Nick looked up at the dark sky, wondering what he should do next. The urge to ignore that flicker of psychic mana was strong, especially since Calder seemed to have settled back into his usual nightly routine, grooming his beard and reading a book.
Nothing echoed back from where the signal had been sent, and he didn’t appear to be expecting anyone, at least for now.
He could do nothing. Keep his mouth shut, finish his watch, and at dawn, suggest they part ways immediately, making some excuse about wanting to cover different grounds to prevent exp stealing between the groups.
Putting as much distance as possible between them before whatever answer Calder was waiting for arrived would be a wise move, and he was confident the others wouldn’t oppose it, considering how often his instincts had saved them so far.
But he couldn’t do that. Not just because he wasn’t the type to ignore such a clear warning sign, but because his own experiences in a dungeon told him that even the smallest issue could escalate into a deadly situation, and beyond that, he doubted they’d be allowed to leave quietly.
A quick survey of the camp revealed that their bedrolls were arranged in a loose semicircle, closer to the canyon wall, overlapping with the other party’s perimeter just enough to make it awkward to sneak away quietly. Tents, stakes, and the terrain all funneled everyone toward the same central area, and while that might have been advantageous if they only had to worry about external threats, that was no longer the case.
We’re already in their designated kill zone. Trying to run would only allow them to attack us from both sides.
There was also a chance that not everyone on Calder’s team was involved in the conspiracy with the Hones. Lady Lara Kestrel, at the very least, seemed like a genuine enough person, and although it was never easy to determine a noble’s true intentions with just a quick look, he couldn’t dismiss that possibility.
That left him to consider the more aggressive options. The first one was fairly simple and would likely fix most of his problems neatly.
Get up, walk over to Calder’s tent, and kill him.
The man was the only one in the other group who genuinely worried him. The rest were fairly strong, sure, but their skills were conventional, and they weren't nearly ready for what he could unleash if he truly went all out.
With the right setup, Raphael could likely take down three or four enemies on his own before they had a chance to react, and Nick’s esoteric magic would make short work of the rest. Their frontliners weren’t exactly slackers either.
The problem was that “the right setup” usually didn’t include starting a brawl in the middle of a dungeon camp at night, surrounded by walls with limited exits, under a hostile domain that already had its eye on them.
Even if they won, it would be a bloodbath.
The chaos would surely mean some casualties on his own side, just based on statistics, and while he wasn't naive enough to think he could always come through unscathed, especially after what happened last time he was in a dungeon, he wanted to avoid a repeat of that as much as possible. That left him with the slower route.
The third path needed more preparation, and still risked a dangerous situation if whoever the Hones sent reacted quickly. However, it was also the only one that would give him enough control of the battlefield to personally ensure everyone’s safety.
He was pretty sure Calder was waiting for something, or someone, and there wasn’t much he could do to prevent that from happening, but he could tilt the field in his own favor as much as possible before it did.
He shut his eyes and expanded his senses outward once more, reaching as far as the domain permitted.
The stone walls surrounding them were still warm from the day. His own group’s faint, shifting signatures were mostly resting, but too keyed up to fully drift off. Calder’s team was similarly restless, but there was nothing indicating they were waiting for anything in particular, which once again confirmed his choice to select the more cautious option.
No large predators were nearby that he could sense, and only a few lone monsters, far too weak to challenge their camp, had left traces within his range.
That’s good enough.
Nick let his senses retreat to the edge of the camp and started setting up without leaving his seat by the dying fire.
To anyone watching, he would seem like just another mage on late watch, with his staff across his knees and studying the dark horizon.
The only real tell was how the air thickened around his fingers as he gently flexed them, guiding threads of wind just above the ground, but no one nearby had sharp enough senses to notice it.
Tiny blades of air scraped along the packed earth, too faint to be heard even by the rangers’ sharp senses, carving hair-thin lines into the dirt.
For this particular ritual, he decided to stick to the basics. He could have probably come up with something in Irvinic, given his recent interest in the language, and it would have been much easier to justify if anyone asked later, but he didn’t want any trace of his work to stay after he finished, and he was confident that the chaos of the upcoming battle would help.
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Since he was creating a ritual to invoke the sacred principles of hospitality, Latin would be ideal, given his strong understanding of its significance in law.
Fides Servant Est, he traced into the dirt along the outer ring of tents. One must keep the faith.
Hospes Sacer Est. The guest is sacred.
He spiraled inward and outward in overlapping arcs, letting the phrases repeat and lend each other stability. It wasn’t quite a circle, nor quite a spiral, which would have been bad if it had been a freeform ritual, but he was following the natural boundary of the camp instead, using the subtle markers that indicated this space belonged to someone, that for tonight, this was a home, however temporary, to anchor the magic.
An excerpt from Cicero went next. NIHIL EST TAM CONTRA FAS QUAM FEFELLISSE HOSPITEM. Nothing is more contrary to divine law than to deceive a guest.
With each line, he emphasized the importance of hospitality and mutual obligation. It was an ancient, ironclad rule that if you invited someone into your shelter, you did not betray them under that same roof.
It would also mean Nick couldn't attack first, which was a significant sacrifice, but it would only increase the ritual's power.
The camp wasn’t technically theirs since they arrived after most of it was already built. They were invited, fed, and given space in the structure. That was plenty of conceptual leverage for him to define it as the “house” they were welcomed to, and they had agreed to protect it without any deception.
Hell, they had even eaten a meal together, using both groups’ supplies to cook it. That, more than any word, would serve as the keystone to connect the ritual to everyone involved, whether they wanted it or not.
Ideally, he would have had Calder directly state that they were under his protection, but a man at that level probably knew better than to make such promises, even without knowing who he was up against.
It didn’t matter anyway, since he had another resource to ensure the magic would hold.
Nick expanded his awareness beyond the camp, into the wild emotions filling the ether around them. He connected with the currents of pack instinct flowing through it, the thrill of shared hunts, and the deep certainty that the pack could never be harmed without everyone else trying to kill you.
While we share this fire and stand under the same sky, defending it against what the world throws at us, we are one group. A pack. And anyone who betrays that will face the consequences.
Weirdly enough, the domain liked that.
Its attention curled around the ritual like a wolf around a bone, sniffing and licking to understand what was happening. It didn’t grasp his Latin, but it sensed the promise of safety in the ether, the sacredness of shared shelter.
Something in it hummed in agreement. The lines in the dirt deepened without any more action from Nick, who couldn’t help but choke back a gasp.
He hadn’t expected the dungeon to help him, since it had seemed determined to kill him so far, but if he thought about it, it made sense.
The Feral God behind it was just as much a divine being, bound by its concepts, as every other god. It made sense that it would invite and even bless magic so closely aligned with it, especially when, for once, it wouldn’t harm its creations but the invaders.
His watch ended not long after.
“All quiet?” Raphael asked as he came to relieve him with another ranger in tow.
Nick stretched dramatically. “Quiet enough,” he said aloud. “There were a few scavengers, but nothing that wants to mess with two parties camping together in such numbers.”
As he moved past him, a breath of air brushed the older apprentice’s ear. “They are planning to betray us.”
Raphael’s expression remained steady, and only the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth indicated he had heard his warning.
He answered in kind, his own wind-work rougher than Nick’s but done well enough to be understood, telling him to wake the others and relay the message.
Nick offered a quick, dull smile and went to lie down.
He rolled into his bedroll, turning his back to the camp as his awareness expanded. One by one, he reached for his own teammates.
Within ten minutes, everyone on his side was informed, the steady thump of their hearts indicating they were ready for anything at any moment.
Maybe an hour later, Nick sensed the first presence approaching from the north.
At first, he thought it was another werewolf pack.
The incoming signatures were wild enough, filled with aggression and a shared purpose, and their bloodlust was obvious, but something felt off.
He concentrated, narrowing his awareness to the front of the group, only to discover that the curse he’d expected to find was missing.
Werewolves had that distinctive silver-hook pattern, the jagged lattice wrapped around soul and flesh alike, while these newcomers didn’t. Their souls were wild, yes, shaped by a lifetime of instincts closer to beast than man, but there were no invasive barbs, no external pattern urging them to madness.
Their emotions were also off, too uniform to seem natural.
They are beastmen, he realized. Some strange magic is forcing them into a state of mind similar to lycanthropy.
He pushed further, fighting through the domain’s static, and finally saw that each of them wore a metal chain around their neck.
From a distance, it would be easy to mistake that mixture of rage and animal scent for lycanthropy, especially without his senses or experience.
And if someone were to scry this area later, he thought grimly, what would they see? Wolf-like men gone wild under the moonlight. Not Calder, not the dwarven artifacts, and definitely not the Hones pulling strings to eliminate every other player.
The group was close enough now that their footsteps and low growls became audible to normal hearing, and it wasn’t long before the alarm was raised.
“Movement!” The scout who had been keeping watch with Raphael called softly, then louder. “Movement!”
Those sleeping near their armor scrambled into it, while others grabbed their weapons and moved to defend the camp. Lara was already halfway to a firing mound, quiver bouncing at her hip, by the time one of her comrades finished putting on his plate.
The first howl rolled down the canyon.
It was a good one. Deep, layered, and blending into something that, in a different context, might have been beautiful. It echoed off the walls and was picked up by everyone along the approaching group, until the air vibrated with a terrifying sound.
“They’re here!” someone shouted.
“Get ready,” Calder said from behind them, voice calm and reassuring. “We must hold the high ground and keep them from piercing through any side.”
Nick turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of him.
The mage stood near the central tent, staff in hand, with a calm expression as mana began swirling around him. To everyone else, he looked like he was preparing a powerful defensive spell.
To Nick’s senses, something very different was happening.
Calder’s mana gathered not in the broad, sweeping pattern Nick associated with shields or area attacks, but in delicate, intricate lines that wove toward his own allies.
The structure that was created was fragile but surprisingly detailed, a lattice meant to drape over minds, blurring boundaries and softening focus.
It was a confusion-inducing field, not strong enough to knock anyone out or make them clearly falter, but enough to slow reactions, muddle decision-making, and cause hesitation.
In a high-stakes battle, that would mean death.
The host was betraying his own people alongside his guests.
The domain’s anticipation surged with voyeuristic excitement, eager for the upcoming massacre.
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