Doc sat beside Mazoga near the hearth, his hand moving absently through Fish's thick fur. The wolf's presence grounded him—solid, warm, familiar. Around them, the central chamber hummed with quiet activity. Marron's voice carried from the negotiation table, measured and professional as he worked through trade terms with Kraggir and the tall gnoll leader. The elderly goblin woman listened more than she spoke, her yellow eyes missing nothing.

  Bran and Calen had moved back to the portable oven, preparing another batch. The scent of fresh bread still hung in the air, warm and welcoming. Doc watched the bronze-cased device hum softly, its core battery glowing steady through the vents.

  A quiet chuckle escaped him.

  Tanna glanced over from where she sat with Moss-ear, her expression curious. "What's funny?"

  Doc pointed toward the oven, where Bran was carefully arranging fresh dough on the racks. "I didn't even know Carl made that."

  Tanna followed his gaze, her features softening with understanding. She smiled "Carl and Calen have been making a lot of things."

  She shifted slightly, Moss-ear adjusting with her movement. The rabbit's ears flicked toward the oven, tracking sounds only he could hear.

  "By the time we get back," Tanna continued, her tone carrying affectionate certainty, "he'll have made even more things."

  Doc felt something settle in his chest—amusement mixed with a deeper appreciation. Carl's enthusiasm was relentless, his curiosity boundless. The boy treated every piece of Federation technology like a puzzle waiting to be understood, then remade with his own hands.

  Lux, Doc thought. How many fabrication requests has Carl logged since we arrived?

  "Forty-seven documented projects," Lux replied. "Sixteen completed. Twelve functional prototypes. Nineteen abandoned after initial testing. Current active projects: seven."

  Doc shook his head slowly. "He doesn't stop, does he?"

  "Would you want him to?" Tanna asked.

  "No," Doc admitted. "Not at all."

  Tanna smiled, and there was real warmth in it—the kind that came from watching someone grow into themselves.

  "Good," she said quietly. "Because knowing Carl, there's no stopping him."

  She shifted, Moss-ear hopping from her lap to the stone floor. The rabbit settled beside Fish, who didn't even twitch. Tanna's gaze drifted across the chamber, settling somewhere between the oven and the negotiation table.

  "When Carl joined Marron's caravan," she continued, "he was only there for repairs and his inventory skill. That's all we wanted from him." Her voice softened. "But I always thought he was destined for bigger things."

  Doc followed her line of sight. Carl wasn't in the here on this expedition. But his influence was here. The oven hummed steadily. The radios rested in their packs. The tool bracers were worn by every member on this expedition.

  "And now," Tanna said, "all the tools he's creating are going to change the world."

  Doc heard the pride in her voice—quiet and unshakable.

  "I'm very proud of the little guy," she added.

  Her gaze shifted, settling on Calen. The young man crouched near one of the support pillars, speaking softly to Brikka. The goblin child leaned in, listening intently as Calen gestured toward Fish. The wolf's ears swiveled toward them but didn't move otherwise.

  "Carl's had such an effect on folks," Tanna murmured. "Calen especially."

  Doc watched the exchange. Calen's posture was relaxed, his tone patient. The boy who'd once flinched at every unexpected sound now spoke with quiet confidence. The circuit-like patterns on his arms caught the firelight, glinting silver beneath his sleeves.

  Across the chamber, Bran stood beside the portable oven with Sivvy, the other goblin child. The boy watched with wide eyes as Bran demonstrated how to shape the dough, his large hands moving with practiced care. Sivvy mimicked the motions, hesitant at first, then more certain.

  A third figure lingered nearby—Kresh, the young goblin who'd seem to be recovering from an illness. He watched the bread-making with silent focus, arms crossed but posture open.

  Doc took it all in. The firelight. The quiet conversations. The gradual easing of tension as the settlement's residents began to understand that the strangers weren't a threat.

  Somewhere nearby, Mazoga grunted.

  "I hope Carl doesn't get into any trouble while we're gone."

  Doc glanced over. She sat against the far wall, arms crossed, warhammer resting within easy reach. Her tone was dry, but her expression carried faint amusement—the kind that only showed when she thought no one was paying attention.

  "He hasn't gotten into any trouble recently," Doc replied.

  "That what worries me." Mazoga said. "Knowing Carl and his luck, it could only last so long"

  Tanna laughed softly. "I'm sure his already gotten into some trouble already."

  "Great," Mazoga muttered. "That something to look forward to when we get back."

  But there was no real annoyance in her voice. Just the familiar rhythm of people who'd learned to trust each other through shared chaos and unexpected victories.

  Doc's hand stilled in Fish's fur. The wolf exhaled slowly, her weight warm against his leg.

  Marron's voice rose slightly at the negotiation table—agreement reached on something. Kraggir nodded, satisfied.

  Progress.

  Varrik moved along the outer perimeter, eyes scanning the treeline, ears tuned to the forest's rhythm. The patrol route was familiar—every boulder, every gap in the pines. He'd walked it a hundred times.

  But something felt wrong.

  Jorik should've been back by now.

  The other scout had left at dawn to track the draugr signs northeast. Six hours ago. Long enough to follow the trail, confirm numbers, and return with a report.

  Varrik stopped, nose lifting toward the wind.

  Nothing.

  He shifted his weight, fingers tightening on his spear. His ears swiveled, filtering the noise—wind, creaking wood, distant bird calls.

  Then something else.

  Faint. Rhythmic. Getting louder.

  Footfalls.

  Running.

  Varrik turned toward the sound, spear rising. His eyes narrowed as the shape materialized through the pines—a dark blur against white snow, moving too fast, too desperate.

  "Halt!" Varrik barked, voice sharp and clear.

  The figure didn't slow.

  Varrik planted his stance, spear level. "Identify yourself!"

  The runner broke through the last stand of trees, and Varrik's breath caught.

  Jorik.

  Breathing ragged. Eyes wide. His gait uneven—burning through stamina like he'd been running for miles.

  "Jorik!" Varrik stepped forward, lowering the spear. "What—"

  Jorik stumbled, legs giving out mid-stride.

  Varrik caught him, arms wrapping beneath the scout's shoulders. Jorik's weight sagged against him, chest heaving.

  "Easy," Varrik growled. "You're spent."

  Jorik's head lolled, breath coming in sharp gasps. "Draugr—"

  "I know," Varrik interrupted. "Twenty. Circling northeast. You tracked them."

  "No." Jorik's claws dug into Varrik's forearm. "Not twenty."

  Varrik's ears flattened. "How many?"

  "Hundred." Jorik's voice cracked. "Maybe more."

  The forest went silent.

  Varrik's gaze snapped up, past Jorik's shoulder, toward the ridgeline.

  At first, nothing.

  Then movement.

  Pale shapes emerging from the trees. Dozens of them. Frost-blackened skin. Glowing eyes. Moving with terrible purpose.

  And at their head—

  Taller. Broader. Ice-plated shoulders catching the light.

  A Greater Draugr.

  Varrik's blood turned cold.

  "Ancestors," he breathed.

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  Jorik sagged further, gasping. "Saw me. Chased—couldn't shake them."

  Varrik didn't answer. He shifted Jorik onto his back, the other scout's weight settling across his shoulders. His muscles screamed protest, but he ignored it.

  He ran.

  The settlement gates weren't far—less than a quarter-mile. But with Jorik on his back and a horde closing in, every step counted.

  Varrik pushed harder, legs pumping through the snow. His breath came faster, burning cold in his chest. Behind him, the sound of dragging footsteps grew louder.

  Faster.

  The outer markers appeared—carved stone posts marking Threeburrow's boundary.

  "Alarm!" Varrik roared. "Draugr horde! North gate!"

  His voice echoed across the hillside.

  Ahead, figures moved. Gnoll warriors scrambling to positions. The clang of a warning bell split the air—three sharp strikes.

  Varrik didn't slow. He charged through the open gate as hands reached out to take Jorik from his back.

  He spun, panting, and stared back toward the treeline.

  The horde emerged into the open. A wall of pale, frozen corpses.

  And at the center, the Greater Draugr stepped forward, eyes burning cold and steady.

  Varrik's grip tightened on his spear.

  We're not ready for this.

  Rurran stood near the council table, arms crossed, watching the strangers with careful attention.

  The merchant—Marron—spoke with practiced ease. Confident but not arrogant. Kraggir listened, nodding occasionally, working through trade terms with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.

  The food the strangers had brought sat nearby. Hearthgrain. Ashroot. Fresh bread still warm from that strange bronze device.

  Generous. Too generous.

  Rurran's eyes shifted to the others. The orc woman sat against the far wall, warhammer within easy reach. The armored figure sat beside her with that void-touched wolf at his feet. The boy worked near the oven. The woman with the rabbit spoke quietly to the armored figure.

  They'd saved Brikka and Sivvy. Brought Rurrak home alive.

  That counted for something.

  But whether they were friends or just wandering traders playing kind for leverage—that remained unclear.

  Rurran's ears swiveled at the sound of rapid footsteps echoing through the entrance tunnel.

  Heavy. Running.

  He turned as Yarrik burst into the chamber, breathing hard.

  "Rurran!" The guard's voice cut through the low hum of conversation. "North gate—Varrik's back. Jorik's with him."

  Rurran stepped forward. "Injured?"

  "Spent," Yarrik panted. "Ran himself dry. There's a draugr horde outside."

  The chamber went silent.

  Kraggir stood. Ygrana's head turned sharply.

  Rurran's blood went cold. "How many?"

  "Hundred. Maybe more." Yarrik's expression tightened. "Greater at the head."

  Rurran didn't wait. He moved.

  The others followed—Kraggir, Ygrana, several guards. Behind them, the orc woman rose smoothly, warhammer in hand. The armored figure stood, his wolf at his side.

  Rurran pushed through the tunnel, boots pounding stone. The cold air hit him as he emerged topside.

  He climbed the rough stone steps to the wall, gripping the edge as he reached the top.

  And stopped.

  The horde filled the clearing.

  Hundreds frozen corpses. Pale skin blackened by frost. Eyes glowing faint white-blue. Moving in coordinated silence.

  And at the center—

  Taller. Broader. Ice-plated shoulders catching the weak winter light. Eyes burning brighter than the rest.

  A Greater Draugr.

  Rurran's jaw tightened.

  The horde alone was a problem. A hundred draugr could overrun their defenses through sheer numbers. But a Greater made this a different fight entirely.

  It would coordinate them. Direct them. Turn mindless corpses into a siege force.

  And killing it—

  Rurran had seen Greaters before. They'd lost six fighters bringing one down.

  Threeburrow didn't have a dozen high level fighters.

  They had three, including himself.

  His claws dug into the stone.

  Footsteps sounded behind him. Heavy boots. Deliberate.

  Rurran glanced back.

  The orc woman climbed onto the wall. Her amber eyes scanned the horde with the calm assessment of someone who'd seen worse.

  Beside her, the armored figure rose into view. Silent. The wolf materialized beside him—violet patterns shifting across midnight fur.

  They stood together, watching.

  The orc woman's gaze settled on the Greater. Her expression didn't change, but Rurran saw the shift in her posture—weight settling.

  She turned her head slightly, looking at Rurran.

  "How can we help?"

  Rurran looked at the orc woman and sighed. The weight of what stood before them settled across his shoulders like stone.

  "Greaters aren't like the rest," he said quietly. "I've only fought one. Years ago. Took a dozen of us to bring it down. Lost six." His claws flexed against the stone. "As long as the Greater stands, this will be a hard fight. It'll direct the horde. Coordinate them. Turn mindless corpses into something worse."

  He studied her—the way she carried herself, the calm in her eyes despite the threat below.

  "I can tell just from your presence that you're a powerful fighter." Rurran's voice roughened. "But I couldn't ask—"

  The orc woman raised one hand, cutting him off.

  "We have a settlement nearby," she said. Simple. Direct. "This horde would cause us issues if not taken care of now."

  She met his gaze.

  "I'll help."

  The armored figure beside her shifted. His turned toward Rurran, then back to the horde.

  "So will I."

  The void-wolf's violet eyes tracked the Greater with predatory focus.

  Rurran's chest tightened. Relief, sharp and sudden. He hadn't expected allies. Hadn't expected strangers to stand with them when their own survival wasn't at stake.

  He nodded slowly.

  "If we're going to fight together," Rurran said, his voice steadying, "I need to know your names."

  The orc woman's mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close.

  "Mazoga," she said. She gestured toward the armored figure. "That's Doc. The wolf is Fish."

  Rurran filed the names away. His ears flicked toward the horde below—still advancing, slow and deliberate.

  "What can you do?" he asked.

  Mazoga's gaze shifted back to the Greater. She rolled one shoulder, the motion casual despite the weight of her armor.

  "I can probably take down the Greater," she said. Her tone carried the confidence of someone who'd done harder things. "With Doc's help."

  Rurran blinked.

  Probably.

  A Greater Draugr. Ice-plated, near-indestructible, capable of commanding a hundred corpses with coordinated precision.

  And she said probably like she was discussing splitting firewood.

  He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she didn't understand what Greaters were capable of. That confidence alone wouldn't save them.

  But he'd learned long ago to read fighters.

  The way Mazoga stood—rooted, balanced, ready. The way her hand rested on that enchanted warhammer like it was an extension of her body. The faint glow of her armor, marking her as something beyond common soldiers.

  And Doc—silent, still, but radiating the kind of controlled precision that only came from hard-earned discipline.

  Rurran's doubt flickered.

  Maybe it wasn't arrogance.

  Maybe it was experience.

  He exhaled slowly.

  "All right," Rurran said. He turned toward the wall's edge, scanning the horde.

  "Ygrana," he called down. "Get the young to safety. Kraggir! get the warriors armed, Shields, spears, bow, anything that reaches. We hold the perimeter."

  Kraggir's voice rose from below. "Already moving!"

  Rurran looked at Mazoga and Doc.

  "Ready?"

  Before either could answer, movement below caught his attention.

  The Greater raised one ice-plated arm.

  The horde stopped.

  Rurran's breath caught. A hundred draugr—mid-shamble, mid-advance—went still. Silent. Waiting.

  The Greater's eyes swept across the wall. Methodical. Deliberate. Counting defenders. Studying the gate. Measuring distances.

  Rurran's gut tightened.

  He'd seen draugr horde before. Fought them. Watched them throw themselves mindlessly at barriers until something died or they did.

  They didn't stop. They didn't assess.

  The Greater's gaze lingered on the gate. Then the walls. Then—for one frozen heartbeat—directly on Rurran.

  Intelligence. Cold and patient and utterly focused.

  Rurran's claws dug into stone.

  "Gods below," he muttered.

  Beside him, Mazoga's expression hardened. Doc shifted slightly, his wolf's violet eyes tracking the Greater with predatory focus.

  The Greater's arm dropped.

  Twenty draugr broke from the horde and charged.

  "Spears to the wall!" Rurran's voice cut through the rising tension. "Focus fire at the gate!"

  Warriors scrambled into position—gnolls hefting iron-tipped spears, kobolds drawing shortbows, goblins gripping crude clubs reinforced with salvaged metal. Thirty defenders total, spread thin along stone that had never been built to hold against this.

  The first wave hit.

  Draugr crashed against the gate with bone-rattling force. Pure dead weight driven by mindless hunger.

  A spear punched through a pale skull. The corpse dropped.

  Another thrust caught a draugr mid-lunge, driving through ribs and out the back. The thing collapsed, twitching once before going still.

  Arrows found eye sockets. Clubs crushed frozen joints.

  The twenty fell within minutes.

  Rurran's breathing steadied. Manageable. Brutal, but manageable.

  Then his gaze found the Greater.

  It stood beyond the killing ground, ice-plated shoulders catching dim winter light.

  Watching.

  Rurran's gut clenched.

  It was learning.

  Mazoga's voice cut through his thoughts. "It's testing you."

  Rurran turned. She stood beside him, warhammer already in hand.

  "Which means the real attack is coming," she continued. Her eyes never left the Greater. "We don't wait for that."

  Doc stepped forward. "We go now. While it's still coordinating."

  Rurran understood immediately. Hit it before it commits the full horde. Before the siege truly begins.

  "The gate—"

  "Will hold without us," Mazoga said. "But not without killing that thing first."

  She glanced along the wall, assessing. "We'll circle around. Hit it from the east while your people keep the horde occupied here."

  Rurran nodded once. "When the next wave comes, we'll make sure they're watching us, not you."

  "Good." Mazoga turned, already moving. Doc and Fish followed.

  Rurran watched them disappear along the wall, then turned back to his defenders.

  "Hold the line. Whatever comes next, we hold."

  Mazoga dropped from the eastern wall, boots hitting frozen ground hard enough to jar her knees. Doc landed beside her—lighter, quieter—with Fish materializing out of shadow a heartbeat later.

  The eastern approach was clear. Mostly. A handful of draugr wandered nearby, but the main horde remained focused on the main gate.

  The Greater stood beyond the killing ground, ice-plated and patient.

  Then its head turned.

  Directly toward them.

  For one frozen moment, those burning eyes locked onto Mazoga.

  It had seen them.

  The Greater raised one arm. A silent command.

  Twenty draugr peeled away from the horde's edge, shambling toward Mazoga's position with sudden purpose.

  She turned to Doc and Fish.

  "The plan is simple, we get to the Greater draugr and take it down quickly."

  Doc activated his helmet. Fish's violet eyes tracked the incoming draugr.

  "Can you keep them off me?"

  Doc's plasma blade ignited—azure light threaded with silver veins. His other hand drew the plasma gun from his hip.

  "I'll try."

  Good enough.

  The twenty draugr closed the distance—stiff movements accelerating into lurching charges.

  Mazoga tightened her grip on her warhammer.

  "No time to waste."

  She ran.

  Snow crunched beneath her boots as she closed the distance. The first draugr reached her within three strides—pale hands grasping, frost-rimed jaws snapping. Two more converged from her flanks.

  Mazoga's warhammer swept low.

  Roc's Descent.

  The enchantment surged through the weapon—momentum built from her sprint channeling into the strike. The hammer connected with a draugr's knee, and the impact erupted outward. Bone shattered. Ice plating cracked. The concussive burst knocked two more off-balance.

  Mazoga pivoted, bringing the hammer up in a tight arc. Caught another draugr mid-lunge. The thing's skull caved inward, and the body crumpled.

  To her left, Doc moved.

  His blade cut clean—one horizontal slash that separated torso from legs. The light edge burned through frozen flesh like it wasn't there.

  A draugr lunged at Doc's back.

  Fish phase-shifted, materialized mid-air, jaws clamping down on the thing's throat. She tore it free and vanished again before the corpse hit the ground.

  Mazoga grinned.

  Good team.

  She pushed forward.

  Three draugr blocked her path. She didn't slow.

  Stonebound Endurance.

  Her skin hardened. Muscles locked into place. The first draugr's claws scraped across her pauldron—sparks, nothing more. She drove her shoulder into its chest, felt ribs crack beneath the impact.

  Her hammer followed. Side swing. The enchantment flared again as she pivoted—amplifying the rotational force. The strike took the second draugr in the ribs, lifting it off the ground and hurling it into the third.

  Both collapsed in a tangle of limbs.

  Mazoga stepped over them without looking back.

  Doc's plasma gun fired—sharp cracks cutting through the howling wind. Each shot punched clean holes through skulls, dropping draugr before they reached Mazoga's flank.

  Fish reappeared on her right, phasing in long enough to rake claws across a draugr's legs. The thing buckled. Mazoga's boot crushed its spine as she passed.

  The Greater was closer now.

  Twenty meters.

  Fifteen.

  The remaining draugr closed in—eight, maybe ten left from the intercept force. They pressed from both flanks, trying to slow her advance.

  Mazoga activated Boarback Resilience.

  A draugr slammed into her from the side. She absorbed the hit—rooted, immovable—and converted the force into her next swing. Her hammer caught the thing's jaw, snapping its head backward with bone-breaking force.

  Doc moved beside her, blade carving arcs through the press. His movements were precise—surgical.

  Fish blinked in and out, striking from impossible angles. Throat. Hamstring. Eye socket. Each appearance left another draugr crippled or dead.

  Ten meters.

  The Greater didn't move.

  Just… waited.

  Mazoga's grin widened.

  "You're next."

  She surged forward, warhammer raised—

  A draugr tackled Doc from behind.

  Fish snarled, lunging to help.

  Mazoga kept running.

  Trust them to handle it.

  Her job was the Greater.

  Five meters.

  The ice-plated corpse finally moved.

  It raised one massive arm—frost trailing from its fingers—and met her eyes.

  Then it stepped forward to meet her charge.

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  Chapter 64 Drops Friday!