The pulse of the communication crystal yanks me from the first real sleep I've had in days. It's 3 AM. My hand is on the hilt of my shadow-steel sword before I'm even fully conscious, the old, familiar dread tightening my chest.
"Commander, incoming caravan from the eastern territories," the night watch reports, his voice tight over the crystal. "They're carrying marked children. One of them is... different."
Different. In our world, "different" is a heavy word. It can mean anything from "unusually high integration" to "actively transforming." Neither one makes for a good 3 AM wake-up call.
"I'm on my way," I say, my voice rough with sleep. I'm already pulling on a tactical tunic. "Alert Miren. Prep the medical ward. And get Kaela."
"Already here."
Kaela is in my doorway, of course she is. She's already dressed, armed, and pulling her hair back. She heard the alert the same time I did. "What's the situation?"
"Unknown," I say, strapping my own blade on. "But if the watch used the word 'different,' it's not standard."
We move through the quiet, moonlit streets of Verdwood. The fortress-city never truly sleeps—the hum of the wards is a constant, low thrum, and the guard towers are always manned—but the deep night has a stillness that makes our boots on the stone sound too loud.
The main gate is already grinding open as we arrive. Three wagons, eight exhausted-looking fighters. But my eyes lock on the lead wagon. It's not the guards that matter. It's the girl.
She's sitting up, wrapped in blankets, and her eyes catch the torchlight and glow. A deep, unmistakable, feline amber.
Beastkin. A convergence-marked Beastkin.
"Commander Ren," the caravan leader—a grizzled scout named Marcus I recognize from an eastern outpost—says with a sigh of pure relief. "Thank the stars. We've been on the move for six days. Minimal stops. Couldn't risk it."
"Report," I say, approaching the wagon. I keep my shadow-sense extended. No corruption. No hostiles. Just... tension.
"Three kids total," Marcus says, gesturing. "Two human boys, eight and ten. Standard early-stage, maybe 35-40%. Stable. They'll need you."
"And her?" I nod toward the girl. She's watching me, unblinking, her posture a mix of predator and prey.
"Kerra Swiftclaw," Marcus says, lowering his voice. "Fifteen. Felkin variant—leopard bloodline. Integration... well, we couldn't get a solid read. It's somewhere between 75% and 85%, but it's not like the human charts. It's... it's amplifying her feral instincts."
Seventy-five percent. That's dangerously high for someone with no formal training.
"How long?" I ask, stepping closer. Kerra tenses, her hand drifting to a knife at her belt.
"Eight months," Marcus says. "Her clan tried to handle it. Beastkin have their own traditions. But when she topped 70%, they knew they were out of their depth. They contacted the network."
"Why bring her all the way here?" Kaela asks, coming up beside me. "Six days is a huge risk. Riverholt or Clearbrook are closer."
"They refused her," Marcus says bluntly. "Said they weren't equipped to handle a high-integration Beastkin. Brookhaven was willing, but... they don't have anyone with your kind of experience. You do."
He means Elara. Because we have Elara, our own 92% high-integration case, Verdwood has become the de facto center for the "difficult" ones. The ones no one else will take. It's a reputation I'm not sure I want.
"I'm not going to hurt anyone," Kerra says suddenly. Her voice is a low, rough purr, slightly raspy. "I can control it. Mostly."
"Mostly isn't good enough," I say, but I keep my voice gentle. "But that's why you're here. To make it always."
I hold out my hand, palm up, open, non-threatening. Beastkin, especially predator-lines, read body language better than words.
Kerra's amber eyes assess me for a long, silent moment. I can practically feel her weighing my threat level. Then, slowly, she reaches out and takes my hand. Her skin is warmer than a human's, and I can feel the faint, vibrating tremor of controlled strength.
"I'm Ren," I say. "Welcome to Verdwood. We'll get you evaluated, fed, and quartered. Tomorrow, we'll see what we're dealing with."
"I heard about you," she says, not letting go. "The First Anchor. The kid who killed a Void Knight."
"I'm also the kid who's exhausted and would like to get everyone inside before the sun comes up," I reply, gently pulling my hand back. "Can you walk?"
"I can walk." She stands, and... wow. She moves with a fluid, terrifying grace, her blanket falling away. Her convergence marks aren't the dark veins we're used to. They're dark spots and rosettes, mimicking her leopard markings, pulsing faintly on her arms and neck. "But I'm hungry," she adds. "Really hungry."
"Beastkin metabolism," Marcus mutters. "Combined with the curse... she burns fuel at an insane rate. We can't keep her fed."
"Dining hall's night staff is on duty," Kaela says, already adjusting logistics in her head. "I'll arrange for... extra portions. Ren, you handle intake?"
"Yeah. Miren's meeting us."
The two boys are easy. They're just scared, tired kids. Miren evaluates them with her usual, practiced efficiency, and they're settled in the trainee quarters within the hour.
Kerra is more complicated.
"Her marks are integrated with her Beastkin physiology," Miren explains an hour later, frowning at her diagnostic crystal. "In humans, the curse fights the soul. In her... it seems to be amplifying her animal traits. Enhanced strength, reflexes, senses... all way beyond normal Beastkin ranges. But... so is her aggression. Her predatory drive."
"So she's fighting the curse and her own feral instincts," I summarize.
"Exactly," Miren says. "Which makes her a total unknown."
"Can we train her?" Kaela asks, blunt as always. "Or is this beyond what we can safely handle?"
Miren hesitates. That's never good. "I... I think so. But not with our standard protocols. She'll need... a whole new curriculum. Something... adapted for her. For the predator."
"Sounds like a research project," I mutter, rubbing my temples. Another plate to spin.
"It's necessary research," Miren points out. "The cult recruits from all races. We need to, too."
"Alright," I say. "Full eval tonight. Rest. Tomorrow, we start slow. See how she responds to basic resonance. If it doesn't work, we... we develop something new."
"I can hear you, you know," Kerra's raspy voice cuts in from the examination table. She'd been pretending not to listen. "Discussing me like I'm a... a research specimen. You could just... ask me."
Fair point. I turn to her. "Okay. How does the curse feel different from... you?"
She blinks, surprised. "It's... colder. My... my leopard instincts... they're warm. They're fast. They're me. The curse... it's like... ice in my veins. When it gets high, the cold... it tries to freeze everything. My instincts, my thoughts... It wants to... to consume the leopard... and just leave it, wearing my skin."
That's... remarkably articulate. "How do you fight it?"
Kerra hesitates. "I don't. Not... not really. Fighting it makes it stronger. I..." She searches for the word. "I hunt it? When... when it tries to take over, when I feel the ice... I don't... I don't block it. I... I use it. I let the leopard... pounce... on the feeling. I use my predator instincts against the curse."
Miren and I exchange a look. That's not a technique in any of our manuals. But it's brilliant.
"Show me," I say.
"Now?"
"Now."
She slides off the table. She stands in the middle of the room, closes her eyes. Her marks glow, the dark rosettes pulsing. Shadows gather around her, but they're not like my shadows. Mine are tools. Hers... they move like living, breathing things.
She drops into a crouch, perfect balance, every muscle coiled.
Then she moves.
It's an explosion. A blur. She strikes at the empty air, her hands ending in claws of solid shadow, leaving violet trails in the air. It's pure predator, enhanced by the curse, but directed by her.
"That's how I hunt it," she says, straightening, not even breathing hard.
"That's... that's Stage 2 integration," Miren says, her voice awed. "The redirective techniques. She's... she's self-taught."
"Adapt or transform," Kerra says with a shrug. "Those were my options."
"Have you tried resonance?" I ask. "Connecting with another marked?"
"No. I'm the first in my clan in three generations."
I hold out my hand again, but this time, I let my own marks flare, my shadow pooling at my feet. "Try now. Let them touch."
She hesitates, then places her palm against mine.
The resonance is a jolt. Her energy is cold, sharp, and predatory. It doesn't just meet mine; it... it sizes it up. It clashes with the cold, deep, abyssal-depth of my own curse. For a second, it's dissonance. Then, it... it harmonizes. And I can feel her. 82%. Stable, but held by sheer, white-knuckled will.
"Your curse," she says, her eyes wide. "It's... it's different. It's... it's colder than mine. But... it's warmer, too? How?"
"Years of training," I say. "And a network. You've been fighting alone. We'll teach you to fight together."
By the time we finish, the sun is rising. I walk out of the medical wing, rubbing the grit from my eyes. Sleep is a lost cause.
"That's going to require a lot of new protocols," Kaela says, falling into step beside me. "Another demand on resources we don't have."
"I know," I say. "But Miren's right. And Kerra's... she's impressive. If we can formalize what she's doing, we might be able to help others."
The training yards are already active. I see Torren, his new leg moving smoothly, leading the younger kids in shadow-manipulation drills. I see Elara, her own 92% integration stable for now, guiding the older teens in resonance practice. Twenty-six marked children, all in one place. All of them... my responsibility.
"Commander!" Torren waves, a real, unguarded smile on his face. "Come see! Mika... he finally held a solid construct! Ten seconds!"
I walk over, and for a moment, the commander, the anchor... it all fades. I'm just Ren, the teacher. "Show me, Mika," I say, crouching.
The little eight-year-old scrunches his face, and a wobbly, vaguely person-shaped shadow rises from the ground. It holds. One. Two. Three... it wavers, but it holds.
"That's excellent," I say, ruffling his hair. "That's real progress."
"You're good at this," Kaela says quietly, from behind me. "The... the teaching part. Lysara... she... she noticed it, too."
The name just... hangs in the morning air. A sudden, cold weight.
"Lysara was better at the theory," I say, my voice tight. "I just... I translate it."
"That's the hard part, though," Kaela says softly, her eyes distant. "The theory... it's just notes. You... you make it real."
I'm about to answer, to say something, anything, to break the sudden, heavy grief... when a new voice cuts in.
"Adequate construction."
I turn. Standing at the edge of the yard is a... a dwarf. A Stoneblooded dwarf, four and a half feet tall, with a magnificent, braided, gray-steel beard. He's wearing a craftsman's apron over practical, travel-worn clothes. He's... he's scowling at our new wall.
"Decent void-dampening integration," he mutters, running a hand over the stone. "But the welds on that eastern gate reinforcement are sloppy. Functional, I suppose. But sloppy."
"Can I help you?" I ask.
The dwarf turns, fixing me with eyes that look like old, polished stone. "You're the Commander," he states. Not a question. "The boy who's been buying up all the high-grade void-dampening ingots at premium."
"I'm Ren," I say. "And yes, your people's craftwork has saved a lot of lives."
"Of course it has. We make quality goods." He extends a massive, calloused hand. "Thorne Ironheart. Master Artificer. I've heard... interesting rumors about this place."
"What kind of rumors?"
"Rumors," he says, his gaze flicking to my shadow-steel sword, "about a boy who actually understands proper weapon maintenance. Rumors about shadow-steel forging techniques that... shouldn't be possible. For you. I came to see if they were true."
"And?"
"Your wall is adequate," he grunts. "And... I'd like to see your forge."
"Why," Kaela asks, stepping up, her hand near her hilt, "does a Stoneblooded Master Artificer care about a human forge?"
"Because talent is rare," Thorne says bluntly. "And because the Eclipse Covenant is bad for business. They destabilize trade. They corrupt resource nodes. They make it... difficult... for an honest craftsman to operate. I'd prefer they stop existing."
I almost laugh. "That's... a remarkably practical motivation."
"I'm a dwarf. We're practical." He looks around the yard, at the kids, at the walls. "You're building something real here, boy. I could help. Make it... better. For... appropriate compensation, of course."
"What kind of help?"
"Improved equipment. Real fortifications, not this... passable... stonework. Training. For... for those with aptitude." He eyes my sword again. "And perhaps... teaching your young commander how to properly craft, instead of whatever... self-taught fumbling... he's been doing."
He... he wants to teach me?
"What's the compensation?" I ask, my mind racing. A Master Artificer... the... the advantage...
"Room. Board. A proper forge. And... access. To... to your materials." His eyes gleam with a strange light. "The... the 'void-touched' metal. The... the shards... from those... constructs. Fascinating... from a... a metallurgical perspective."
He wants to experiment with void-corrupted metal.
I look at Kaela. She gives me a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Worth the risk.
"Alright," I say. "Trial period. Three months. We give you a forge. Materials. You... you help us improve. We... we reassess after that."
"Acceptable," Thorne grunts. He looks at me, and a flicker of something... almost a smile... touches his beard. "Training starts tomorrow morning, boy. Zero-five-hundred. Hope you're prepared to actually learn."
I nod, not entirely sure what I've just agreed to.
A new high-integration Beastkin. Two new human kids. And now... a grumpy, centuries-old dwarf weapons-master.
The network is getting more complex, more... strange... every single day.
But... it's also getting stronger.