The wolf appeared without sound, its size dwarfing the soldiers nearby, frost curling from its fur in a steady mist. Its head pressed against the Calamity's chest like a beast to its master—yet no, she thought, not master. Pack, or maybe Brothers judging from the Dao she felt from the beast.

Then the air tore open. The raw pressure of mana shook through her bones as the space itself split, revealing a swirl of light and shadow beyond. A portal. She felt her elders stiffen around her, their unease thick as blood in the air.

One of them, Elder Brannwich, stepped forward, his face lined and drawn. "Matriarch," he said firmly, crimson eyes fixed on the breach, "I must caution against this. Too many unknowns. If it is a snare, we cannot—"

But the Calamity turned his gaze upon the elder, not hostile, not heated, but steady in a way that made Brannwich falter. His voice was rough, yet carried a strange formality.

"Matriarch," he said, bowing his head slightly, "I offer you guest rights while you are upon my lands. Meager as they are."

Then, without hesitation, he stepped into the portal, vanishing into the shimmer.

The Matriarch's lips pressed thin. A god's Calamity… a wolf that bent the air with its presence… and now a portal leading into whatever meager claim this man thought was his.

She drew a long breath, her gauntlets flexing at her sides. "Hold order here," she told her son without looking back. Her armor shifted as she strode forward, each step deliberate, until the light of the portal washed over her.

And then she followed him through.

The portal's light peeled away, and she stepped into winter.

Snow crunched beneath her armored boots, a pale sheet stretching out in every direction. Fat flakes drifted down through the still air, settling gently on her shoulders and helm. The cold bit, but it was a clean, bracing cold—untainted by smoke or blood.

Her eyes swept the space. Not a fortress. Not a battlefield. A settlement. A longhouse stood solid at the center, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. An elaborate forge was next to it with a female dwarf working on the anvil while students were around her. A second longhouse near it was also completed. Smaller structures framed it—half-finished, but sturdy, the work of careful hands. Down by the base ledge down from the plateau they were on stood a barracks with a small wall in the process of being built around it. There was a stone tower being raised next to it that looked a lot more sturdy than the walls that surrounded the Calamities fort. And in the open yard, children ran across the snow, shrieking with laughter, their boots kicking up powder as they scattered like startled birds.

At their center, a small figure moved quickly—an older gnome, white hair poking out from beneath a thick cap. His hands clapped sharply as he wrangled the children, corralling them back into some semblance of a line even as curiosity made them turn their eyes toward her.

They froze first. Then he did.

The gnome's gaze darted to the portal still glowing behind her, then to the crimson-armored woman standing in the snow. His mouth opened to scold, but the words died in his throat.

"Calm," came the steady voice ahead of her.

The Calamity stood waiting, framed against the falling snow. The massive wolf pressed at his side, frost rolling from its fur with every breath. His eyes locked onto hers, weary but unflinching.

"I have given her guest rights," he said.

The words carried outward, and she felt the ripple pass through the children, through the gnome. No panic. Only a nervous silence, the sound of snow falling filling the gap.

The Matriarch lifted her chin, crimson eyes sweeping the quiet settlement. No soldiers. No guards. Just hearth smoke, children, and a strange, disarming peace.

Harold stepped forward, snow crunching beneath his boots. His hand brushed briefly over Hal's thick fur before he lifted his chin toward the settlement, his eyes lingering on the longhouse smoke, the children, the sturdy half-finished buildings.

"Welcome, Matriarch," he said, voice steadier now, carrying a weight that wasn't just formality. "This is mine. Not a fortress, not yet at least—but it's more than I had when I started. Every wall, every hearth, every hand here was claimed by effort and choice. Meager, maybe. But it's ours," He said, radiating pride.

He turned, motioning her to follow, pride flickering across his tired features as he began walking. Hal padded alongside, frost curling in the air around him.

As Harold guided her through, he greeted each person they passed. A child darted close, tugging at his sleeve before bolting back to Olrick at Harold's amused wave. A woman hauling water dipped her head, and Harold answered with a nod that carried respect, not dismissal. Even small gestures—an arm laid briefly on a man's shoulder, a muttered word of thanks—wove the picture clearly: this was no lord and his vassals, but a leader that cared about his people.

Marroween looked at the Calamity that walked with people as if he wasn't something from her childhood's legends. "You have a beautiful home, I can see the care you have put into this."

He turned to look at her..the world outside this hidden vale is dangerous. This was the first truly safe place I found and as soon as Hal and I discovered it I knew it would be home."

By the time they reached the longhouse, the warmth of fire and the smell of roasting meat spilled into the snowy air. Inside, Meala and her cooks worked like a storm in motion—pots simmering, knives chopping, dough being kneaded with quick, sure hands.

Meala turned at the sound of boots and fixed Harold with a flour-dusted scowl. "Finally. And you're dragging snow into my kitchen. The kids sent word already."

Harold's mouth twitched in a faint smile as he gestured toward the Matriarch. "Matriarch, this is Meala—the one who makes this place feel alive. If the walls are our defense, she's our heart."

The cook's scowl softened a touch at that. She gave the Matriarch a brisk nod, her tone brisk but not unkind. "Guest rights, is it? Then you'll eat under this roof. Everyone does." Then Maela turned around and asked firmly…do you require blood in your food? Tell me now so I can take care of you. She said pointing a spoon at her.

Harold's mouth twitched in a faint smile as he gestured toward the Matriarch. "Matriarch, this is Meala—the one who makes this place feel alive. If the walls are our defense, she's our heart."

Meala's scowl eased, just barely, and she gave a brisk nod. "Guest rights, is it? Then you'll eat under this roof. Everyone does."

She turned back toward her pots, snatched up a long wooden spoon, and jabbed it in the Matriarch's direction. "Tell me now—do you require blood in your food? I won't have you swooning at my table or making a scene. If you do, I'll take care of it, proper."

The room stilled, eyes flicking toward the vampire leader. For a moment, her crimson gaze swept the hall, measuring the curious stares, the cook's unflinching demand. Then—unexpectedly—her lips curved.

Not the tight, cold sneer Harold had grown used to, but the faintest wry smile. "You are bold, cook," she said, voice carrying a warmth edged with amusement. "I half expected fear. Or flattery."

Meala only snorted and went back to stirring her pot.

The Matriarch let out a quiet chuckle, the sound startling in its ease. She shook her head slightly, as if remembering something distant, and added, "No. Not today. I will eat as you do. It will be… a novelty."

A few of the children, still peeking from the corner, broke into nervous giggles. And for the first time, Harold thought, she looked less like a statue of crimson steel and more like a woman—a commander, yes, but one who could still laugh, however faintly, at the absurdity of it all.

Harold caught the flicker of humor in her expression and let himself answer with a faint grin of his own. "Careful, Matriarch. If you start laughing at Meala's scolding, you'll never escape it. She's been terrifying people with that spoon longer than I've been alive."

Meala swatted the air with the spoon without looking up. "And I'll keep at it, so long as men keep dragging mud and snow through my hall."

That earned a ripple of nervous chuckles from the children, and even a few from the cooks bustling in the background. Harold gestured toward the long table at the center of the hall, its surface already crowded with steaming bread, roasted meat, and bowls of root stew. "Come," he said, his tone less formal now. "We fight enough outside these walls. Let's sit as people, for once."

The Matriarch studied him for a moment, as if gauging whether this was some trick. But then she moved, her armor whispering as she set her gauntleted hands to the bench and lowered herself with practiced ease. Her presence was still commanding, but less suffocating, as though the weight of the battlefield had been set aside—if only for a meal.

Harold took the seat opposite her, Hal curling up behind his chair with a low huff, frost misting the floorboards. Meala swept in with a loaf of bread so fresh steam still curled from its crust.

Plates were filled, cups passed, and for the first time since the clash on the walls, the air warmed with something other than fire or fear. The Matriarch tasted the food with care at first, then with a faint sound of surprise that she quickly smothered. Harold caught it and raised a brow.

"Not so meager after all, is it?" he said, his tone almost teasing.

Her crimson eyes met his across the table, and though her face was still guarded, there was no mistaking the glimmer of reluctant amusement there.

The door of the longhouse creaked open, and a rush of cold air swirled in with two figures trudging through the snow. Brannic came first, broad-shouldered, his beard already dusted white from the flakes outside. His sister Sella followed close, her dark braids bound with copper rings, her arms wrapped around a small keg as if it were a child.

Laughter rolled in with them, spilling from their lips and from the man behind them—the brewer among the escaped slaves, still flushed from the walk and grinning ear to ear.

"Still alive, huh?" Brannic bellowed as soon as he saw Harold, his voice booming through the longhouse. He stomped across the floor without hesitation, lifting one arm to clasp Harold in a bruising embrace that jostled even Hal against the bench. "Good. Be a shame to waste all the barrels we've been putting up on you being dead."

"Brannic," Harold groaned, managing a faint grin despite the ribs he was sure were creaking.

Sella swept in behind, setting her keg down with a decisive thump before eyeing Harold and the Matriarch both. Her smile was warmer, steadier, her presence filling the room with a sense of ease. "A drink shared is a bond strengthened," she said cheerfully, then pressed a carved wooden mug into Harold's hand. "And you, Calamity, need one. You look like death. No offense."

"Some taken," Harold muttered, though he raised the mug obediently.

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The escaped-slave brewer leaned past Sella with a grin, already uncorking another keg. "Careful, Calamity, this batch'll drop a troll flat if you're not steady."

That earned a round of laughter from the cooks, even a smirk from Meala as she batted one of the brewer's hands away from her counters.

Brannic grabbed another mug, filled it with a flourish, and turned toward the Matriarch. "You too, red-armor. No point breaking bread if you don't break drink after. Here—see if our little mountain's got anything your blood can't burn through."

The Matriarch tilted her head, crimson eyes flicking from Harold to the dwarves, measuring their unabashed mirth, their complete lack of fear. Slowly, almost bemused, she extended a gauntleted hand for the mug.

Brannic shoved the mug into Harold's hand before he could protest. "Drink, or I'll pour it down your throat myself."

Harold sighed, lifted it, and took a swallow. The liquid hit his tongue like fire and smoke in equal measure—burning down his throat so hard his eyes watered. He coughed mid-swallow, half the mouthful spraying out in a sputtering mist across the table.

"Gods—" Harold rasped, pounding his chest with a fist. "That's not ale, that's distilled punishment!"

The longhouse roared with laughter. Brannic slapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. "Aye, but it keeps you warm, doesn't it?"

Before Harold could retort, the Matriarch accepted her mug with surprising calm. She raised it in a silent toast, tipped it back, and drained the entire thing in one long swallow. Not a cough. Not even a wince. When she lowered the mug, crimson eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight, she let out a short breath and smirked.

"Another," she said simply, sliding the empty cup back across the table.

The room erupted again, the dwarves howling with approval, Sella already moving to refill. Brannic slapped the table so hard the mugs rattled. "That's the spirit! A woman after my own heart."

Harold rubbed his temples, muttering, "Of course she likes it."

The Matriarch turned her gaze toward him, amused now in a way that caught even Harold off guard. "Perhaps, Calamity, you should stick to water. Leave the real drink to those with stronger blood."

Even Meala, usually unflappable, cracked a grin at that.

Harold wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing as the burn still smoldered in his throat. He leaned an elbow on the table, giving Marroween a flat look.

"Stronger blood, huh?" he muttered. "Careful, or Brannic will be proposing before the night's done."

That set the dwarves off again, Brannic pounding the table until his mug sloshed over, Sella nearly choking on her own drink with laughter. Even a few of the children giggled, though Master Olrick quickly hushed them with a wag of his finger.

Marroween arched a brow, her lips curving with the faintest flicker of amusement. "A pity for him," she said dryly, "I'm already married."

The table stilled for just a beat—waiting, listening. Then Brannic leaned in with a grin wide enough to split his beard. "Aye? And is he still alive?"

Her smile tilted, sharp and amused. "Most days."

Laughter rolled again, warmer now, and even Harold chuckled into his cup, shaking his head. "Fair enough. You win that round."

The warmth of the hall swelled around them, laughter and clinking mugs filling the space until even the shadows felt pushed back. For a little while, there was no fort under siege, no looming armies—just people at a table, sharing food, drink, and something close to peace.

But as the meal wound down, and the mugs were drained, the weight of what still lingered outside returned. Marroween set down her cup with deliberate care, her crimson eyes meeting Harold's across the table.

But as the meal wound down, and the mugs were drained, the weight of what still lingered outside returned. Marroween set down her cup with deliberate care, her crimson eyes meeting Harold's across the table.

Harold let out a long breath, the kind that carried both warmth from the drink and the weariness of a man who'd already given too much. He raised his mug again, took one more sip, then set it down with a muted thud.

"Back to work it is," he said, voice low but steady. His gaze stayed locked with hers, measuring, respectful. "As I said before, I believe I have a solution to our problems—one I think you might actually find agreeable."

The hall quieted around them, the dwarves lowering their mugs, Meala pausing with her spoon mid-stir, even the children craning closer as though they could sense the shift in tone.

Harold's eyes swept the hall, taking in the faces still watching. The laughter, the warmth—all of it had given way to the tense quiet of expectation. He drummed his fingers once against the table, then said firmly, "Leave us, please."

There was a rustle of hesitation. Brannic started to protest with a lifted mug, but Sella tugged him toward the door. Olrick wrangled the children out with brisk claps, his muttering drowned by the shuffle of boots. Even the escaped-slave brewer gathered his things and went, glancing once at Harold before slipping outside.

Only Meala remained at her place by the fire, her spoon steady in her hand, her chin lifted as if daring anyone to tell her otherwise.

"Meala, you can stay," Harold added, his tone softening. "You've earned that right."

When the last footsteps faded, Harold leaned back slightly, shoulders stiffening as he straightened in his chair. His gaze fixed on Marroween, steady and calculating, yet not without respect.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he began, his voice carrying in the near-empty hall, "but this is what you need: to reduce your losses while securing the highest completion rating possible—so that you earn the best boon you can earn. Your goal being to maintain your standing with Lionheart City, and then to punish those nobles who betrayed you."

He let the words hang, then tipped his chin. "Yes, they supplied us with arms. And though I didn't use them, they sent people too."

The fire popped in the silence that followed, the heat throwing shifting shadows across their faces

Marroween leaned back slightly, her gauntlets folding across her knees. The flicker of humor she had shown moments before was gone; the warmth of the hearthlight seemed to slide from her face like water from steel. Crimson eyes narrowed, her tone sharpened, and the Matriarch was present once more.

"More or less," she said coolly, though the faintest tilt of her head confirmed Harold's words. "You see clearly enough for a man outside my family."

Harold inclined his head, unbothered by the return of her mask. "Good. Then let's be plain." He drew in a slow breath, his voice steady, though the words carried weight heavier than his body.

"The Calamity upon you—it is the divine test Verordeal sent me on. The damned Roman, as I've called him since the day he marked me." His hand curled briefly against the wood of the table. "I cannot raise my tier until you are defeated. Or else this cycle will restart, laid on someone else, and all of this—" he gestured faintly toward the walls of the longhouse, the settlement, the people beyond "—will have been for nothing."

He sat forward now, his eyes hardening. "I also have another objective within Lionheart City. A separate task. Because I asked for something I was not ready for, and another God saw fit to bind me twice over."

Silence pressed down for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Harold's gaze didn't waver.

"For clarity," he went on, his voice quieter, edged with curiosity, "as the challenged in this duel… you set the terms, yes? And it is considered… bad form, isn't it—for a Tier Four Baron to fight a Tier Two Squire?"

The question hung between them like the edge of a blade, waiting for her answer.

Marroween's crimson eyes narrowed slightly, her chin angling as she considered him. "Yes," she admitted at last, her voice like steel drawn slow from a sheath. "It is considered bad form. A Baron against a Squire, especially one two tiers beneath. But our hierarchy is not so rigid as the humans'. Tradition bends when power demands it. Things are more fluid among vampires… and if I had crushed your walls, it would have been overlooked. Even if it was a pyrrhic victory."

Harold inclined his head, accepting her candor. "Then here is what I propose." His voice deepened, steadier now, the words carrying across the quiet hall as if the beams themselves leaned to listen. "We take this duel to Lionheart City. You have a stage there, do you not? An arena where such matters can be settled before witnesses."

Her brows lifted faintly, though she did not interrupt.

"You allow one of your promising Tier Threes—perhaps even your son—to fight in your place," Harold went on. "Give me the stage, in front of the city, that I may complete my goal. Give me your support in achieving it, and I will lend mine to your war against the nobles who betrayed you."

The air thickened. Cold pricked at the edges of the firelight, shadows curling as Harold's presence shifted. Not his voice, not his stance—but the weight of him. The air of Calamity spilled outward, unsettling, ancient, like the echo of an old oath bound to the marrow of the world.

"I will mark the city," Harold said, his gaze unwavering. "So they will never forget my presence there. So they will tell, for thousands of years, how they once hosted a Calamity. Every street, every stone will become a shrine to what I am. And through that, Verordeal will rise higher—so he may fight the battles he must."

The longhouse held still, the fire snapping in the silence. Even Meala, spoon in hand, had stopped stirring.

Marroween's eyes flickered, crimson narrowing as calculation shadowed her expression. She leaned back, nails tapping once against the table. "If you do this—if you brand Lionheart itself with your presence—the city will never again be suitable for us to remain in. We would be exiles within our own halls."

Harold met her gaze without flinching. "No. It would not." His tone was flat, steady, the kind of certainty that carried weight heavier than steel. He leaned forward, steam curling faintly from the cup in his hand, his words measured. "That is the next part. I need to recruit heavily—to expand my foothold here. These cycles… they strip me bare. I cannot keep bleeding my people dry. Every war, every test, it drains us. I need better training for them. Better commanders. More time for them to sharpen skills and hone what they are, so they can survive the endless war I drag to their doorsteps."

His jaw tightened as he straightened, shoulders squaring as though the admission itself carried shame. Then his eyes locked to hers again, voice lowering. "So I would have you. You and your family. Join me—become part of this. A Calamity upon his awakening, I have only gotten this far because of the people I surrounded myself with. I need your skill. Your leadership. Your bloodline. And…" a faint smile ghosted his lips, grim but honest, "…to be frank, I need your Dao. You have the kind of strength I cannot forge in my people quickly enough. The kind I must borrow, if I am to outlast what Verordeal sets before me. I can promise you that the boon you would miss out on would not compare to what you can earn by working with me."

The hall stilled under the weight of the words, even the crackle of the fire seeming to quiet.

Harold's voice was quiet, but it carried, steady as steel. "That city—corrupt, festering—was never worthy of a woman like you, nor a family bound by honor. You remained only because you could shield the innocent from the worst of it. That much I see in you." His eyes met hers without flinching. "But here, with me, you'd bring that same standing where it would be cherished. Help me build something that will last beyond us both. A place where you will be valued, not reviled. Not whispered about like some necessary evil to be tolerated until convenient."

Marroween's expression darkened, her crimson gaze sharp as a blade. "You ask me to bring an endless cycle of war to my people. A curse that will grind them against your enemies until only ash remains."

Harold's smile was thin, but there was heat behind it. "No. I ask you to bring them an endless cycle of opportunity. War is only the skin of it. Beneath is the chance to grow, to rise, to seize strength that others would hoard away. You've seen it yourself—the city shackles what it fears. I unshackle. I do not promise safety, Matriarch, but I do promise freedom. If your people can grasp it, they will not just survive—they will thrive."

Marroween's eyes narrowed, the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth—not amusement, but disdain tempered with restraint. She leaned forward, her voice low, iron beneath velvet.

"Flowery words will not sway me, Calamity. I have led too long, bled too much, to be lured by promises dressed as truths. My people are not pawns for your grand vision. You speak of freedom, of thriving—but I see only battle without end. Do not think me naïve enough to mistake opportunity for slaughter."

She straightened, crimson gaze never leaving his. "I will not bow to your rhetoric. If you want my people to follow you, it will take more than pretty speeches."

For a long moment Harold said nothing, staring into the dark wine in his cup as if the ripples there might give him an answer. But no words came. Only the weight of her gaze—Marroween, matriarch, vampire, bound in ways he could feel even if he could not name them. Shackles clung to her soul, not of steel but of oath. Ancient vows. Self-forged chains wound around honor, duty, promises made in a different age to people who were long dead.

He felt it the way a hunter feels a storm on the wind—an oppressive weight pressing against her very Dao. Her path stalled, not for lack of strength, but because she had nowhere left to take a step.

Harold drew in a slow breath. His soul was worn thin, ragged at the edges. But within him still burned that silver flame of freedom. He closed his eyes and sank into it.

The flow started as a trickle—soul energy coursing along the threads of his being. The more he released, the swifter it became, until it was a torrent he could barely hold. His will pressed down, shaping it, guiding it, even as the power circled him in a haze of silver light. It hurt—like trying to dam a river with bare hands.

Then his eyes snapped open. They blazed argent, silver fire burning where pupils should be. Slowly, deliberately, he reached across the table and took Marroween's hand in his own.

"You are restrained by bonds that no longer apply," Harold said, voice echoing with something greater than himself. His soul surged outward, laced with the unyielding truth of Freedom. "Your own honor has become your prison, holding you to vows others abandoned long ago. They never bore the chains you now bleed beneath."

Power pulsed out of him, silver threads latching onto the ancient bindings that smothered her Dao. His words were steel and fire both:

"You are your own person. Follow your own code—not what cowards and parasites manipulated you into. Do not let insects halt your path. Your life is your own. Rise—and live it!"

The chains cracked. One by one, vows older than some of her elders splintered, snapping like brittle glass under the pressure of his soul and the clarity of his Dao. For the first time in centuries, her essence tasted freedom.

Harold's vision blurred, strength guttering like a dying torch. His hand slipped from hers as he sagged sideways, the glow dimming from his eyes.

And then, with a thud, the Calamity slumped against the table and passed out cold. Again.

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