The Watchtower had become a different beast entirely. Hauling lumber was one thing, but rocks? Rocks were heavy bastards—even for Sludge.

  The Barston crew had started construction on a mizzling morning. Rain spattered and wisped like gnats above water, though a sapping heat still clung to the air.

  Lox and Sammy had taken point on the rock haulage. A small quarry just beyond the north stand had been their point of extraction, and so Sludge and the rest of the crew broke their backs with picks and an endless dink, dink of metal on rock.

  It had taken them a good two days before they'd mounted any kind of substantial pile of boulderage, and Sludge had found itself intrigued as to how different shapes and chunks would split off in the heave. Some were fat and hefty, others were thinner and cylindrical.

  As the Barston crew would pick up their rocks for hauling, they would smile and nod at Sludge and say things like, “rubble” or “ashlar” or “load-bearing.”

  Sludge had grown fond of the way that different sounds felt in the meat of its lumberjack ears, and by the third day of splitting stone, it found itself picking up random objects around the camp, holding them like a proud painter looking for perspective in a portrait.

  “That's a bit,” Tub nodded one evening by the fire. “Hammer it into walls and twist it with a drill.”

  “Bit… twist with a drill,” Sludge repeated. Tub just scrunched his nose with a smile.

  The Barston folk were patient with Sludge. Never casting any judgement or assumption. Every day's work in the blistering heat would mean an evening at the Sunny Buckle in return—tall tankard of ale, thick heel of bread, nice chunky spread of sweet pickle.

  It was good living. And by the time the Watchtower had been halfway erected, Sludge felt the warm hum in its gut as nothing but content. Whole. Full—like a peg in the right slot.

  That cold slither had slinked so deep into the depths of its ooze that Sludge wondered if it would ever hear its icy whisper again. Perhaps it was gone for good? Left behind in the frozen throne tomb at Skaggad.

  As it stared up at the side of the tower, Agnes and Esme dangling on ropes from the lintel, Sludge blinked, and the same, familiar words came scrawling across the strange ledger in its vision.

  [Soul Fragment charged. Equip?]

  “Not,” said Sludge out loud. “Equip.”

  It shook its head absently, as the girls glanced quizzically at it from above.

  Sludge was uneasy—that same familiar scratchy fright. Granted, the cold pang in its gut had thawed somewhat, given the heat and the graft and the cheer of the Barston folk.

  Still. Sludge didn't want to give it any excuse to peel back its icy claws and ball them like a fist.

  The crew worked through most of the day into the quiet evening, the warm, orange sun resting like a yolk over the distant ridgeline—out toward Dunden and Skaggad and god knows what beyond.

  It didn't take them too long to put the finishing touches on the watchtower. The previous footings and foundations were strong enough, it just needed some smart stacking and sweat.

  The last stone fit into place before dark, and those same strange etchings filtered into Sludge's vision.

  [Construction Complete! Watch-Post (Tier I)]

  [+Sight Range Increased

  +Early Warning Increased

  +Minor Morale Boost]

  [Development Slots: 3/6 Occupied

  Available Slots: 3]

  [Complete additional Tier I construction to unlock Tier II development structures]

  “Well—ain’t that fortuitous timing,” called Esme from above, dangling off the edge of the wooden parapet like some swashbuckling smuggler.

  “Rider out from the marsh. Big, dark, looks to be on his own.”

  She was right. Peeling out from the distance, a small dot at first, and then—clearly—a large, black rider, donned in a long black robe, its hood up like some reaper out from the mire.

  It made its approach after a few minutes. Sludge and the Barston crew stood in formation at the base of the tower, axes slung across shoulders in typical felling fashion. Tub puffed his chest out like some bogfish. Agnes audibly munched on an apple with her free hand.

  “Don't shoot—” said the rider, hands held aloft in a playful jest.

  “—just me, your lord and saviour.”

  The figure jumped from the horse; a jet black steed with a heavy iron breastplate and martingale.

  Halbrecht. Lord of Dunden. Commander of the Southern March Banner. Sludge could not forget that face. Elder where it shouldn't be. White-grey hair like soft snow in rain. The red crackle of his ornate armour held a glow like a freshly raked forge.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Nice to see you've been busy,” he said, nodding to Sludge and then the tower. “Fun, isn't it? I spent my first few days building up a cute little fort. Took some chuds from Gronk less than an hour to burn it down and slaughter all my mobs. Never built it with them, though.”

  He scratched at the thin wisps of his beard.

  “You do know there's an overview menu for it, right? You just set them to build and they do it. Farm all the resources on auto.”

  Sludge looked at him absently—raised an eyebrow.

  “We build,” the lumberjack said. “Together.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, yes,” Halbrecht replied. “The roleplay. I get it. That's why I'm here. My chats been blowing up since you claimed the loot. Put me on blast for giving out such a shitty quest reward too. Bogheart was like my first fragment. Never bothered leveling it.”

  Sludge felt that same familiar warmth glowing from its ribcage, through the folds of its chest muscles, up through its jaw and the corner of a smile.

  Halbrecht frowned playfully as he paced up the ridge just a few feet away from the Barston folk, each of them stood to attention. Sludge hadn't noticed at first, but they'd barely moved a muscle since the Lord of Dunden had dismounted. Their eyes were locked on him, almost as if awaiting some command.

  “Jesus,” brayed Halbrecht as he stepped toward Tub, “what have they been feeding this one? Don't usually see NPC’s with a frame this… big.”

  And then, quick as a flash, red crackle skittering over the iron-etched dragon of his left pauldron, Halbrecht unsheathed a long, blood-red blade.

  “OH—of course!” He yelled aloud, blade arcing through the air and landing just short of the crease of Tub’s neck with a soft huff.

  “It's all the pigs!”

  Tub pissed himself. A wet, squelching sound followed as he shat himself, too.

  He quivered where he stood, knees shaking and knocking, though the rest of the Barston folk didn't move a muscle.

  “I'd forgotten about the hogmeat around here. Ha! Of course. Been eating well, haven't you?”

  Halbrecht tapped the boy's neck with the flat of his blade.

  Sludge could feel the cold twisting inside it.

  That bastard certainly wasn’t gone. It had never left. Clinging to the ceiling like some nightmare ghoul in the quiet space between sleep.

  On cue, the same, cold mechanism stirred. Lumberjack biceps and forearms tensed. Its shoulder slung forward reflexively, the trappers axe loose and pliable in its grip, the haft lunging upward and pointing dead ahead.

  “Woah, don't worry my guy,” Halbrecht continued as he stepped backwards, blade sliding down with him. “Not going to kill your mobs dude. Chat wants me to do some roleplaying with you. Maybe even stay with you for a bit. All the ganking up North is getting a bit dead—content wise."

  "We’re cooked either way so may as well do some gold old fashioned memeing before we all die.”

  The Lord of Dunden slipped his blade back into its sheath—stepped forward—and patted Tub awkwardly on the shoulder.

  “It's all good, big guy,” he said like a farmer harrying a timid swine. “Not going to kill you, guys. It's all good. We're good. I'm sorry.”

  Halbrecht stared off into the night sky for a moment as if he were answering some cosmic conversation that no one but him could hear.

  Tub wept for a phlegmy second, then snorted— then blew snot from his nose as he half-choked.

  “Th-th-thank you, my lord. Thank you. A thousand thanks to you.”

  “No. No kill,” said Sludge—nostrils flared and axe firm.

  Halbrecht shook his head; half dizzy, half distracted. “Yeah, yeah. No kill. We're all good. Chat were spamming me to kill the kid but we're good. The RP poll won.”

  “So,” continued Halbrecht with a smile. His full attention on Sludge as quick as the blade had left his sheath only moments ago. “Let's do some roleplaying, dude. But first, we've gotta get you geared up. You haven't even got the shard equipped—you’re meant to have that goofy aura thing.”

  “And,” he said—glancing down at the axe, then across Sludge’s chest, “you're still wearing grey stuff. How the fuck did you solo Skaggad in starter gear?”

  “Friends,” said Sludge in earnest.

  Halbrecht huffed a “huh,” puffed his chest, then let out a bemused laugh. “Well, ok then, I guess.”

  The Barston folk had huddled together as the two of them conversed. Well, if you could call it a conversation, given Sludge’s sincere incredulity.

  Teln held Tub with an extended arm. Close enough to comfort, but far enough to waylay the stench. Esme and Agnes clutched each other's hands. The men stood in a clump—axes firm in their grip. Eyes set and forward, never speaking, though it was difficult to decipher whether it was from fear or repugnance.

  “OH!” Chimed Halbrecht. “I know what we can do! But first we need to get you wearing the fragment. We could do it cere… ceremonious…ly. Ceremoniously. You've gotta equip the Bogheart fragment, but you could do it like a knight. Like a knight of the realm!”

  “Yes!” He yelled out loud, glancing off into the distance. “Chat loves it! They want me to knight you, dude. Here—”

  Halbrecht unsheathed his long, red blade once more. Dark runes skittered along its edge. It's pommel forged from a single, winding alloy of obsidian and a glittering red mineral.

  The Barston folk stepped backwards. Sludge flared—thick chords of muscle tensing in its chest and biceps. “No!” It boomed. “No kill.”

  The cold ripped again—skittering rime along its veins, frost forming in the pit of its chest.

  Seethe, it hissed.

  Strangely, though, the warmth answered too. The heat of a glowing hearth mustering alongside it. Saying nothing, just watching. Holding time—measuring space.

  “Nonono,” said Halbrecht, shaking his head and free hand. “I'm not going to kill you, dude. I'm not going to kill anyone here. I'm going to knight you. It will be so flipping hilarious.”

  “Look,” he continued—dropping to one knee.

  “You bow like this. Then I tap my blade on your head and shoulders and say some words. Then you can equip the Bogheart. It will love that. Chat will love that too.”

  Halbrecht stood up then motioned for the lumberjack to do the same. “Come on. What did admin say your screen name was? Sludge? Pretty cool to be fair.”

  “Sludge?” Whispered Sammy from behind.

  “Thought his name was Axe. Sludge? Hmph. Sounds exotic.”

  Despite its better judgement, Sludge could feel the warmth spreading down from its ribcage, into its hips, and thighs, and calves, and—before it knew it—it was bent beneath the tower on one knee.

  Halbrecht grinned like a smug cat. He held his blade aloft to the knight sky, then slowly brought it down, the flat on the steel hovering above Sludge's head.

  Then—he tapped it to the right shoulder.

  “Sludge,” he began. “Do you swear before the eyes of gods, and chat, and… probably Monolith, to defend these guys—your mobs, and those that cannot fight themselves, to protect all women, and children especially, from the endless horrors that this hellscape has belched forth?”

  Sludge felt the warmth spreading. “Yes,” it confirmed without a second thought.

  The blade passed over it again—to the left.

  “Do you swear to defend these lands of Dunden, and… I should probably include Monthia in that too, but who gives a shit. To defend this kingdom, and to honour and obey any command of duty, of goodness, of real knightly deeds, that is given to you by your legendary liege—me; Halbrecht69; Lord of Dunden, and Commander of the Southern March Banner?”

  “Yes,” confirmed Sludge. “I do.”

  Halbrecht smiled.

  “Then—arise, Ser Sludge!”

  It felt the ledger flick and skitter over its vision again, though this time, the warmth had seeped into it in a soft, golden glow.

  [Soul Fragment Equipped (2/2): Bogheart, the Old Flame]

  [Passive Effect: Chivalric Code (Rank 1)]

  [New Condition Unlocked: The good, the weak, and the innocent, are compelled to find courage when in your presence. Allies are enhanced, bolstered and inspired, and will fight for you until their last breath.]