Kraggir kept his pace steady as they moved deeper into the tunnels, his tail flicking with barely contained energy.

  The strangers followed behind—footsteps echoing softly against stone.

  He leaned closer to Ygrana, lowering his voice to a murmur.

  "Matron," he said quietly. "I smell opportunity here."

  Ygrana's yellow eyes slid toward him.

  Kraggir tapped his chest. "Vein of Opportunity. It's pulling at me—stronger than it has in months." He paused. "Stronger than Glasshold."

  Ygrana's expression didn't change, but her grip on her staff shifted slightly.

  "You think they're worth that much?" she asked.

  "I know they are," Kraggir replied. "Whatever they're carrying, whatever they're offering—it's real. Valuable."

  Ygrana nodded slowly. "Then we listen carefully."

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  The merchant walked with practiced ease. The boy beside him looked nervous but steady. The Orc woman with the warhammer moved like a storm waiting to break.

  And the armored figure—the one Brikka called a paladin—walked beside the wolf, silent and unreadable.

  Ygrana's gaze lingered on him for a moment too long.

  Then she turned back to Kraggir, her voice dropping even lower.

  "Be careful, Kraggir. I don't know their levels yet, but I know this much—the orc-kin is powerful. Level forty or higher, if I had to guess."

  Kraggir's ears flattened slightly. "And the armored one?"

  Ygrana's bone charms clicked softly.

  "He carries something with him," she said quietly. "Something that feels like divine power." Her voice hardened. "I don't like it."

  Kraggir glanced back again.

  The armored figure walked beside the massive wolf, his movements calm and deliberate.

  Not threatening or hostile.

  But he trust the Matron's instinct.

  There was something about him that didn't fit.

  Kraggir leaned closer to Ygrana again.

  "I overheard your conversation with the children. They said he was a paladin," he murmured. "Do you believe that? A paladin this far beyond the Empire's frontier?"

  Ygrana shook her head slowly.

  "I don't know if he's a paladin," she admitted. "But I know he's something. Something strange."

  Her gaze flicked toward the wolf again—violet light rippling through its shadow-dark fur.

  "Void-touched," she muttered. "And yet it doesn't feel corrupted."

  Kraggir frowned.

  That didn't make sense.

  Void-touched beasts were monsters. Twisted. Dangerous.

  But the wolf moved with a calm ease, its glowing eyes watchful but not hostile.

  It didn't act like a monster.

  Kraggir exhaled slowly, his tail settling.

  "We'll figure it out," he said quietly. "But if my skill is right, Matron—we need this trade."

  Ygrana's expression didn't soften, but she nodded.

  "Then we'll be careful," she said firmly. "And we'll listen."

  Kraggir straightened as the tunnel widened ahead.

  Warm light spilled from the opening—the glow of the central hearth.

  Voices echoed faintly from within. Goblins. Kobolds. A low gnollish rumble.

  The heart of Threeburrow.

  Kraggir glanced back once more.

  The strangers followed, their expressions calm and curious.

  He smiled faintly.

  Good. Let's see what you've brought to our home.

  The tunnel opened into the central hearth chamber.

  Warmth washed over him immediately—firelight dancing across stone walls.

  Rurran stood near the back wall, arms crossed, copper eyes tracking the strangers as they entered. His spear leaned within easy reach. The Hunt-Chief never sat during first meetings—old habit, good instinct.

  Kraggir stepped aside, gesturing for the strangers to enter.

  "Welcome," he said simply. "To Threeburrow."

  Marron stepped into the central hearth chamber, his merchant's eye cataloging everything at once.

  The space was functional but sparse.

  Stone walls curved overhead, worn smooth by decades of touch and passage. The hearth itself dominated the center—a deep pit ringed with salvaged brick, flames crackling low. Smoke rose through a natural chimney cut into the rock above.

  A dozen faces turned toward them.

  Goblins. Kobolds. A few gnolls standing near the far wall.

  All watching with guarded expressions.

  Marron noted their clothing first.

  Patched furs. Worn leather. Tunics mended so many times the original fabric was barely visible beneath layers of repair. Boots reinforced with scraps of hide and cord. Gloves with fingers split and restitched.

  They weren't starving but he could tell they were struggling.

  Marron's gaze swept the chamber again, slower this time.

  No children.

  Not one.

  Brikka and Sivvy were already gone—probably whisked away to their families. But no other young ones lingered in the common space. No small figures peeking around corners or playing near the fire.

  They are wary of us, Marron realized.

  He understood.

  Simple. Sensible.

  Still, it told him something important.

  Threeburrow was cautious. Protective. And probably desperate enough to risk this meeting anyway.

  Ygrana moved toward the hearth, her staff tapping softly against stone.

  The gathered villagers parted for her, their expressions shifting from wariness to deference.

  She turned, her yellow eyes sharp as she studied Marron's group.

  "Sit," she said simply, gesturing toward low benches arranged near the fire.

  Marron inclined his head and moved forward.

  Mazoga settled onto a bench. Tanna sat beside her, Moss-ear perched on her shoulder. Calen took a seat near the edge, his posture tense and Bran sitting next to him with a gentle smile on his face.

  Doc remained standing near the wall with Fish at his side.

  Marron noticed several goblins watching the wolf with open unease.

  Ygrana noticed too.

  She raised one hand.

  "Bring food," she ordered, her voice carrying easily through the chamber. "And ale."

  Several goblins nodded and disappeared through a side passage.

  Marron sat slowly, keeping his movements deliberate.

  He glanced around again, noting details.

  An elderly kobold leaning against the far wall, his scales dull with age. A young goblin woman sharpening a blade near the fire, her fingers deft and quick. A gnoll with a scarred muzzle standing near the tunnel entrance, arms crossed.

  All of them watching and weighing.

  Kraggir stepped forward, his slate-blue scales catching the firelight.

  He smiled—a genuine expression, warm and open.

  "You've had a long journey," he said easily. "And you brought our people home safe."

  Marron inclined his head. "We were glad to help."

  Kraggir's tail flicked once.

  "We don't see many traders this far from the holds," he continued. "And fewer still who'd risk the road with draugr in the forest."

  Marron met his gaze steadily. "We didn't know about the draugr until we found your people."

  Kraggir's expression shifted—just slightly.

  Impressed, Marron noted. Or curious.

  The goblins returned, carrying wooden bowls and a clay jug.

  They placed them on a low table near the hearth, then retreated without a word.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Ygrana gestured toward the food.

  "Eat," she said simply. "Then we talk."

  Marron reached for a bowl.

  Thin stew. Watery broth with root vegetables—Stonebulbs, maybe, and something pale he didn't recognize. A few shreds of dried meat floating at the bottom.

  He took a bite.

  Plain. Barely seasoned. Enough to fill a belly, nothing more.

  Marron glanced at the jug. Weak ale, judging by the smell.

  He looked down at his bowl again, then at the others around the fire.

  Everyone's portion looked the same. Carefully measured. Equal.

  Either they're rationing what little they have... or this is actually a feast by their standards.

  Neither option was encouraging.

  Marron set his bowl down slowly, his merchant's mind already working.

  Worn clothing. Patched tools. Simple foods.

  They're feeding us what they eat themselves, he thought. Not trying to impress. Just... surviving.

  Across from him, Kraggir settled onto a bench, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.

  The kobold leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

  "So," Kraggir said, his voice easy and warm. "What would you like to trade?"

  Marron hesitated.

  He'd walked into plenty of desperate settlements before. Knew the signs. The careful neutrality. The way people watched strangers. Cautious yet hopeful.

  This place needs help, he realized. Real help.

  And they're gambling that we're worth the risk of letting us in.

  Marron's jaw tightened.

  "Before we discuss terms," he said carefully, "I'd like to make an offer."

  Kraggir's tail flicked once. Curious.

  Ygrana's eyes narrowed slightly.

  Marron gestured toward the thin stew, then back toward the tunnel entrance where their wagon waited.

  "We brought trade goods—crops, grain, preserved foods," he continued, his tone easy but respectful. "More than we need for samples or negotiation." He paused, meeting Kraggir's gaze. "As a gesture of good faith, let us add to this meal. Use what we brought. No obligation. Just... a shared table before we talk business."

  Silence fell over the chamber.

  Several goblins and gnolls exchanged glances. The elderly kobold near the wall straightened slightly.

  Kraggir's expression didn't change, but his tail had gone very still.

  Ygrana's bone charms clicked softly as she shifted her weight.

  Her yellow eyes studied Marron for a long moment.

  Then she nodded slowly.

  "A shared meal," she said quietly. "Then we see what you've brought."

  Marron inclined his head. "Exactly."

  He stood and turned toward his group.

  Bran was already moving.

  Calen scrambled to follow.

  "We'll need hands," Bran said over his shoulder, his voice low and even. "Tanna. Doc, Maz."

  Tanna rose immediately, Moss-ear chittering softly on her shoulder.

  Doc straightened from the wall, Fish padding silently beside him.

  Maz stood and followed Bran's lead.

  Marron watched them go, then turned back to find Kraggir watching him with an unreadable expression.

  "Your people move quickly," the kobold observed.

  Marron smiled faintly and settled back onto his bench. "While they work—tell me about Threeburrow."

  Bran stepped back into the cold air, his breath misting.

  Snow Tusk huffed softly, antlers dusted with fresh snow. Bran ran one hand along the beast's flank—reassuring it—then moved to the wagon bed.

  Calen appeared at his elbow, eyes bright with nervous energy.

  "What do you need?" the boy asked.

  Bran scanned the wagon bed, assessing the contents with quiet focus. They'd need enough to supplement what Threeburrow already had without making it look like charity.

  "Help me with the crates," he said.

  Doc appeared on the other side of the wagon. Fish stayed close, watching the surrounding goblins and kobolds with flat amber eyes.

  Mazoga joined them a moment later, warhammer still strapped to her back. Her presence alone would keep curious hands away from the goods.

  "What are we pulling?" she asked.

  "Hearthgrain. Ashroot. Stonebulb. Fieldleaf. Enough to stretch what they've already got." Bran pointed to each crate in turn. "Marron's showing good faith. That means we bring real supplies."

  Mazoga nodded once, then reached for the nearest crate. She lifted it like it weighed nothing.

  Tanna stepped around Snow Tusk's massive shoulder, Moss-ear now perched between the goat's antlers. Her gaze swept the settlement, reading the space with her usual quiet attention.

  "They're watching," she said softly.

  Bran glanced toward the surrounding settlement. Sure enough, smaller figures lingered near the stone walls—children, or near enough. Goblins with sharp eyes, kobolds with twitching tails, young gnolls with cautious posture.

  Hungry, Bran thought. Not starving, but close.

  He set a sack of ashroot on the wagon's edge, then looked toward Calen.

  "The portable oven," he said. "Can you take it inside and set it up?"

  Calen blinked. "You're baking? Here?"

  "I'm making fresh bread." Bran's tone didn't shift. "They'll need it more than they need sacks of grain."

  Calen's expression brightened. He turned back to the wagon, pulling aside a canvas tarp to reveal the bronze-cased oven Carl had fabricated days ago. The device hummed faintly when Calen checked its battery—still charged.

  "I'll get it started," Calen said, hauling the device toward the entrance.

  Bran returned his attention to the supplies. Most would stay packed for Marron's negotiations—trade samples, preserved goods. But for now, he'd make bread. Hearthgrain and ashroot—simple, filling, honest. The kind of food that built trust.

  Movement caught his eye.

  A young gnoll approached from the left, taller than the goblins but not yet grown. Steel-gray fur, white scars across his left shoulder, amber eyes sharp with wariness. He stopped a few paces from the wagon, watching Bran.

  "You need help?" the gnoll asked.

  Bran studied him. Guard, probably. Watching but not threatening.

  "Take these." Bran handed him a sack of hearthgrain and a smaller bundle of dried herbs. "Set them near the fire. Don't open them yet."

  The gnoll accepted the load without complaint, adjusting his grip. He paused, glancing at Fish, who flicked an ear but didn't move.

  "She won't bite unless you do," Bran said.

  The gnoll's mouth twitched—something close to a smile—then he turned and carried the sacks inside.

  Doc pulled another crate from the wagon, setting it down with carefully. Bran opened it, revealing tightly wrapped bundles of pulsebean and deeproot.

  "Portable oven's inside," Calen called from the entrance.

  Bran nodded, already sorting ingredients in his mind. Fresh bread meant warmth. Warmth meant trust. Trust meant Marron could negotiate without weapons drawn.

  Tanna moved past him, carrying a bundle of fieldleaf toward the hearth. Moss-ear hopped down from Snow Tusk's antlers, phase-blinking ahead of her in short bursts.

  The young gnoll returned, stepping back into the cold with steady purpose.

  "What else?" he asked.

  Bran handed him another sack—ashroot this time, heavy but manageable. "Same place. Stay near the fire. When I come in, I'll need space to work."

  The gnoll took the load without question, already turning back toward the entrance.

  Bran watched him go, then glanced at Mazoga.

  "Good people," she said quietly.

  Bran grunted.

  The supplies were unloaded. Time to work.

  Bran knelt beside the portable oven, adjusting the heat carefully. The bronze casing hummed faintly, its core battery steady and warm beneath his palm. The oven was larger than standard models—built with three tiered racks that could hold multiple loaves at once.

  Around him, the central hearth chamber had shifted. Not loud—never loud—but settled. The kind of quiet that came when people stopped watching threats and started watching work.

  He mixed hearthgrain and mashed ashroot in a wide stone bowl, adding water in measured portions. His hands moved without hesitation, kneading the dough with the same rhythm he'd used for decades. A pinch of ashsalt went in last.

  The dough responded beneath his fingers—alive, almost. Soft at first, then firmer as the grain absorbed the water. He could feel the balance settling, the way everything found its place when the proportions were right.

  Measure Twice, he thought distantly.

  The skill wasn't loud. It didn't announce itself. But everything he touched lasted longer than it should, worked better than it had to.

  He shaped the dough into rounds, each one identical in size and weight. Six loaves for this first batch. Enough to stretch across the hearth and into smaller hands. He arranged them on the oven's racks, spacing them carefully.

  Behind him, voices rose and fell—Marron and Kraggir at the low table, discussing ore veins and trade goods. Mazoga sat near the fire her posture relaxed but ready. Doc had drifted closer to the hearth, Fish still at his side, watching the gathering children with flat amber eyes. Tanna knelt beside Moss ear, feeding him sliced ashroot.

  Near the entrance, the tall gnoll from the ambush stood watch—arms crossed, copper eyes tracking every movement. Guard or leader, Bran couldn't tell. Either way, the man hadn't relaxed once.

  Calen hovered near the oven, watching Bran's hands with the kind of attention that reminded Bran of Fenn.

  "You need help?" Calen asked.

  "Stand there," Bran said. "Don't touch anything."

  Calen stepped back, looking almost relieved.

  Bran closed the oven door and adjusted the vents, letting the warmth circulate without scorching. The core battery hummed, holding steady.

  The scent hit first.

  Fresh bread—warm and filling. The scent rolled through the chamber, pulling attention toward the oven. Ygrana's voice carried softly across the chamber—not to Bran, but to someone near the tunnels. A quiet word. Permission. A moment later, footsteps echoed from the passages. Small ones.

  A young goblin appeared at Bran's elbow, shorter than Calen, with patched clothing and curious yellow eyes.

  "That smells good," the goblin said quietly.

  Bran glanced at her. "It'll taste better. Wait until it's done."

  She nodded, then settled onto the floor nearby, knees pulled to her chest.

  Another appeared. Then two more. Kobolds, goblins, a young gnoll with scarred shoulders. They didn't crowd—just drifted closer, pulled by the scent and the promise of warmth.

  Time passed. The bread baked, and the scent grew stronger. When Bran opened the oven door, all six loaves emerged golden-brown, edges crisp, steam rising in soft plumes. He set them on a stone slab to cool. By then, a small crowd had gathered.

  Mazoga caught his eye from across the chamber. She didn't smile, but her expression shifted—approval or something close to it.

  He set them in a row, letting them cool just enough.

  Ygrana approached from the left, her layered furs shifting softly. Bone charms clacked against her shoulders as she stopped beside Bran, studying the loaves with unreadable yellow eyes.

  "You didn't have to do this," she said.

  Bran tore the first loaf in half, steam curling upward. "Yes, I did."

  He handed her the larger piece.

  She took it, turning it over in her hands. Then she tore a smaller portion free and offered it to the nearest child—a goblin girl with wide eyes and thin wrists.

  The girl ate without hesitation.

  Ygrana watched her, then took a bite herself. Her eyes closed briefly. When they opened again, something in her posture had loosened.

  "Your people," she said quietly. "The woman with the rabbit. The boy with the nervous hands. The merchant with the sharp tongue. Who are they to you?"

  Bran tore another loaf, handing pieces to the waiting children. "Tanna knows beasts better than people. Calen's young, but he's steady when it matters. Marron's a talker, but he's honest when the coin's on the table."

  Ygrana nodded slowly. "And the others?"

  Bran knew who she meant.

  "Doc and Maz?"

  "Yes."

  He handed the last loaf to a young kobold, then wiped his hands on his tunic. "Maz hits hard. She's loud. But she's the first one standing when things go wrong. Won't let you fall if she can help it."

  "And the paladin?"

  Bran met her gaze. "Doc's not a paladin."

  Ygrana's eyes narrowed.

  "He saved us," Bran said simply. "All of us. More than once. He doesn't hurt things unless he has to. Doesn't care what you are. Just what you do."

  Ygrana studied him, quiet and unblinking.

  "We owe him our lives," Bran added. "That's not something you forget."

  She didn't answer right away. Then, slowly, she tore another piece of bread and offered it to Brikka, who'd appeared at her side.

  "Your bread is good," Ygrana said.

  Bran watched the children eat. "It's meant to be."

  Ygrana tore off another piece, chewing slowly. Her gaze drifted across the chamber—toward Marron and Kraggir still bent over their negotiations, toward the tall gnoll by the entrance, toward the strangers who'd brought impossible food into her home.

  "You came a long way to share bread with outcasts," she said quietly.

  Bran wiped flour from his hands. "Came to trade. Bread's just bread."

  "No." Ygrana's voice hardened slightly. "Bread like this—in winter, in the mountains—is never just bread."

  Bran didn't answer. Didn't need to.

  She was right, and they both knew it.

  Ygrana handed the rest of her piece to Sivvy, who'd crept closer. The boy took it with both hands, eyes wide.

  "Your settlement," she said. "How many mouths do you feed?"

  "Enough," Bran said.

  "And you have surplus?" Her tone sharpened. "Enough to trade?"

  Bran met her eyes. "We do."

  Ygrana studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, slow and deliberate.

  "Then we should talk," she said. "Properly."

  She turned, raising her voice across the chamber. "Kraggir. Rurran. The merchant."

  Marron looked up from his conversation. Kraggir's tail flicked once. The tall gnoll by the entrance straightened.

  Ygrana's bone charms clicked as she gestured toward the fire.

  "Council," she said simply. "Now."

  Bran stepped back as the leaders converged near the hearth. The first batch was done—bread baked, trust earned, foundation laid.

  The rest was theirs to build.

  He glanced at Calen, who still hovered near the oven.

  "Clean up," Bran said quietly. "Then help me prep the next batch. We've got more mouths to feed."

  Calen nodded, already gathering the empty bowls.

  Bran moved back to the oven, Calen at his side. They worked quietly—mixing, kneading, shaping. The rhythm was familiar, comforting.

  Near the benches, Mazoga sat with her posture relaxed but ready. Doc drifted closer to her, Fish at his heel. Tanna sat beside Moss-ear, fingers absently scratching the rabbit's ears.

  At the hearth, voices rose—measured, careful. Marron spoke first, gesturing toward the remaining supplies. Kraggir responded, his tone warm but sharp. Ygrana listened, staff planted between her feet. Rurran stood to the side, arms crossed, saying nothing but missing nothing.

  Negotiation. Real negotiation.

  Bran exhaled slowly, letting the warmth of the fire settle into his bones.

  Good people, Mazoga had said.

  She wasn't wrong.

  Out in the frozen forest, A gnoll scout, named Jorik, moved through the northern woods with practiced silence, his breath controlled and shallow. The snow helped—fresh powder muffled footfalls, and the wind covered what little noise remained.

  He'd been tracking the draugr signs for three hours now.

  Varrik's report had been accurate. Twenty sets of prints, circling northeast through the ridges. But the pattern bothered Jorik. Draugr didn't circle. They wandered. They hunted. They followed heat and movement until something died or they did.

  This felt different.

  Organized.

  Jorik crested a ridge and dropped low, scanning the valley below.

  His blood turned to ice.

  Not twenty draugr.

  A hundred. Maybe more.

  They filled the frozen ravine like a plague—shambling corpses with frost-blackened skin and glowing eyes. The cold radiated from them in visible waves, warping the air.

  And at the center stood something worse.

  Taller than the rest. Broader. Ice plating covered its shoulders and forearms in jagged armor. Its eyes burned brighter—steady, aware.

  A Greater Draugr.

  Jorik's hands trembled. He'd heard stories. Never seen one. Never wanted to.

  The horde moved with terrible coordination, shifting as the Greater's gaze swept across them.

  Jorik pressed himself flatter against the snow, willing his heartbeat to slow.

  Don't move. Don't breathe.

  The Greater's head turned.

  Directly toward him.

  Blue light locked onto Jorik's position.

  The horde surged.

  Jorik ran.

  Thanks for Reading!

  Chapter 63 Drop next tuesday!