The air stank of sulfur.

The Matriarch had smelled it herself long before the reports confirmed it—sharp, acrid, coiling up from beneath the earth. Her elders whispered of vents, of pits seeded with fire. She knew better. There was magma under the fort and moving towards their camp, she could feel it.

The thought unsettled even her iron composure. To channel magma beneath an enemy's feet—drowning an army in molten rock—was the kind of working that demanded either vast resources or long, patient time. Neither should have been available to this Calamity. Yet the smell lingered, undeniable. The ground itself seemed to breathe with it.

Her lip curled faintly. "He would turn the earth against us."

Elder Brannwich stood at her shoulder, his own expression grim. "If he breaks the earth, Matriarch, then even Barons will fall. Such a death would please no one."

She gave him a sharp look. "Which is why we move today. With what we have. We know what he has in that fort…it is not much. A few more powerful individuals and soldiers equal to our retainers."

She stood at the crest of the cleared ground, the fort looming beyond the blackened treeline. To her sides stretched the battered remnants of her host: levies tightening leather straps, retainers testing weapons, Barons taking their places along the formations. The loss of multiple Tier Threes to the infiltrator the night before had left the camp restless, even shaken. Their corpses had blackened like meat left to rot in the sun—life poison had done its work cleanly, and the infiltrator had vanished like smoke.

That memory hardened her resolve. No more waiting. No more bleeding by inches.

"Six mantlets," one elder reported, stepping forward with a bow. "Two shielded rams. Fifteen ladders prepared for the scaling. They are crude, but they will serve."

The Matriarch's crimson eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze over the siege line. Mantlets groaned on their wheels, heavy frames plated with rough iron and soaked hides. The rams waited in the rear, shielded with slabs of scavenged timber. The ladders lay stacked like bones, ready to be raised by desperate hands. It was not enough—not the full strength she wanted—but it would have to do.

"Sixteen Barons remain with us, after losing Elder Victor yesterday" Brannwich intoned. "They are scattered among the wings to keep the lines steady. We have 6 here with us as a core including us. You will have our strength where you need it most."

The Matriarch's gauntlet flexed against the hilt at her hip. Crimson light glimmered faintly in her eyes as she watched the smoke rising from the fort beyond. She could almost hear the Calamity's mockery in that sulfur stench.

"Then it begins today," she said, her voice quiet but carrying. "Before he finishes whatever horror he's birthing under our feet. We will drown him in blood before he drowns us in fire."

The horns began to sound, low and rolling, echoing across the blasted woods. Levies braced themselves, retainers barked orders, the mantlets lurched forward on their wheels.

The siege had begun.

The horns rolled low across the ash field. Mantlets lurched into motion, their wheels squealing, the rams creaked forward on straining ropes, ladders carried in the arms of levies who tried not to think about what awaited them at the wall.

The Matriarch stood at the center of it all, crimson eyes tracking the slow march. Then her gaze snagged on movement out of place.

One soldier—levy stock, armor ill-fitted—broke from the ram team. He staggered first, then bolted, sprinting for the rear.

"Back to your place!" the Baron overseeing the mantlets bellowed, surging after him. The commander's heavy strides kicked up black ash, voice carrying over the horns. "Cowardice is death! BACK—"

He never finished.

The soldier spun, blade flashing. It was too fast—far too fast for a Tier Two squire to move. The Baron's eyes widened in shock as the first cut opened his guard, the second tore across his throat. Poison blossomed black across his face before he hit the ground.

The levy's false form straightened, his movements sharper, crueler. He was already reversing, running back toward the ram. Men shouted in confusion as he leapt onto it, blade swinging in ruthless arcs. Soldiers dropped where they stood, their skin blackening almost instantly.

"An infiltrator," Brannwich snarled.

The Matriarch's gauntlet tightened until the steel groaned. Her gaze snapped to her elders. "Go. NOW."

Two of them moved instantly, crimson cloaks snapping as they surged forward, blades drawn. Their speed was blinding, their presence crushing—but the infiltrator did not run. He turned, teeth bared in a smile that wasn't human, even as blood dripped from his arm.

They closed on him—one sword raised, the other weaving shadow—and he laughed. Then the world cracked.

The ram erupted in a spray of splinters and fire, a storm of wood and blood shredding men in every direction. Screams tore across the line. The ram destroyed, its shielded roof snapping apart. Smoke rolled in choking waves.

The Matriarch ground her teeth, her armored fist creaking under the strain of her grip. Around her, soldiers faltered—shock and fear spreading like oil across water.

"Forward!" her voice cut across the chaos, sharp as a blade. She stepped out from her place among the elders, her presence flaring crimson. "We march! The Calamity will bleed us, yes—but only if we let him! FORWARD!"

The horns blared again, louder, steadier this time. Fear clung to the air, but under her will it bent. Retainers and levies surged forward once more, dragging ladders and heaving the surviving ram. The assault lurched back into motion.

The Matriarch did not step into the slaughter. Not yet. She held her ground beneath the banner, her eyes narrowing as the lines pushed forward through the broken smoke.

Already the levies were faltering. Bolts hissed from the walls, rattling into armor and shields, dropping men where they stood. The stronger bows fired with deadly rhythm, each shaft streaking clean through the smoke to punch into flesh. She tracked one sergeant, shouting orders as he ran behind a mantlet—until an arrow curved past the wooden cover and struck him square through the chest. He collapsed, twitching, the men around him breaking in confusion.

Another shaft streaked like lightning, skewering a Tier Three knight who had raised his shield a heartbeat too late. Poison blossomed instantly in his veins, his scream cut short as he toppled to the dirt.

"Barrier!" one of her retainers barked, throwing up a wavering shimmer of crimson. Another joined him, the pair straining to shield their men as they staggered toward the walls. The barriers bent, flickered, bolts thudding into them in relentless rhythm. The Matriarch's lips pressed thin—those men would burn themselves out if they tried to cover the whole line.

More mantlets rolled forward, men clustering tightly behind their bulk. But it wasn't safety, not truly. She saw the pattern—arrows weren't trying to pierce the mantlets at all. They curved, bent, streaked past wood and iron to seek flesh.

Her jaw clenched. The same wind Dao archer. The one who had bled their march, who had killed a Baron. She could almost feel his hand steering each shot.

And the bolts—they weren't fired blindly. They weren't hunting the levies. Every shaft seemed to carry purpose. They sought exposed Tier Threes, captains, sergeants, anyone who could keep the line moving. Leaders were being plucked out like weeds in a garden. The levies were left staggering, their spines cut one by one.

The Matriarch's eyes burned crimson as she watched her force unraveling beneath precision and poison. Already she could feel her bloodline reducing as casualties mounted. Every vampire from the Bloodnight family came from her Bloodline and she felt every loss keenly.

Then the line exploded.

The Matriarch's eyes burned crimson as she watched her force unraveling beneath precision and poison. Already she could feel her bloodline thinning, every loss from the family tugging at her veins like threads being cut. Each death was hers, and she felt them keenly.

Then the line exploded.

The earth itself spat fire and steel. Crude charges, buried shallow, went off in savage succession—boom, boom, boom—spitting jagged shrapnel in great fans across the advancing host. The weak explosives lacked the blistering force of the gifted vials she had seen before, but what they lacked in power they made up for in sheer number.

Unshielded levies marching toward the walls were cut down in swathes, their screams rising as bodies collapsed in mangled heaps. Men staggered, legs shredded, arms torn open, the soil blackened with their blood. Those cowering behind mantlets were spared the worst, the heavy frames shielding them from the storm, but there were far fewer mantlets than there were men.

Some soldiers were saved by the quick reflex of a comrade, others by their own Dao or skill throwing up a shield at the last instant. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

In a single instant, dozens were gone.

In a single instant, dozens were gone.

The Matriarch felt the losses carve through her bloodline, each death a lash across her veins. The ground was slick with ash and blood, the air heavy with smoke and poison. She knew then that if she remained behind the line, it would break.

Her gauntlet closed on the hilt at her hip, and she surged forward. Power bled off her in waves, crimson light shivering through the air.

"For the Bloodnight!" Her voice carried like thunder, rolling over the chaos. "For our line—and for honor! Cast down this Calamity and earn your boon!"

The cry struck the faltering host like a hammer. Heads snapped up, legs pushed forward, and the shouts of retainers and levies rose ragged but fierce.

The Matriarch's armor moved with her as if it weighed nothing, the plates whispering against one another as she advanced through the shattered ranks. Where her presence passed, men steadied. Even the Barons scattered across the line felt her call, their own auras flaring higher in answer.

At her side strode her son, crimson-eyed and eager, his great blade already humming with shadow. "Mother," he said, his voice low but alight with hunger, "let me be the first through the wall. I'll carve the Calamity's name from history."

She did not look at him, her gaze fixed instead on the fort looming through the smoke. "Then keep pace," she said coldly. "Today, our blood will write history itself."

And the line surged forward once more.

From the watchtower, Harold watched the field erupt. Smoke drifted in sheets, torn by the stuttering flashes of crude explosives. The screams were louder than the horns now, and for a heartbeat he thought the enemy line might fold.

Then he felt it—pressure, heavy as a storm front rolling in. His gaze cut through the haze, and there she was.

The Matriarch herself.

Her crimson armor caught the light, her presence blazing like a beacon as she strode into the chaos. The line, shattered moments ago, rallied to her cry. Even through the din, Harold heard the words ripple over the battlefield: "For the Bloodnight! For our line and for honor! Cast down this Calamity and earn your boon!"

At her side, a younger vampire moved with the same unnatural grace, blade glinting. The resemblance was unmistakable. Her son. Hungry, eager, daring the walls with every step.

Harold leaned forward on the crenellation, jaw tightening. "So," he muttered under his breath, "the queen finally leaves her throne."

Behind him, Daran's voice rumbled low. "You knew she'd come."

"I did." Harold's eyes never left the two figures pushing the line forward. "Question is, how do we make her regret it?"

He exhaled, steadying himself. "I'll need you down there, Daran. We must not lose the towers on the flanks. We'll anchor there. When they're committed, Hal will strike from the rear. And as soon as the wall is breached, the lava will flow. That's a one-time trick, and it must count."

Daran grunted, his massive hand tightening on the hilt of his broadsword. "Then I'll hold the flanks until the ground itself gives way. And if the Barons come, I'll be there."

Harold's gaze flicked toward him, brief but sharp. "I'll be counting on you to hold them. If you break, we all break."

The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and sulfur, the horns still echoing across the valley. Below, the Bloodnight lines pressed forward under their Matriarch's shadow, siege ladders and mantlets lurching closer to the walls.

Daran thumped his broadsword against the stone beside him once, a promise made in iron. "Then they'll find the flanks harder to break than the walls themselves."

Harold stayed where he was, hands braced against the cold stone, eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding below. The watchtower gave him the vantage he needed, and he would not squander it.

Everywhere along the walls, men were committed. Crossbows cracked in desperate rhythm, bolts raining down on the vampires below. Soldiers fired until their strings frayed, then let the weapons clatter to the stone as they seized waiting spears and axes.

The siege ladders came first—long beams carried by slavering levies, tipped with iron teeth. They clattered against the trench, spanning its width as bodies swarmed to drag them up against the wall.

"Push them back! Get them off!" Holt's voice bellowed from one tower, her shield raised as she rallied her squad. Spears thrust down, prying at ladders, trying to topple them before they bit into the stone.

But the Bloodnights were ready for it. Shielded retainers moved forward across the ladders, shields braced overhead, forming a living roof. Bolts hammered against the makeshift shell, but most clattered harmlessly away. Step by step, the enemy pressed upward, determined to reach the parapet.

From his vantage, Harold tracked each breach forming. Smoke thickened, the smell of sulfur undercut by blood. His soldiers were fighting hard, but the weight of the enemy pressed closer with every heartbeat.

The Matriarch's voice carried again, even over the din, a blade of iron cutting through screams and shouts: "For the Bloodnight! For honor! For your boon!"

And the walls shook with the answering roar of her army.

The ram rolled forward, its iron head swaying on thick ropes, mantlets creaking on either side to shield its path. The Matriarch's line surged behind it, a tide of shields and steel pressing for the wall.

Then the ground boomed.

A sharp crack split the air, followed by a roar that drowned even the horns. Flame burst upward in a sudden geyser, wood splintering, men screaming as the ram's front wheels vanished into collapsing earth. Lava poured through the fissure, not in a slow ooze but a rushing flood, spilling out in bright orange arcs before snaking swiftly back toward the trench.

The wave caught levies mid-stride, fire licking up their legs before they toppled shrieking into the molten torrent. Mantlets shuddered as their wheels sank, the iron fittings hissing and running molten as heat devoured them. The trench filled with liquid fire, turning the passage into a killing ground.

At the heart of the fort, Kelan sat like a stone idol, sweat running down his temples as his hammer dug into the earth. Beside him, the lava-user knelt, eyes rolled back, mana and qi cascading from his body in shimmering waves. The air around them shimmered with heat, the ground pulsing as if alive.

And just behind them, Jerric crouched in the dirt, chalk scratching frantically as he shaped another summoning circle. His small hands trembled, not with fear but with raw excitement. "This one'll do it," he muttered, eyes bright. "This'll make the Barons hurt."

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The circle flared, lines glowing with a harsh red light. From it began to rise a scaled figure, crooked staff in hand, eyes glowing with embers—a kobold shaman.

The dungeon's bond throbbed through Jerric's chest as he pressed his mana into it. He could feel its sapience, its intent, and more than that—its perfect role.

"If the Tier Threes are to stand," Harold murmured from the watchtower, watching the lava cut a fiery wound across the battlefield, "they'll need more than steel."

The shaman's voice hissed as it solidified, guttural and low: "Curses bind… power falters." A debuffer. Perfect for dragging the Tier Fours down into reach.

The lava blazed, the siege line buckled, and the fort itself seemed to awaken for war.

Harold gripped the crenellation with one hand, his voice rising above the clash, the screams, and the roar of the lava as it poured into the trench. Soldiers glanced up, their arms trembling from reloading crossbows or bracing spears, soot and sweat streaking their faces. Wolves prowled in the yard, hackles raised, every ear twitching toward him.

"Hold!" Harold bellowed, his voice carrying with the weight of command. "You see their Matriarch on the field? You see her son at her side? They came to break us here—" he swept his arm toward the burning trench where mantlets sagged and levies burned, "—and instead they find fire at their feet!"

His voice hardened, each word cutting through the din. "These walls don't fall today. Not to Barons, not to their family, not to their Matriarch. They'll bleed themselves dry against us, and when the walls shake, we end them!"

A ragged cheer rose from the parapets, spears banging against wood and stone, crossbows lifted high. Even the weary escaped slaves in the yard straightened, their faces fierce in the firelight.

"For Calamity!" Harold roared. "For your lives! For freedom!"

The cry tore through the ranks, echoed by Holt's shield-bearers, by Daran at the flank tower, by Kelan's hammer vibrating through the ground. Even Hal's howl rolled from the forest beyond, the pack answering their alpha.

The fort was awake.

The cheer was still echoing when the next wave of the assault crashed forward.

Through the smoke, Harold saw ladders rise, carried in desperate surges. They slammed down across the trench, iron teeth biting into the stone. One, two, then a dozen. Vampires scrambled up, their shields raised high, arrows and bolts thudding into them but failing to halt their climb.

Others didn't bother with ladders at all. Some of the Bloodnight retainers, their strength monstrous, vaulted the trench in single leaps, slamming into the wall with claws or blades, dragging themselves up in brutal bursts of power. Where the lava had burned gaps in the lines, the survivors filled them with sheer will.

"Ladders! Get them off the walls!" Holt's voice roared from the flank, her shield smashing into the first retainer to crest the parapet.

Spears thrust downward, prying, hacking, trying to shove the ladders back before they rooted firm. Axes bit into hands and faces, desperate to slow the tide. The fort rang with steel on steel, screams rising as the first breaches formed.

Then Daran moved.

The old warrior launched from the flank tower like a stone flung from a catapult, his broadsword glowing with power. He met the first cluster of vampires vaulting the trench, his strike shaking the wall itself. Three knights went down in one blow, their bodies impacting the ground as they hit.

Others were already climbing, a tide of red eyes and shadow. Daran's sword whirled, breaking shield and bone, his qi flaring sharp as a beacon. Around him, the strongest defenders leapt to meet the breach, their cries mixing with his.

From the watchtower, Harold's knuckles tightened around the wood as he tracked each point of contact. The ladders kept rising, the enemy kept leaping. The wall had become a stormfront—and every person, every branded soul would have to stand in it.

Harold leaned over the parapet, the wall shuddering beneath the weight of the assault. Breaches were forming, claws and steel scraping against stone as vampires forced their way up. His jaw tightened, and through Oathsense he reached out to the cold, steady presence in the forest.

Hal. Now. Most of their Barons are forward. Engage.

A low growl rumbled back through the bond, answered a heartbeat later by a long, piercing howl. It rolled over the battlefield from the rear, deep and resonant, shaking the air. The Bloodnight soldiers stiffened, heads snapping toward the sound, just as the forest itself seemed to come alive. Dozens of howls layered over Hal's, the pack charging from behind like a wave of teeth and frost.

At the same moment, the kobold shaman lifted its crooked staff, guttural words spilling from its fanged mouth. The ground pulsed green-black, and a shiver ran across every breach. Vampires staggered as the curse coiled over them, their strength leeching, speed dragging as if mud clung to their every step.

For a moment—just a moment—the breaches stabilized. Spears pushed harder, shields locked tighter, defenders bought precious seconds as the enemy slowed.

Then the Matriarch's power swept out.

Crimson light burst from her armor, crashing through the curses like waves against sand. Her voice rang across the field, clear, commanding, undeniable:

"For honor, my family! Cut down this Calamity! Earn your boon! Your place in this world is your own—earn it, and rise!"

The words struck like a hammer. Vampires shrieked in reply, their momentum renewed, claws biting into stone, shields slamming upward, blades hacking with fresh fury. The breaches flared alive again, the line straining under the weight of her will.

The walls buckled under the weight of the assault.

Kelan's hammer cracked down, shattering the stone beneath a cluster of vampires climbing the breach. The shockwave sent them tumbling back into the trench, bodies broken on impact. He didn't pause. "Next breach!" he roared, already surging forward.

Lira was at his shoulder, her staff thrumming with green light. Where a soldier staggered, her power snapped through him, closing wounds and driving life back into weary limbs. Where a vampire lunged too close, her staff snapped out like a serpent, bone and shadow cracking under its weight. Together they crushed the breach, only to pivot to the next. Too few soldiers on the wall—every time one breach was held, another flared open like a wound.

The reserves were already gone, every last body thrown into the fray.

From a flank tower, Ferin loosed arrow after arrow, his Hunt Dao guiding each shaft unerringly into vital flesh. Beside him, Auren drew deep with his wind Dao, splitting his shots in midair, arrows streaking like a storm. Around them snarled Ferin's hounds, lean shadows that tore into any vampire who tried to scale the tower's base. His lone wolf crouched atop the parapet, lips pulled back in a soundless snarl, its eyes burning as it leapt down on another climber.

Below, Rysa worked like a woman possessed. She hurled her creations over the wall—some crude explosives that burst in deafening sprays of fire and shrapnel, others strange jars that released choking smoke or bursts of slick frost. Each one sowed chaos in the ranks below, breaking formations, buying seconds the soldiers desperately needed.

And the soldiers themselves—they fought with raw heroism. A scarred man wrenched a ladder free and toppled with it into the trench, dragging half a dozen vampires down with him. A young woman stabbed a retainer through the throat with her spear, then used her body as a brace against the next ladder until her comrades cut it loose. Every wall-stone became a place for desperate stands, every heartbeat bought with blood.

On the flank, a roar split the chaos. Daran met a Tier Four Baron head-on, their clash ringing like thunder. The Baron's blade whipped out, shadow surging—but Daran's broadsword answered in a flash of Sharpness Qi, his cut so clean it seemed to slice the very air. The Baron staggered, eyes wide, before the blade bit deep. The vampire collapsed, his blood steaming on the stone.

Daran didn't stop. He moved like a storm through the breach, his broadsword carving through soldiers as if they were reeds, already angling toward the next Baron. "NEXT!" he roared, his voice cutting through the din like a warhorn.

The wall shook, the night burned, and every man, woman, wolf, and brand fought as though the end had already come.

Harold's hands pressed flat against the cold stone of the watchtower, his pulse thrumming in rhythm with the bond. He could feel Kelan's hammer rising, Lira's staff blazing, Rysa's frantic work, Jerric's wild excitement, Hal's cold steadiness. Each Brand hummed in him like a chord waiting to be struck.

The horns outside blared, ladders locked, and the Matriarch's line surged again. He exhaled once, then whispered into the bond: Now.

The world shook.

Brandflare ripped outward in a burst of soul-light. From Kelan, Lira, Rysa, Jerric, Hal, and the branded dwarf supporting Kelan with his warhammer, light tore loose in jagged arcs. It wasn't fire or steel—it was silence.

Across the wall, vampires froze mid-motion. A knight's blade sputtered to nothing as his qi-streak died in his hand. A sergeant cried out as his blood Dao faltered, crimson aura guttering like a candle snuffed in wind. Skills fizzled, barriers collapsed, movement stuttered. The sound of battle fell strangely flat, the very air ringing with emptiness.

The silence was total.

Then the defenders struck.

Hal's howl split the night, carried by the full weight of his pack as they ripped into the enemy rear. Frost rolled with them, their charge tearing apart mantlet crews and scattering levies into panic. The wolves' sudden savagery cracked the line just as the silence smothered every defense.

On the walls, spears rammed down, cutting through retainers who found their shadows useless. Arrows and bolts struck unguarded flesh, knights collapsing with poison burning their veins. Rysa's claymores embedded in the walls for this moment went off in ragged sequence, shredding clustered vampires and soldiers who could no longer shield themselves. In the span of heartbeats, dozens fell screaming into the trench.

But Brandflare had its limits. Against Tier Threes, it staggered, dampened—against Tier Fours, it was only resistance, a drag on their power, not an end to it.

And at the center of the chaos, Daran carved a swath through the silenced ranks, his broadsword gleaming like a star, each swing felling another foe. Barons reeled before him, their qi dampened enough for his sharpness to bite deep. He advanced like a force of nature, unstoppable.

Until crimson armor appeared before him.

The Matriarch herself landed on the wall in a crash of steel, her blade sweeping to catch his next blow. Power blazed from her in a flood, burning through the silence with sheer dominance.

"Enough!" she thundered, her voice rolling over the battlements. "You will not butcher my line unchecked!"

The wall groaned under their clash as Matriarch and Daran locked, their wills and qi colliding in a storm of sparks.

And Harold, from the watchtower, felt the world tighten. Brandflare had bought them blood and space—but now the duel that mattered most had begun.

The wall shook with fury.

Daran's broadsword sang, arcs of Sharpness Qi splitting the air as he locked against the Matriarch. Her crimson blade met his cut for cut, sparks leaping with each clash. She pressed with fluid speed, elegant and ruthless, while he carved back with precision, every strike meant to kill, not stall. It was no mountain meeting her—just the relentless edge of a weapon honed for war.

Further down the wall, Kelan's hammer struck like thunder against the Matriarch's son. The young vampire's greatsword blurred in savage sweeps, but Kelan met him step for step, body braced with stone. Beside him, Lira's staff flared, weaving threads of life into Kelan even as she lashed the boy with strikes that cracked bone.

For a moment, Harold thought the wall might hold. The breaches steadied, the tide slowed.

Then shadow bloomed at his back.

The blade came silent, cutting through the torchlight toward his throat. Harold flared Freedom's Surge, the world jerking sideways as he slipped the killing blow. Even so, steel kissed his shoulder, burning a deep line across flesh.

The Baron stepped fully into view, shadows coiling at his feet like smoke. His grin was fanged, his eyes alight with hunger. Chains of darkness lashed out, snapping around Harold's arms and legs. They pulled tight—then burst apart as Freedom Qi ripped through them, leaving Harold free once more.

The vampire didn't slow. He lunged, blade flashing. Harold ducked, slammed through the tower's narrow stairwell, boots pounding on wooden planks. Each landing creaked beneath him as he spun, weaving just ahead of every strike.

The Baron followed, shadows sliding over the walls, slashing in from impossible angles. Harold vaulted railings, dropped to lower landings, even flung himself down a support beam to keep ahead of the strikes. The tower groaned under the violence, dust raining from its joints.

He broke into the base of the tower, shoulder throbbing, breath sharp. Holt's shield-bearers turned at once, their shields snapping into a protective wall as she herself strode forward, eyes blazing.

The Baron landed lightly on the last step above, blade poised, shadows curling.

And Harold, blood on his sleeve, exhaled. "Glad to see you, Sergeant."

Holt slammed her shield forward with a roar, her detachment locking in beside her. Toren and Torik surged into the line, axes flashing in vicious arcs as the Baron's blade met their wall of steel. Sparks flew as the clash rang through the fort's base. The brothers fought with reckless ferocity, one laughing, the other grim, their strikes buying Holt the space to maneuver.

Harold stayed just behind them, breath tight, shoulder burning. He forced himself to hold back, eyes fixed on the broader battle, directing where he could. Every heartbeat mattered now.

And the walls were breaking.

New breaches yawned open as more Barons forced their way upward. Ferin's arrows hissed into the night, every shot precise, guided by his Hunt Dao. Auren's bow thrummed with wind, splitting shafts in midair, doubling their killing reach. Yet for every vampire they felled, two more climbed. The hounds tore, the lone wolf snapped necks, but the pressure was too much.

Then a scream cut the air.

A Fire Dao Baron vaulted onto the wall in a single, flaming leap. He landed amid a cluster of defenders, his blade sweeping once. Four soldiers fell screaming, their bodies engulfed in fire—among them the young Balance user and the grizzled veteran whose qi pierced armor like paper. Their flames lit the parapet, a cruel torch against the smoke.

Harold's stomach clenched. The wall was seconds from collapse.

Not yet.

He reached deep into the bond, dragging on every thread until they sang. Kelan, Lira, Rysa, Jerric, Hal, the dwarf —all flared at once.

Brandflare.

Soul-light erupted from the fort in a jagged wave. Again the silence fell, absolute and suffocating. The fire Baron's dimmed mid-swing, leaving him suddenly bare, blinking in shock. Across the breaches,soldiers staggered, skills fizzled, qi smothered beneath the flare's crushing weight.

The defenders struck with everything they had. Spears rammed home, arrows found eyes and throats, axes split unguarded skulls. For a heartbeat, the wall lived again.

But Harold felt the strain bite deep. His vision swam, his shoulder throbbed, and he knew each flare dragged heavier than the last. Still—better him strained than the wall lost.

Harold's grip on the parapet tightened as the Brandflare's light faded. The wall had steadied for the moment, but his vision blurred at the edges. His shoulder throbbed harder than it should have, each heartbeat sending fire racing down his arm.

He glanced down. The cut wasn't deep, but the flesh around it had turned black, spidering outward in faint veins. His health ticked downward in steady jolts, faster now, as though gnawed by unseen teeth.

"Damn it," he muttered, his jaw tightening. The Baron's blade hadn't just been sharp—it had been poisoned. A clean strike might have killed him outright, but even a scratch carried death with it, especially with his reduced health.

Through Oath Perception he felt Lira's panic spark the instant she sensed the change. Harold, you're bleeding—

I know, he shot back, forcing his thoughts steady even as his knees wavered. Keep Kelan up. Hold the wall. I'll buy time until you can get to me.

Another wave of dizziness struck, his health draining by the second. Harold forced himself upright, scanning the parapet through narrowed eyes. Holt and the brothers still had the shadow Baron locked down. Ferin and Auren clung to their tower, loosing shot after shot into the breaches. Daran's broadsword still clashed with the Matriarch, sparks flying in sheets.

The fort lived—but Harold could feel death gnawing at him, closer with every breath.

The poison spread like fire through dry brush, every heartbeat another bite out of Harold's strength. He clenched his teeth, vision swimming, body screaming to stumble.

Then he felt it through the bond—Lira breaking.

Her threads snapped from Kelan, cutting free of his side in a sudden rush. He heard Kelan curse, his hammer ringing against the Matriarch's son's blade. "Go then! But make it quick!"

Harold's head jerked, eyes finding her instantly. Lira was already moving down the wall, staff blazing green, her eyes wide and locked on him. Every step was desperate, determined—her presence a promise of life even as her absence left Kelan exposed.

Fool woman, Harold thought, though his chest tightened with something fiercer than anger. He pressed his hand harder to the wound, feeling the pulse of poison gnawing deeper.

Options flashed like cards on a table:

He could stand here, burn another Brandflare, and risk his life to buy the wall a few more moments. He could retreat fully, fall back into the fort, gamble on Lira catching him before the poison hollowed him out. Or he could press forward, draw the Baron chasing him into Holt's line, and let the detachment finish what he started—poison or not.

Then another option presented itself.

Harold's vision blurred, his shoulder throbbing with every heartbeat. The poison spread faster now, his strength bleeding out with each breath. Lira was still pushing toward him, but she wouldn't make it in time.

Brandsurge.

The skill pulsed in his mind. It was never meant for him—always for his branded, to heal them, to reset their strength and skills. But his Dao was Freedom, and Freedom cared nothing for rules.

He dragged his qi inward, forcing it through the skill, bending its function until it sparked and screamed. The resistance was immense, a wall meant to deny him, but he shoved harder. Not them. Me.

The surge exploded inside him. Light rippled through his veins, tearing across muscle and bone. Flesh knit together at once, the torn gash closing as though it had never been. His breath steadied, his arm moved freely again.

But the black veins spidering from the wound did not vanish. They pulsed darker, hungrier. The poison clung like tar, immune to the surge, its rot untouched. Even as his body healed, his strength continued to leech away, drop by drop.

Harold braced a hand against the wall, exhaling hard. His cut was gone, but his legs still trembled. The fort roared and shook around him, ladders rising, wolves howling, steel clashing—but he felt every ounce of that poison still eating at him from within.

He had bought himself time. No more than that.

Harold flexed his shoulder once, the flesh whole again. No one would see the truth—not Holt, not the brothers, not even Lira fighting her way toward him. The poison was still there, bleeding him out from the inside, but outwardly he stood tall. He would not let them see weakness now.

He turned back to the wall.

The fight was brutal, every inch contested. Soldiers strained to shove ladders back only to be skewered for it. Spears broke, shields split, and the defenders gave their blood willingly just to buy another breath. Crossbows loosed until they were too warped to draw, then became clubs in desperate hands.

Losses mounted with every heartbeat. Harold could see it—each gap in the wall where a man had fallen, each shriek as another went down. They were inflicting wounds, yes—wolves tearing mantlet crews, Rysa's crude bombs shattering formations, Ferin and Auren cutting down anyone bold enough to show themselves on the ladders—but it wasn't enough.

The wall was bleeding out.

Harold's jaw tightened, his gaze sinking inward even as he stood among them. This can't hold. Not like this. So what turns it?

His mind clawed for answers, for angles unseen. Then a memory surfaced—quiet, buried beneath the din of war.

Daran's voice, low and steady, from a night weeks past. The old warrior sitting across from him by the fire, polishing his blade with deliberate care.

The words lingered, sharper now than ever as the screams of his soldiers cut the night.

Harold clenched his hand around the parapet, breath steadying even as poison gnawed at his veins. He turned to find the Matriarch as she pushed even Darans mastery of the blade and Dao.

"Matriarch Marrowen! I challenge you to a duel!"

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