Doc watched the beastkin collapse.

  The spear fell first. Then the fighter went down sideways, hitting the snow with a muffled thud that sent up a cloud of white powder.

  The smaller green child lunged to catch him but couldn't hold the weight.

  Doc moved before the thought finished forming.

  He crossed the distance in three strides, deactivating his helmet as he went. The faceplate retracted with a soft mechanical whisper.

  Both children flinched backward.

  The one with the oversized scarf clutched a knife. The other held a piece of stone like it might help.

  Doc raised his empty hand slowly. "I'm here to help."

  They stared at him. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

  He reached into his cloak and pulled a healing potion from the inner pocket. The vial caught the predawn light, liquid glowing faint blue.

  The children didn't move.

  Doc knelt beside the beastkin, uncorking the vial with his prosthetic hand. "Your friend's hurt. This will help."

  He tilted the beastkin's head back gently, poured half the potion into his mouth, then used the rest on the visible wounds. The gash along his shoulder sealed almost instantly, flesh knitting together beneath torn leather.

  The bleeding stopped.

  But the beastkin didn't wake.

  Doc frowned, resting two fingers against the fighter's throat. Pulse steady. Breathing shallow but regular.

  Lux.

  "Scanning. Vitals stable. However, detecting anomalous energy signature in the bloodstream. Origin point correlates with the shoulder wound. Assessment: possible magical pathogen. Cannot confirm specifics—this world's biological interactions remain inconsistent with baseline parameters."

  Doc's jaw tightened.

  He looked up at the two children. They hadn't run. That was something.

  "He's sick," Doc said quietly. "The wound—it carried something. Not just physical damage."

  The smaller one with the stone clutched it tighter. "Sick how?"

  "I don't know yet." Doc straightened. "But my camp isn't far. We have better potions there."

  The one with the knife—older, sharper-eyed—stared at him without blinking. "You're not… you're not going to…"

  She didn't finish.

  Doc met her gaze evenly. "I'm not going to hurt you. Any of you."

  Fish padded closer. Both children tensed, but Fish simply sat beside Doc, calm and patient.

  Doc gestured toward the beastkin. "He needs help. We can give it. But we need to move."

  The two exchanged a glance. Something silent passed between them.

  Then, slowly, they both nodded.

  Doc allowed himself a small smile. "Good. Stay close."

  He crouched, sliding his arms beneath the beastkin's shoulders and knees. The fighter was heavy—solid muscle beneath the torn gear—but Doc lifted him without strain.

  Doc started walking, retracing his path through the snow. Fish took point, her form flickering slightly as she scouted ahead.

  The two children followed. Hesitant at first. Then closer.

  The one with the scarf kept glancing at the unconscious beastkin. The other watched Doc's hands like she expected a weapon to appear.

  Doc didn't push them. Just kept walking.

  The sky began to lighten at the edges—pale gray bleeding into the horizon, chasing away the stars one by one.

  Doc adjusted his grip on the beastkin, keeping his breathing steady, his pace even.

  The camp wasn't far.

  Just a little farther.

  Fish moved ahead to reach the camp quicker so by the time Doc broke through the treeline with the beastkin and the two children trailing behind, the entire camp was awake.

  Mazoga stood at the perimeter, warhammer in hand. Tanna flanked her left, eyes sharp and bow drawn.

  Calen was near the wagon, one hand on the knife at his belt.

  Doc raised his voice and called out. "Friendly contact."

  Mazoga lowered the hammer slightly but didn't sheathe it. Her gaze swept over the beastkin, then the two green children. "What happened?"

  "Found them under attack. Two hostiles." Doc adjusted his grip on the beastkin and moved toward the wagon. "This one's injured. Needs immediate healer attention."

  Mazoga stepped aside. Tanna followed Doc, her movements careful and measured.

  Doc knelt and laid the beastkin down near the wagon's rear wheel, positioning him on his back. The fighter's breathing remained shallow. The wound had sealed, but the skin around it looked wrong—pale, with faint discoloration spreading outward like frost creeping across glass.

  Doc straightened and turned. "Marron—potions. Anything that counters infection or magical contamination."

  Marron nodded once and moved to the wagon without hesitation.

  Doc looked to Calen next. "Radio. Contact the settlement. Get Ironha on the line. Tell her we have a medical emergency—possible magical pathogen in the bloodstream."

  Calen's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't argue. He turned and jogged toward the front of the wagon where the radio was located.

  Doc shifted his attention to Tanna. "Keep watch on him. Let me know if anything changes."

  Tanna nodded and knelt beside the beastkin without comment.

  Bran approached the two green children, who stood frozen near the fire. "Come on, you two. Let's get some warmth and food into you."

  The smaller one with the scarf glanced at Doc. Doc gave a short nod. "Go with him. You're safe."

  They hesitated, then followed Bran toward the fire.

  Doc turned to Mazoga. "I need to brief you."

  Mazoga gestured toward the edge of camp, away from the others. They walked together, boots crunching through fresh snow.

  When they stopped, Doc spoke quickly. "Found them northeast, maybe two hundred meters out. Three of them fighting two hostiles. Pale blue-gray skin, frost forming along the joints and exposed bone. Eyes glowing faint white."

  Mazoga's expression darkened. "How did they move?"

  "Stiff but fast in short bursts. Coordinated attacks. One grabbed the beastkin's spear and held it while the other went for the children." Doc paused. "I neutralized both. Fish destroyed one's core. I bisected the second."

  "Draugr." Mazoga's tone flattened. "Undead. Frost-touched corpses animated by necrotic mana."

  Doc filed the term away. Lux, catalog.

  "Logged. Cross-referencing with observed behavior."

  Mazoga's jaw tightened. "If there were two, there may be more. Draugr move in hordes."

  "Recommendation?"

  "We should move as soon as we are able." Mazoga looked toward the beastkin. "And we keep those kids close until we know what we're dealing with."

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  Doc nodded. "Understood."

  From the direction of the wagon, Calen's voice called out. "Doc! I've got Ironha."

  Doc turned. "On my way."

  He walked back toward the wagon, where Calen held the bronze radio unit. The device crackled faintly with static.

  Doc took it, pressed the transmit button. "Ironha, it's Doc. I need your expertise on an injured fighter. Shoulder wound from undead contact. I sealed the cut with a potion, but he went unconscious shortly after. I'm seeing pale discoloration spreading from the wound, skin temperature dropping, shallow breathing, and a weak but steady pulse. Mazoga identified the attackers as draugr — the wound happened during that fight"

  The radio crackled. Ironha's voice came through, calm and precise. "Doc, listen carefully. Stop using healing potions."

  Doc's brow furrowed. "Repeat that."

  "Stop using potions. They won't help. What you're describing is necrotic disease—mana sickness. The wound carried corrupted energy into his bloodstream. Healing potions only seal the injury. They don't remove the infection."

  Doc exhaled slowly. "Understood. What's would you recommend"

  "Fever tonic. It's not the strongest remedy, but it should fight off the disease if administered early. You caught it in the first stage, which is good. Give him the tonic and make sure he gets rest. His body needs time to flush the necrotic mana from his system."

  Doc nodded once. "How long until recovery?"

  "If it's early-stage? One to three days with rest and the tonic. If he worsens, contact me immediately."

  "Copy that." Doc paused. "Any precautions for the others? Contamination risk?"

  "Necrotic disease isn't contagious between living beings. Only direct exposure to necrotic mana or undead wounds."

  Doc glanced toward the fire where Bran sat with the two green children. Neither showed signs of distress beyond exhaustion and fear.

  "Acknowledged," Doc said. "We'll administer the tonic and monitor his condition."

  "Good. Keep me updated. And Doc—be careful."

  "Understood. Out."

  Doc lowered the radio and turned to Marron, who stood near the wagon. "We need fever tonics."

  Marron nodded and moved to the cargo, pulling open one of the sealed crates. He rummaged briefly, then produced a small clay vial marked with faded ink.

  Doc crossed the distance and took it, uncorking the vial as he knelt beside the beastkin.

  Tanna shifted back slightly, giving him room.

  Doc tilted the fighter's head, poured the tonic into his mouth slowly, then waited for him to swallow. The beastkin's throat worked once. Twice.

  Doc corked the vial and set it aside. "He needs rest. Continue to monitor him."

  Tanna nodded. "I'll stay with him."

  Doc rose and turned.

  Across the camp, Mazoga's voice cut through the morning air. "Pack it up. We move in ten minutes."

  Calen and Bran immediately began breaking down the tents. Marron returned to the wagon, securing any loose cargo he found.

  Mazoga approached Doc, her expression hard. "As I said before, if there were two draugr, there's likely more. We're not waiting to find out."

  Doc glanced at the beastkin. "He's stable for transport?"

  "He'll have to be." Mazoga's tone left no room for argument. "We stay here, we risk getting surrounded."

  Doc nodded. "Understood."

  Mazoga moved toward the two children near the fire. "You two—get on the wagon. We're leaving."

  The smaller one clutched the scarf tighter. "What about Rurrak?"

  "He's coming with us," Mazoga said flatly. "You want him safe? Then move."

  They scrambled to their feet and hurried toward the wagon.

  Doc watched the camp collapse around him—tents folding, gear stowed, fire stamped out.

  Doc helped Tanna lift the unconscious beastkin—onto the wagon bed. The fighter's weight settled against bundled furs as the two green children climbed in beside him.

  Bran secured the tailgate while Calen took his seat up front beside Marron.

  Mazoga moved to Doc's side, her voice low. "You said you found them northeast."

  "About two hundred meters out," Doc confirmed.

  "That's close." Mazoga's grip tightened on her warhammer. "Too close."

  Doc glanced toward the treeline. Nothing moved.

  "If we encounter more?"

  Mazoga exhaled slowly. " We handle it."

  Marron's voice called from the wagon. "Ready when you are."

  Mazoga turned. "Move out. Keep formation tight."

  Snow Tusk snorted and began pulling the wagon forward.

  Doc fell into step beside Mazoga, Fish padding silently ahead.

  The trees loomed dark against the pale sky.

  And somewhere beyond them, the dead were walking.

  Calen sat on the wagon bench beside Marron, his eyes scanning the treeline as Snow Tusk pulled them forward. The rhythm of the wheels against frozen ground settled into a steady creak, broken only by the occasional crack of snow beneath hooves.

  Behind him, the two green-skinned goblin children huddled near the unconscious Gnoll, silent and tense.

  Calen glanced back over his shoulder. They couldn't be older than twelve or thirteen—small even for their kind, wrapped in patched furs and mismatched scarves.

  "Where are you from?" Calen asked, keeping his voice low.

  Neither answered.

  The smaller one—the boy—pulled his knees up to his chest. The girl's sharp eyes flicked toward Calen, then away.

  Calen didn't push. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Bran had given it to him that morning—grain cakes sweetened with dried berries.

  He unwrapped one and held it out. "Hungry?"

  The boy's eyes locked onto the cake. His throat worked, but he didn't move.

  The girl put a hand on his shoulder. "Sivvy—"

  "Just food," Calen said quietly. "Not poisoned. I ate one earlier."

  Sivvy's hand twitched.

  Brikka's grip tightened. "Be careful."

  But Sivvy leaned forward slowly, fingers closing around the grain cake. He pulled it back like he'd stolen something precious and took a tentative bite.

  His eyes widened.

  Brikka watched him chew, her expression unreadable. After a long moment, she exhaled and reached for one herself.

  Calen handed it over without comment.

  They ate in silence, the tension in their shoulders easing just slightly.

  "Thank you," Sivvy mumbled around another bite.

  Calen nodded. "So… where are you from?"

  Sivvy glanced at Brikka. She hesitated, then sighed.

  "Threeburrow," she said flatly. "North of here. We were gathering. Frostroot and mushcaps. Rurrak was guarding us." Her gaze flicked to the unconscious beastkin. "Then those things came out of nowhere."

  "Draugr," Sivvy whispered, voice trembling. "They didn't stop. Rurrak hit them, but they just… kept coming."

  Brikka's fingers curled into fists. "We would've died if the paladin hadn't shown up."

  Calen blinked. "Paladin?"

  Sivvy nodded quickly. "The one with the glowing sword. And the shadow wolf." He looked up at Calen, eyes wide. "Is he really a paladin? We've never seen one before. Just heard stories."

  Calen opened his mouth. Closed it.

  Paladin.

  Doc a paladin.

  Calen almost laughed.

  But then he saw the way Sivvy watched him—wary, waiting.

  To them, maybe Doc was a paladin.

  Just… not the kind they expected.

  Brikka's voice cut through his thoughts. "What kind of paladin is he?"

  Calen exhaled slowly.

  How the hell was he supposed to explain Doc?

  "He's not a paladin," he said carefully. "Doc's… something else. A warrior. A good one. But mostly just a good person."

  Sivvy frowned. "But the sword—"

  "I know," Calen interrupted gently. "It looks like something out of a legend. And maybe it is. But Doc doesn't serve any temple. He just… helps people."

  Brikka's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

  Calen met her gaze. "Because he can."

  She didn't look convinced.

  Calen shifted on the bench, glancing back at Fish, who padded silently alongside the wagon. Her midnight fur rippled with faint violet patterns, her amber eyes scanning the treeline.

  "The wolf," Sivvy whispered. "Is she… his familiar?"

  "Sort of," Calen said. "Her name's Fish."

  Sivvy blinked. "Fish?"

  Calen smiled faintly. "Long story. But she's not dangerous. Not to people, anyway. Especially younger folks. She's… protective."

  Brikka's skeptical expression didn't shift. "A phase wolf. Protective."

  "I'm serious," Calen said. "There's a girl back at the settlement—Tavi. About your age. Fish watches over her like she's pack."

  Sivvy tilted his head. "Really?"

  Calen nodded. "Tavi's quiet. Doesn't talk much. But she trusts Fish completely. They used sit together all the time. Fish even lets her ride sometimes."

  Brikka's shoulders loosened slightly. "Ride?"

  "Yeah." Calen's smile widened a little. "Fish is bigger than she looks when she's standing still. Tavi'll climb right up on her back like it's nothing."

  Sivvy's eyes widened. "I want to see that."

  Brikka elbowed him. "Sivvy—"

  "What? I do!"

  Calen chuckled softly. "Maybe you will."

  Sivvy glanced at Brikka, then back at Calen. "What's your settlement like?"

  Calen hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Small. Still growing. But the people are good."

  "Who else is there?" Sivvy asked, curiosity creeping into his voice.

  Calen leaned back slightly, thinking. "Well… there's Tavi. Then there's Fenn—he's a Patchwright. Fixes things. Quiet kid, but clever. Lina's our youngest healer. She's learning from Ironha, who's the best healer I've ever seen."

  Brikka's eyes flickered with interest. "A healer?"

  Calen nodded. "Yeah. Ironha's kind. Patient. She patched me up more times than I can count." He paused, thinking of the others. "There's Edda—she's smart. Runs things, keeps everyone organized. And Carl... he's an inventor. Builds devices that shouldn't exist. Weird stuff that works anyway."

  Brikka tilted her head slightly. "Like what?"

  "Like the wagon we're in," Calen said, gesturing around them. "Communication devices, scanners... other tools that help keep us safe."

  "He's taught me a lot." Calen said with a small smile.

  Brikka studied him for a moment, then glanced around the wagon with new interest.

  "Then there's Dulric," Calen continued. "He's a dwarf. A smith. Gruff, doesn't talk much, but his work is..." He paused. "Doc's blade? The one you saw? Dulric helped make that. Repaired it when it was broken. Made it better than it was before."

  Brikka's eyes widened slightly. "A dwarf did that?"

  "Yeah," Calen said. "He's good."

  Sivvy's tension eased further. "And the paladin?"

  "Doc," Calen corrected gently. "He's… different. But he cares. He won't let anything happen to you."

  Brikka studied him for a long moment. "You trust him."

  "With my life," Calen said without hesitation.

  Sivvy glanced at the unconscious Gnoll, then back at Calen. "Will Rurrak be okay?"

  "Doc gave him medicine," Calen said. "He'll need rest, but he'll heal."

  Brikka exhaled slowly, some of the fear draining from her expression.

  The wagon rolled forward, the forest thinning as open terrain stretched ahead.

  Marron adjusted his grip on the reins. "We're close."

  Calen straightened, following his gaze.

  Ahead, nestled against a rocky hillside, structures emerged from the snow

  Brikka stood suddenly, gripping the wagon's edge.

  "There," she said, voice tight. "That's the Threeburrow village."

  Calen glanced back at the goblin children. "Is that where you're from?"

  Both Brikka and Sivvy nodded.

  Calen smiled and looked toward the village again, eyes tracing the rough timber frames and scattered stone structures. Smoke rose from chimneys—thin trails that spoke of warmth and life.

  Snow Tusk's hooves crunched steadily forward, the wagon rocking gently over frozen ground.

  But something didn't feel right.

  The village even from this far, seem too quiet.

  No movement along the paths. No figures near the structures.

  Just stillness.

  Calen's fingers twitched toward the experimental dagger at his belt.

  Mazoga raised one fist, her voice cutting through the air. "We're surrounded."

  Calen's breath caught.

  He turned sharply, scanning the treeline—but saw nothing.

  Then he looked left.

  Doc stood beside the wagon now, plasma gun drawn and leveled. Fish prowled at his side, her violet-black form shimmering faintly as she phase-stepped closer to the wagon's flank.

  Calen's heart kicked harder.

  When did they get there?

  "Where?" Marron asked quietly, voice tight.

  Mazoga didn't answer.

  She didn't need to.

  The snow moved.

  Figures rose from the white ground like ghosts materializing out of nothing—cloaked forms that had been lying flat, invisible against the frozen terrain.

  Calen counted quickly.

  Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

  More.

  They formed a loose ring around the wagon, weapons drawn—spears, bows, short blades.

  Goblins. Kobolds. Gnolls.

  All armed. All silent.

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  Chapter 61 Drops next tuesday!