Doc woke to gray light filtering through canvas.

  The tent smelled like cold air and travel dust. His breath misted faintly as he sat up, muscles a bit stiff from sleeping on uneven ground.

  Fish wasn't curled beside him.

  She usually waits until I'm awake.

  "Fish left approximately forty-seven minutes ago," Lux said through the link. "Vital signs stable. No distress detected."

  Doc pushed aside the blanket and pulled on his boots, lacing them quickly. The Silvan cloak settled around his shoulders as he stepped outside.

  Morning had turned the campsite pale and quiet.

  Snow Tusk stood near the wagon, breath steaming in steady rhythm. The Colossagoat's ears flicked lazily toward Doc but didn't turn.

  Near the fire pit, Bran crouched over a pot, stirring something that smelled like roasted grain and herbs.

  Doc walked over. "Morning."

  Bran glanced up, nodded once. "Morning."

  He didn't stop stirring.

  Doc gestured vaguely toward the trees. "You've seen Fish around?"

  "She went with Maz," Bran said evenly. "Patrol. Left maybe an hour back."

  Doc exhaled, relieved. That explains it.

  Bran ladled soup into a wooden bowl and held it out to Doc.

  Doc accepted it. "Thanks."

  Bran grunted, already turning back to the pot.

  Doc moved toward a flat rock near the fire and sat, cradling the bowl in both hands. The warmth seeped through his gloves.

  He ate slowly, letting the heat settle into his chest.

  Around him, the camp stayed quiet—Tanna's tent still shut, Calen's bedroll visible through a gap in the canvas nearby. Marron's tent remained still.

  Only Bran was awake, tending to the pot like he'd done it a thousand times before.

  Doc took another sip.

  The soup tasted simple—grain, salt, something earthy he couldn't name. But it was warm, and that was enough.

  Doc finished the soup, set the bowl aside, and noticed Calen coming out of his tent.

  Doc waved at Calen.

  The kid paused, blinking sleep from his eyes, then smiled and waved back. He moved toward Bran, hands tucked into his jacket against the cold.

  Bran didn't look up, just ladled soup into another bowl and handed it over.

  Calen muttered something Doc couldn't hear. Bran grunted in reply.

  Doc watched them for a moment—Calen sipping carefully, Bran already turning back to clean the pot. There was something steady about it.

  Camp morale remains stable, Lux said. Routine establishment indicates successful social integration.

  Doc didn't comment. He stood, brushing dirt from his pants, and headed toward the wagon.

  Snow Tusk shifted slightly as Doc approached, one massive hoof scraping the frozen ground. The goat's breath rolled out in twin plumes.

  Doc ran a hand along the wagon's side, checking the straps. Everything looked secure—Marron's packing had been thorough yesterday. Still, it didn't hurt to double-check.

  Behind him, voices stirred.

  Tanna slipped out of her tent with Moss-ear held close. She approached Snow Tusk and whispered something to him.

  The big goat answered with a low, pleased rumble.

  Marron's tent flap opened. He stepped out fully dressed, adjusting his coat against the cold. His gaze swept the camp once before settling on the wagon.

  "Everything secure?" he called.

  "Looks good," Doc said.

  Marron nodded and moved toward Bran, who was already packing away the cookware.

  The camp was packing up.

  Calen finished his soup and helped Tanna check the harness straps. Bran stored the pot and bowls in a canvas sack, securing it to the wagon's undercarriage.

  Doc started on his own tent, pulling stakes and rolling the canvas tight. The fabric still smelled faintly of damp stone from the colony.

  Doc tied off the roll and carried it to the wagon. Tanna and the other had already secured most of the gear, leaving a neat stack near the tailgate.

  He added his tent to the pile.

  Across the clearing, Calen helped Marron lift a crate into the wagon bed.

  Doc turned at the sound of footsteps.

  Mazoga emerged from the treeline, Fish padding beside her. Both looked relaxed.

  Maz carried her warhammer over one shoulder, the runes along its head still faintly pulsing. Fish's violet glow-lines shifted as she moved, catching the pale morning light.

  Maz's gaze swept the camp. "We packed already?"

  "Almost done," Doc said.

  Fish trotted over, pressed her shoulder against his leg, then sat.

  Doc scratched behind her ears. "Find anything?"

  Maz shook her head. "It was quiet, found some tracks but they were old."

  Marron approached, brushing his hands off. "Then we move. Route clear ahead for a few miles."

  Maz grunted her agreement.

  Doc straightened. "Let's finish up."

  The group moved together, loading the last of the gear.

  Marron sat on the wagon bench, reins loose in his hands while Snow Tusk pulled them forward at a steady pace. The big goat didn't need much guidance.

  Marron pulled a leather-bound journal from his coat and flipped it open. A half-finished map filled the left page—rough charcoal lines tracing the route they'd traveled so far.

  He felt the pull of his Waymark Map skill, an innate sense of where they'd been. Every step, every turn, logged somewhere in the back of his mind like a ledger he'd never lose.

  Marron set the journal on his knee and traced the next stretch of their route with his charcoal stick. The line curved northeast, following the natural slope of the terrain. He marked a cluster of boulders they'd passed an hour back, then added the stand of dead pines Tanna had pointed out earlier.

  The map grew steadily, detail by detail.

  Calen shifted on the bench beside him. "What are you drawing?"

  Marron didn't look up. "A map."

  Calen leaned closer, peering at the page. "You're making one? Now?"

  "While it's fresh."

  Calen frowned. "How do you know it's accurate?"

  Marron tapped the side of his head. "Waymark Map. It's a passive skill. Once I travel somewhere, I don't forget it."

  Calen blinked. "You remember all of it?"

  "Every path I've taken. Every landmark or trail." Marron traced another curve, then added a faint mark where the terrain dipped. "It's useful for trade."

  Calen studied the map. "So you're drawing it for yourself?"

  "No," Marron said. "I'm drawing it for others."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He glanced at Calen briefly. "I'll be running these routes for the foreseeable future. But the settlement can't rely on me forever. If we want real trade, we need other merchants coming to us—not just us going to them."

  Calen nodded slowly. "So you're making it easier for them to find us."

  "Exactly." Marron added another landmark—a stream crossing they'd forded that morning. "A good map is currency. Hand one to the right trader, and suddenly our settlement exists in their mind. Not just as rumor but as a destination."

  Calen watched him work for a moment longer. "That's smart."

  "It's practical," Marron corrected. He blew lightly on the charcoal to set it. "We've got goods worth selling. But if no one knows where to find us, those goods don't matter."

  Calen shifted, glancing ahead. "Think anyone will come?"

  "Depends on what we offer." Marron closed the journal and tucked it back into his coat. "And what we find on this first trip."

  Calen went quiet, thoughtful.

  Marron picked up the reins again, though Snow Tusk still didn't need them. The goat moved with the same unbothered rhythm, hooves crunching through shallow snow.

  Behind them, Doc walked alongside Fish on the left flank. Mazoga kept pace on the right. Tanna rode ahead with Moss-ear perched on Snow Tusk's head, her eyes scanning the treeline.

  Everything looked peaceful.

  Marron had learned not to trust that.

  He glanced at Calen. "You armed?"

  Calen patted the experimental dagger at his belt. "Yeah."

  "Good." Marron's gaze shifted forward again. "Always stay ready when your on a unknown trade route."

  Calen nodded, his hand resting near the weapon.

  The wagon rolled on.

  Snow crunched beneath the wheels. Wind whispered through the pines. Somewhere in the distance, an animal or monster called out once, then went silent.

  Marron scanned the horizon, his merchant instincts calculating distance, terrain, and time.

  One more day to the village, he thought. Maybe two if the weather turns.

  He settled into the bench and kept his eyes forward.

  Marron guided Snow Tusk off toward a cluster of wind-worn rocks that offered natural shelter from the northern wind. The goat slowed without needing prompting, hooves crunching through shallow snow.

  "Good spot," Tanna said, dismounting from the big beast's back. Moss-ear hopped down beside her, nose twitching as he surveyed the clearing.

  Marron set the brake and climbed down, boots sinking into the packed snow. His legs protested slightly—too many hours on the bench—but he kept his stride smooth.

  Calen jumped down from the other side, scanning the treeline with tense shoulders.

  The boy was still wound tight. Good. Marron wanted him alert.

  Marron moved to the back of the wagon, untying the corner tarp while Calen helped from the other side. They worked in silence, pulling down bedrolls and camp supplies.

  Behind him, Mazoga approached.

  "I'll take first watch," she said.

  Doc nodded, adjusting his cloak. "I'll take second."

  Mazoga glanced at Doc, then at Fish, and gave a short nod.

  She turned and walked toward the perimeter, already scanning the surrounding terrain with that steady, predator's patience.

  Marron glanced at Calen, still adjusting his bedroll with small, rigid movements.

  The boy still carried the habit of expecting danger, especially out here in the unknown.

  Marron didn’t fault him.

  But the truth? Marron wasn’t worried.

  Not with Mazoga on watch. Not with Doc carrying that plasma blade and whatever other tools he'd built into his suit. Not with Fish prowling the perimeter like a spectral hound and Lux feeding Doc real-time analysis of everything within range.

  Marron had heard the stories of Mazoga and Doc fight with the fungal horror. He'd heard even more stories of them bringing down ancient golems during the dwarven colony expedition. Mazoga had reached Level 45—a threshold most adventurers only heard about in stories and Doc is a walking anomaly.

  Between the two of them, Marron doubted anything short of a dragon would pose a real threat.

  And if something that dangerous appeared, no amount of readiness would save them anyway.

  Marron pulled tent stakes from the supply crate, then moved to secure the canvas. The familiar motions grounded him. Hammer. Stake. Pull tight. Repeat.

  Nearby, Tanna unloaded Snow Tusk's harness while Moss-ear hopped around the camp's edge, marking territory or exploring—Marron couldn't tell which.

  Fish circled the perimeter once, then settled near Doc, her glowing eyes scanning the trees.

  Doc and Mazoga stood together near the fire pit, speaking in low tones.

  Marron caught fragments of their conversation as he worked.

  "—haven't seen signs of anything larger," Mazoga was saying.

  "Lux confirms," Doc replied. "No thermal signatures beyond expected wildlife."

  Mazoga nodded. "Good. Means we've got breathing room before we hit the village."

  "Agreed."

  Marron finished driving the last stake and moved on to the next tent. Calen joined him, helping stretch the canvas taut.

  "Think we'll see bandits or monsters out here?" Calen asked quietly.

  Marron glanced at him. "Maybe”

  Calen nodded, though his hand still rested near his dagger.

  Marron straightened, surveying the camp. Tents up. Fire pit ready. Supplies organized.

  Everything in its place.

  He exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just slightly.

  He moved toward the fire pit, where Tanna was already stacking kindling.

  "Need a hand?" he asked.

  She glanced up. "Sure. Grab the flint."

  Marron retrieved it from the supply crate and knelt beside her.

  The fire would be lit soon. Dinner would follow. Then rest.

  Tomorrow, they'd reach the village.

  And everything would change from there.

  Doc woke to a gentle shake on his shoulder.

  "Your turn," Mazoga said quietly.

  He blinked once, awareness returning in measured increments. The tent canvas hung still above him. Fish's warmth pressed against his leg.

  "Understood." Doc sat up, pulling his cloak tighter as cold air found the gaps.

  Mazoga waited while he pulled on his boots and checked his gear. Plasma blade secured. MANTIS gauntlet active. Suit environmental controls responding.

  He ducked through the tent flap and stepped into the frozen night.

  The air hit sharp and immediate. Doc's breath misted in front of him, visibility limited to maybe thirty meters under the pale wash of moonlight.

  Fish emerged behind him, stretching before padding to his side.

  Mazoga gestured toward the treeline. "Circled the perimeter twice. Nothing larger than a small animal. No tracks worth noting."

  "How wide?"

  "Hundred meters out, then back in. Stayed within earshot of camp."

  Doc nodded. "I'll do the same."

  Mazoga gave a short nod. "Wake me if anything feels off."

  She turned and walked back toward the tents, boots crunching softly through the snow.

  Doc waited until she disappeared inside, then moved toward the perimeter.

  Lux activated the thermal overlay without prompting, painting the world in gradients of heat. Snow registered as deep blue. Trees showed faint warm cores where sap still flowed. Small animals flickered at the edges—quick bursts of red and orange that vanished as fast as they appeared.

  Fish ranged ahead, her phase-shifting body leaving faint shimmer trails in the cold air.

  Doc walked the perimeter slowly, scanning for disturbances. Broken branches. Displaced snow. Tracks that didn't belong.

  Nothing.

  The forest remained still.

  Doc had completed his third circuit when Fish froze mid-step.

  Her head snapped toward the northeast, ears flattening against her skull. The violet glow-lines along her limbs pulsed brighter.

  Lux, what does she sense?

  Unknown. No thermal signatures at current range. Expanding scan.

  Fish didn't wait. She phased forward, her form blurring as she covered ten meters in an instant.

  Doc broke into a run, boots punching through the snow. His suit's micro-servos engaged, amplifying his stride as he followed her shimmering trail.

  Fish phased again. Thirty meters ahead now.

  Then Doc heard it.

  The clash of metal. A guttural snarl. High-pitched voices shouting.

  Combat detected. Distance: forty-seven meters. Multiple entities engaged.

  Doc activated his helmet. The visor sealed over his face, cutting the cold and sharpening his vision. Thermal overlays resolved into distinct shapes ahead— bodies moving fast, locked in close-quarters combat.

  Fish stopped at the treeline, her body low and tense.

  Doc crouched beside her, peering through the sparse branches.

  Three figures fought in a small clearing.

  The largest was humanoid—tall, lean, covered in gray-brown fur with a canine-like head. Wielded a spear. Moved with steady, disciplined motions despite obvious injuries. Blood darkened the snow beneath its feet.

  Two smaller figures flanked it—green-skinned, barely waist-high. Children, maybe. One wielded a crude knife. The other threw stones with surprising accuracy.

  And against them, two monsters.

  Doc's mind catalogued the details clinically. Pale blue-gray skin. Frost clinging to joints and exposed bone. Eyes glowing faint white. Movements stiff but fast in short bursts.

  Recommend immediate intervention. Lux suggested

  The larger beastkin lunged with its spear, catching one monster in the ribs. The creature barely staggered. It swung a clawed hand, forcing the beastkin back. The wound in its side meant nothing.

  One of the green children stumbled. The second undead turned toward it.

  The beastkin tried to intercept but the first corpse grabbed its spear shaft, holding it in place with unnatural strength.

  Doc drew his plasma blade.

  The silver veins pulsed faintly even before activation.

  He squeezed the ignition stud.

  Azure light erupted from the emitter, threaded through with silver mana-veins that hadn't existed before Dulric's repair.

  Fish's muscles coiled, her glow-lines flaring bright as she prepared to phase.

  Doc stepped forward, clearing the treeline.

  The monster's hadn't noticed him yet.

  The beastkin had. Its eyes flicked toward Doc, widening slightly at the sight of the glowing blade.

  The smaller green child scrambled backward as the second monster advanced, frost-breath misting from its mouth.

  Targets locked. Recommend coordinated strike with Fish. Priority: neutralize immediate threat to non-combatants.

  Fish's body shimmered, already halfway into the phase-shift.

  Doc moved.

  Brikka's knife felt like a toy in her hand.

  The draugr didn't care. It just kept coming, frost-breath leaking from its ribs, pale eyes glowing without thought or mercy.

  Rurrak's spear was stuck. The first corpse held it with dead fingers that wouldn't break no matter how hard he pulled.

  Sivvy threw another stone. It bounced off the second draugr's skull. Might as well have been snow.

  Brikka scrambled backward, boots slipping on ice-slick ground. The draugr lurched closer. Its hand reached for her, fingers blackened and stiff.

  Then light.

  Blue light, threaded with silver, cutting through the dark like a blade made of sky.

  Brikka's breath caught.

  A figure stepped from the treeline. Tall. Armored in something dark and seamless that didn't move like leather or plate. A cloak billowed behind him, pale and flowing.

  And the blade. Gods, the blade.

  Azure fire extended from his hand, humming with a sound that felt like it lived inside her chest.

  Paladin.

  Terror spiked through her.

  Paladins didn't help goblins. Paladins cleansed them.

  The stranger moved.

  Fast. Too fast for something wearing armor.

  A wolf flickered into existence beside the first draugr. Its body shimmered violet and black, shifting through space like it didn't belong to the world.

  Rurrak wrenched his spear free and stumbled back, blood dripping from his shoulder.

  The paladin reached the second draugr in three strides.

  The blade swung.

  No resistance. No crunch of bone or scrape of frozen flesh.

  The draugr's torso separated cleanly. Top half slid sideways. Bottom half collapsed.

  Brikka's stomach lurched.

  The wolf-thing tore into the first draugr, claws raking through its chest. The corpse flailed, then went still as the wolf's jaws closed around the monster core in its ribcage.

  Silence.

  The draugr didn't rise again.

  The paladin's blade retracted with a soft hiss. The light vanished, leaving only the hilt in his hand.

  He turned.

  Toward them.

  Rurrak stepped forward— then staggered.

  Just a half-step. A wobble. His spear tip dipped toward the snow.

  “Rurrak…?” Brikka’s voice barely left her throat.

  He leaned forward for a moment, almost steady… then his legs gave out.

  The spear slipped from his grip as he dropped to one knee, breath rasping. Blood pattered into the snow in steady, heavy drops.

  Then he toppled sideways.

  Brikka scrambled to catch him, but he was too heavy.

  He didn’t move.

  Brikka pressed a hand to Rurrak’s shoulder, heart slamming. He wasn’t dead but he wasn’t waking up either.

  She looked up—

  —and the paladin was much closer than before.

  He stood just a few steps away now, silent in the falling snow, the wolf at his side. Close enough that Brikka felt she had to shield Sivvy with her whole body.

  Close enough that he could reach them in a single stride.

  Thank for reading!

  Chapter 60 Drops friday