hal lunging again and again, frost spreading wherever his claws landed, forcing the assassin into ever narrower angles.

The Baron slipped between them like smoke, his blade darting in at Harold whenever the chance opened. But each time Holt was there, shield flaring with qi, or a wolf snapped from the side, or Kelan's hammer forced him to vanish before impact.

He struck three, four more times, each blow a hair's breadth from breaking through. And then —

He stopped.

The Baron danced back, his breathing steady, poison still drifting faintly from his blade. Then, slowly, he raised both arms, palms open, dagger glinting between his fingers. His head tilted, smile faint but sharp.

"I surrender." His voice was smooth, almost mocking. "Im here on behalf of a few of the noble houses from Lionheart city, but when I saw how loosely you were guarded I decided to take a chance. A shot at the first Calamity in an Age? Damn good deal."

The torchlight flickered over him as he stood there, balanced on the edge of shadow. His eyes never left Harold's.

The torchlight flickered over him as he stood there, balanced on the edge of shadow. His eyes never left Harold's.

Holt tightened her stance, shield angled to cover Harold still, the rim gleaming faintly with qi. Blood dripped from her cut arm, but she didn't so much as twitch.Kelan's hammer rested against the earth, but the stone around his boots trembled faintly with restrained power. "If you thought Harold was loosely guarded, you're a fool," he rumbled.

Hal prowled forward, shoulders stiff, frost hissing from his breath. Lira's eyes narrowed, her staff angled. The air around her shimmered faintly with threads of life mana while she worked on cleansing the poison from the allies around her.. "Or he's lying. 'Lionheart' is a good name to drop when you don't want to give away your real master."

The Baron only smiled wider, as though their words amused him. His gaze never shifted, never broke from Harold's. "Then take me inside. Ask your questions. See if I flinch."

Harold didn't move. He stood behind Holt's shield, calm as stone, letting the moment stretch until the tension bit at every nerve. Then he sent a thought through Oathsense to Rysa, sharp as a blade point. Rysa Tell Daran to bring some of Hal's pack to me. Now please.

The answer came swiftly. Minutes later, padded steps echoed across the packed earth as wolves loped into the torchlight, their eyes burning like coals in the dark. Daran was with them, his blade already drawn, gaze flicking from the Baron to Harold. He said nothing, but the set of his jaw was clear: he didn't like this.

"Kelan," Harold said evenly, still watching the assassin. "A table. Chairs. Just enough for us to speak."

The Bastion Forger's nostrils flared, but he moved anyway, mana bleeding into the earth. With a crack and grind, a slab of stone rose from the dirt, flattening into a nearly ornate table.Swirls of a different stone running through it. Three chairs shaped themselves after it, firm and sturdy but just as ornate as the table.

When the stone settled, Kelan stepped back with Holt to Harold's side, his hammer still in hand. His voice was low but furious, his eyes never leaving the Baron. "This is a bad idea, Harold." Holt's lip curled, her shield angled toward the assassin still. "He's a Baron-tier killer who just walked into our camp and smiled while doing it. You can not just sit down with him."

The Baron chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. He didn't lower his arms, didn't relax his stance. His eyes were still locked on Harold's, bright and hungry in the torchlight.

Kelan's voice was still rumbling, Holt's shield still braced forward when Harold finally turned his head. His tone was calm, but it cut sharper than any blade.

"Enough. If you're worried, then make sure you're fast enough to stop him. Otherwise—shut up."

The words landed heavy, leaving no room for answer. Holt's jaw tightened, Kelan's hammer creaked in his grip, but both fell silent. The wolves at Harold's back growled low, a rumble that filled the pause.

Harold stepped forward, crossing the short space to the crude table. He stopped at the head of it, eyes never leaving the Baron. "Care for a seat?"

The assassin's smile curled wider. He lowered his arms slowly, deliberately, as though mocking the tension in the air. Then he strode forward and sank into one of the stone chairs, lounging back like he belonged there.

With a lazy flick of his wrist, a small service appeared on the table — steam curling from a pot, two cups set neatly beside a plate of sugared biscuits. The faint aroma of tea drifted up, soft and civilized, absurd against the torchlit standoff.

He plucked a cookie between two fingers and bit into it with delicate care, crumbs dusting the corner of his mouth. "Now then," he said lightly, gesturing with the half-eaten biscuit. "Shall we talk?"

Harold didn't flinch at the conjured spread. He reached out, steady and deliberate, and took the pot in hand. The porcelain was warm, the steam fragrant. He poured two cups, one for the Baron, one for himself, and set the pot back down without ceremony.

Then he plucked a cookie from the plate, bit into it, and chewed with measured calm. The sweetness settled on his tongue, but his eyes never left the man across from him.

"Well," Harold said, swallowing, "that answers one question. Not poisoned."

The Baron's grin sharpened, but Harold spoke over it. "So. What does the nobility of Lionheart City want with me? I must admit…" he leaned back slightly, cup in hand, "I expected something from the city much earlier. Especially after the ruckus these two left there."

He tilted his head toward Kelan and Lira at the edge of the table, their eyes watching every flicker of movement at the table. Lira with a very frustrated look on her face. Harold had to shut down Oath perception to stop them both from talking to him.

The Baron chuckled low, brushing crumbs from his glove. "Lionheart doesn't move fast, Calamity. Too many hands on the reins, too many houses tugging in different directions. But make enough noise?" He tapped the dagger still resting on the table beside his cup, the metal faintly steaming with poison qi. "They notice. And you've been noticed."

He leaned forward, eyes glittering. "You're the first Calamity in an Age. That makes you an opportunity. Some want to destroy you. Some want to bargain. A few… want to own you."

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He raised his cup, as though toasting. "I was sent to see which you'd be."

Harold set his cup down with a quiet clink, the steam curling between them. His gaze was steady, cutting past the Baron's smile.

"And they sent you to find me and make the offer…" Harold let the words linger, slow and deliberate. Then his head tilted slightly. "You don't strike me as the type to play their games. So why are you?"

For the first time, the Baron's grin thinned. Not gone—just less certain, as if Harold had brushed too close to something real. He leaned back in the chair, spinning the dagger idly across his fingers, letting the steel catch the firelight.

"Because coin spends, Calamity. Titles hold weight. And the houses of Lionheart have plenty of both." His tone was easy, but the way his eyes flicked toward the wolves at the edge of the den betrayed the lie of carelessness.

He tapped the dagger against the rim of his cup, poison hissing faintly as it touched the porcelain. "Don't mistake me. I don't bend knee to them. But power—" he gestured loosely toward Harold with the blade "—draws power. Even I know better than to ignore the chance to carve out a larger slice."

Harold regarded the Baron across the table in silence, his eyes calm, unreadable. The steam from his tea curled lazily between them, carrying the faint sweetness of the conjured cookies.

Footsteps echoed softly behind him. Rysa and Auren stepped into the torchlight, their faces taut with focus, hands never far from their weapons. They moved toward the table, but before they could close the distance Lira cut across their path.

"Not too close," she said quietly, one hand lifted. Her staff gleamed faintly with life mana, a ward as much as a warning. "Let Harold work."

Rysa hesitated, then inclined her head, tugging Auren back with her. They settled just outside the circle of light, watchful, their presence heavy without intruding.

The assassin's gaze slid toward them. He did not startle, did not shift in his seat. His eyes lingered briefly on Auren's bow, on Rysa's steady stance, then flicked back to Harold.

"Well," he said at last, lifting his cup and sipping delicately, "it seems your council grows larger by the moment. How quaint."

He set the porcelain down with a soft click and leaned back in his chair, dagger still rolling lazily across his fingers.

Harold regarded him a little longer, the silence stretching taut between them. Then he lifted his cup, sipped the tea without hurry, and set it back down. A cookie followed, bitten into neatly, chewed with calm indifference.

When he finally spoke, his tone was measured, but there was iron in it.

"See, here's my issue with the truce between Lionheart City and the Bloodnights. You both need each other, yet neither will admit it. And from where I sit, it's the Bloodnights that have been kept under heel. Suppressed. Weakened. Even though Lionheart leans on their combat power when the walls shake."

The Baron's grin faltered for the briefest flicker, though his eyes didn't leave Harold's.

Harold leaned back in his chair, folding one arm over the other, his voice carrying the faint edge of amusement now. "That lump of stone"—his chin tilted toward Kelan without looking away from the assassin—"evaded your guards with fifty escaped prisoners. Fifty. So either Lionheart's vaunted security is worthless, or someone competent isn't in charge anymore."

The Baron's dagger paused in its lazy spin.

Harold smiled faintly, not with humor but with hunger. "

Either one works, so…my appetite has grown. I am no longer content with just the Bloodnight Family. I will have Lionheart City as well."

The torchlight hissed in the silence that followed, the wolves rumbling low in their chests while the Baron considered him, expression carefully held in place.

The Baron's dagger stilled, the lazy spin ending between his fingers. His smile faded into something quieter, unreadable. He regarded Harold with a faint frown, calm as still water.

"I was under the impression," he said evenly, "that you Calamities had one target."

Harold smiled grimly back at him, though it held no humor. He set his cup down, tapping one finger lightly against the rim.

"I'm assuming the nobles are playing both sides," Harold said, his voice slow, almost musing. "Feeding fodder and a trickle of equipment to the Bloodnights. That way, the useless are culled without the city having to carry them, and the gear lets them claim they're offering value. It's neat. Efficient. And it costs them nothing."

Harold leaned back, eyes steady on the Baron. "Few nobles are rarely noble. So they send you — test me, cut me down if they can… and if they can't, then dress it up as an offer."

The wolves rumbled low in the background, their growls filling the silence as his words settled over the firelit circle.

He let the pause stretch, a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "So then—tell me, messenger. What scraps do they think will tempt me?"

The torchlight swayed between them, shadows stretching long across the table as every face turned toward the Baron, waiting to see what he would lay down.

The Baron studied Harold for a long moment, then let the dagger fall still in his hand. With his other, he reached into his cloak and drew out a ring — simple in design, but heavy with the quiet gleam of enchantment. He laid it on the table between them.

"Supplies," he said evenly. "Your city friends know what you've been using."

He tapped the ring once, and the contents shimmered into view.

Crossbows, polished and compact, their limbs reinforced with steel. Bundles of bolts stacked beside them, their tips gleaming faintly with alchemical treatment. Vials stoppered in wax and glass — bright liquid health potions, enough to patch a dozen men. And most dangerous of all, the etched glow of explosive talismans, paired with slim vials that shimmered like bottled fire.

The wolves' growls deepened as the talismans hit the air, but Harold felt every gaze in the circle sharpen on the table.

The Baron leaned back, folding his arms. "The city offers these. And one more thing." He slid a small device forward — a beacon, its runes dull in the torchlight but unmistakably active with dormant power.

"There are adventurer teams waiting on the outskirts. Independent, deniable. Ready to answer the beacon if you finish the fight with the Bloodnights. You are right about one thing, Calamity." His tone didn't waver. "The nobles resent them. Resent their strength, their teeth. The Bloodnights are the premier fighting force in the region, and they wield methods the city's own men-at-arms cannot match. The nobles want that power broken."

He let the silence settle over the table again, his expression unreadable. "And so they sent me — not just to test you, but to see if you could be useful."

The torchlight flickered over the ring, the talismans, and the beacon, each one gleaming faintly like bait on a hook.

Harold let the ring turn once beneath his thumb, studying the talismans' etchwork, the stamped fletching on the bolts, the neat little ampoules clinking faintly in their rack.

"Free supplies are never free," he murmured, mostly to the tea.

Behind him, Rysa breathed, "Explosive vials," like a prayer.

Auren sighed, dry as old stone. "We're not calling them that."

"I'm calling them that," Rysa said, already reaching as if her fingers could close around one.

Lira slid her staff across Rysa's path without looking away from the Baron. "You'll touch nothing until I'm done warding them."

Harold ignored the scuffle and lifted his eyes. "Composition and disposition of these adventurer teams?"

The Baron tapped the table once, then spread his hands. "All together. Four companies. Roughly thirty blades between them. Balanced lines — medics, archers, warders, scouts. Tier Twos across most of the ranks, with six Tier Threes to hold the line and one Tier Four leading the lot. They're not rabble. They've bled together before. They'll move like one unit."

The wolves rumbled in the shadows, low and steady, as Harold studied him.

"When the beacon is lit," the Baron continued, "they'll run. Two hours, maybe less if the ground holds and the weather stays clear. That's what you'll get: a trained, unified force arriving to fight where you need them. Lionheart wants it seen that their coin bought something sharp."

Rysa gave a breathless laugh. "Explosive vials and reinforcements. It's like a festival."

Auren pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's like you've never seen a siege before."

Harold let the chatter fade behind him, his gaze never leaving the Baron. He thought a moment longer, then leaned forward, the grim edge of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Rysa, still pinned by Lira's staff, lifted her hand. "If they're professionals, can I have the explody—"

"No," three voices said at once.

"So. Supplies, a beacon, and the promise of a professional rescue two hours out." He tapped a finger against the ring. "Not bad. But free supplies are never free." Harold said

The Baron's expression remained still, calm as glass.

Harold leaned forward, his hand resting lightly on the table, eyes locked on the Baron's. The wolves rumbled low, the soldiers shifted uneasily, but his voice was calm, measured, and carrying.

"Here's what I want you to do, messenger…"

The Baron faded into the dark with his words still hanging, and with a gesture Kelan dismissed the table and chairs. Stone cracked and sank back into the ground, leaving only torchlight and the packed earth where the assassin had sat.

They walked back toward the fort together, the wolves padding in their wake. Harold's voice broke the quiet first.

"Holt," he said, glancing at her and her detachment, "you and your teams earned your place tonight. You'll have your reward when this is over."

She dipped her chin once, shield still braced on her arm, though the pride in her soldiers' eyes said enough.

Hal's frost-rimed breath curled white in the dark as Harold spoke again. "Hal. I want your pack out there raising hell. Howls through the night. Don't let them rest—keep them waiting for the attack."

The Alpha's eyes glinted pale as ice, and the answering growl was all promise.

Harold turned next. "Auren. How confident are you they'll wait for daylight?"

The archer's answer came without hesitation. "Very. Majority of their force isn't vampire. They'll need the light."

"Good. You and Ferin are out before first light. Take Jerric with you. Kill anyone trying to cross into the trap forest. Thin them as much as possible."

They reached the gates, soldiers moving aside as the group filed through the walls.

"Rysa. Lira. Examine the explosives. If they're good, use them the same way we've set the others. That'll raise the density a lot."

Both nodded, Rysa already giggling at the thought, Lira's expression grim but focused.

"Kelan," Harold said, voice steady, "you know what to do. I expect their first attack at first light. Daran—make sure we're ready before then."

The old warrior dipped his head once.

Harold's gaze swept them all as they crossed into the inner yard, torches flickering against stone and steel. "Everyone else—I want as much sleep as possible. At dawn, it begins."

The words lingered in the cold night air, carried on the faint, distant sound of wolves already lifting their howls into the dark.

Harold stood on the tower that was constructed for him examining his map as the sun had barely cleared the horizon, when the forest erupted. He was surprised they actually waited for the daylight. For a family of vampires they did act strangely honorable.

At first it was only noise — boots crunching frost, shouted orders straining to keep formation steady in the undergrowth. Then came the first trap.

A heavy mana and qi heavy log, bristling with spikes, swung down from its rigged ropes. It scythed through a line of Bloodnight soldiers, smashing two flat against a tree trunk before the ropes snapped free and it thudded into the ground. The impact shook the earth, scattering the survivors.

Another squad stumbled forward into what looked like open ground. The earth caved beneath them — a pit lined with sharpened stakes, all coated in foul curse-qi. A strange energy made resisting the fall much harder and screams echoed as the soldiers were impaled. Those still writhing found their blood congealing, their strength leached away by the shaman's malice worked into the wood.

Arrows hissed through the air. Auren's shafts flew faster than sight, guided by wind, each one punching through armor joints and throats. The curse-laced traps made every hit worse — men staggered as black veins spread from shallow wounds, their lungs seizing, their limbs stiffening.

Ferin moved like a shadow among the trees, loosing arrows in silence, his Hunt Dao guiding every shaft unerringly to its mark. Where Auren's wind made the arrows strike like thunderbolts, Ferin's made them inevitable.

Between them, Jerric's kobolds darted in and out of cover, their crude crossbows clacking as they peppered the advancing line. They were only tier 2, Jerric summoning for numbers not for power. What they lacked in power, they made up for in numbers and speed. Bolts hissed from impossible angles, striking into eyes and gaps in armor, harrying every step.

The Bloodnight soldiers pushed forward, but each advance broke against another snare. Tripwires snapped, triggering whistling volleys of sharpened stakes. Runes buried under the leaves flared to life, spitting fire and smoke that blinded men into stumbling straight into waiting pits. A woven net of iron cords looted from Lionheart city dropped from the branches overhead, tightening as it fell — men struggled, only to have the cords cut into their flesh, curse-qi spreading through the wounds like venom.

The forest itself seemed to fight them. Birds scattered in a frenzy, wolves howled from the flanks, and every step forward cost blood.

Through it all, Auren, Ferin, and the kobolds fell back in practiced rhythm. They knew every safe path, every trap, every cursed snare. They struck, retreated a dozen paces, struck again — always one step ahead of the advancing tide.

Auren called softly as he notched another arrow, "They'll break through before long."

Another volley left their bows, another score of kobold bolts hissed from the brush, and another dozen Bloodnight soldiers fell screaming into the cursed maw of the forest.

The sun climbed higher. The attack had begun in earnest.

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