Torven stepped through Way point's western gate, his party at his back. Three months underground in the Verdant Hollow dungeon had left him craving proper daylight and a bed that didn't smell like moss. The town hadn't changed—same wooden walls, same cluster of buildings huddled against the northern cold—but the traffic had thickened considerably since their last visit.

  "Students," Borin muttered beside him, his breath misting in the afternoon air. The dwarf's dark eyes swept the crowded street with practiced assessment. "Academy season. Should've remembered."

  Lyss appeared at Torven's other side, her gray ears flicking as she surveyed the market square. "Busy. Good for buyers, bad for beds."

  Kael said nothing, but his watchful gaze tracked the crowd with habitual caution.

  Torven nodded, adjusting the strap of his pack. Every inn would be packed with families bringing their children to Glasshold, merchants hauling supplies, and opportunists hoping to profit from the influx. They'd been lucky to secure the dungeon contract three months ago, but timing their return had proven less fortunate.

  "Lyss, find a buyer for the haul," Torven said. "Borin, with me. We'll check for lodging. Kael, stay with Lyss."

  The group split without discussion, each knowing their role.

  Torven and Borin moved through the afternoon crowds, passing merchants hawking winter supplies and families negotiating prices. The Frostway Inn stood near the market center, its painted sign depicting a snow-covered road. Torven pushed through the door, immediately greeted by warmth and the smell of cooking meat.

  The innkeeper—a weathered woman with graying hair—looked up from her ledger. Her expression turned apologetic before Torven could speak.

  "Full up," she said, not unkindly. "Academy rush. Won't have rooms available for another week at least."

  Torven nodded his thanks and retreated. Borin grunted as they stepped back into the cold.

  "Wayrest Lodge?" the dwarf suggested.

  "Worth trying."

  The smaller inn proved no different. Then the Copper Mug. By the fourth establishment, Torven's patience was wearing thin, he was about to suggest they try the general goods merchant when Lyss and Kael emerged from the market square. The foxkin's ears were flat against her skull—never a good sign.

  "No buyers," she said without preamble.

  Torven frowned. "How is that possible? The Verdant Hollow materials are—"

  "Too expensive." Lyss gestured sharply toward the market. "These frontier merchants deal in common goods and basic supplies. What we're carrying?" She pulled a wrapped bundle from her dimensional pack, revealing the shimmer of preserved moonpetal blooms. "This is worth more than most of them see in a season. They don't have that kind of coin on hand, and they're not about to extend credit to strangers."

  Torven absorbed this information, his tactical mind already working through implications. Valuable alchemical ingredients meant attention they didn't need—the wrong kind of attention. In a world where thieves and brigands had skills that literally pointed them toward valuable targets, carrying rare loot was like lighting a beacon. Anyone with Treasure Sense, Appraisal skills, or Mark Assessment abilities would flag them as worth robbing.

  Three months underground fighting dungeon flora had left his party exhausted. They could handle a fight if it came to that.

  Torven just didn't want it to come to that.

  "Any luck with lodging?" Lyss asked

  Borin shook his head before Torven could respond. "Every bed in town's spoken for. Academy season."

  Lyss's ears flattened further. "You're telling me we spent three months in that cursed dungeon, survived toxic spores and carnivorous vines, and now we're sleeping in the dirt?"

  "Looks that way," Borin said.

  Kael shifted his weight, his gray eyes scanning the street.

  Torven considered their options. They could push on toward Glasshold, but that was another day of travel, and his people needed rest more than they needed forward momentum. They could camp outside town, establish a defensive perimeter, and hope the cold weather discouraged casual thieves.

  It wasn't ideal, but it would work.

  "We find the guard post," Torven said. "Ask about camping grounds."

  Lyss made a disgusted sound but didn't argue. She knew when a decision had been made.

  They moved through the crowded streets back toward the western gate. Two guards stood watch, both wearing layered furs and carrying spears. One raised a hand as they approached.

  The guard's gaze swept over them—veteran adventurers, well-armed, tired. He'd seen this before.

  "Inns full?" he asked.

  "Every one," Torven confirmed.

  The guard nodded, unsurprised. "Camping ground's half a mile southwest, just inside the tree line. Flat clearing, established fire pits. Plenty of folks camp there when the inns are packed." He gestured toward the trees beyond the walls. "Fire's allowed, but keep it controlled."

  Torven nodded his thanks.

  The guard hesitated, then added, "Keep your valuables secured. We patrol, but can't be everywhere."

  "Understood," Torven said.

  The camping ground sat half a mile southwest of Waypoint, nestled in a clearing where wind-worn pines offered some shelter from the northern cold. Lyss surveyed the site, her vulpine ears swiveling as she catalogued sounds—distant voices from other camps, the creak of branches, the crunch of snow under Borin's boots.

  "This'll do," Torven said, dropping his pack. "Lyss, perimeter check. Kael, firewood. Borin, help me with the tents."

  Lyss nodded and circled the clearing, her Treasure Sense pulsing outward. Not searching for valuables this time—just mapping the area, noting potential approaches. Old habit. The skill whispered back nothing concerning. Just snow, stone, and sleeping travelers in distant camps.

  She returned to find Torven and Borin working on the first tent. The dwarf held the frame steady while Torven secured the canvas, movements smooth from years of repetition. Borin's Craft Assessment flared briefly as he examined a stress point in the wooden support.

  "Needs replacing soon," Borin grunted. "This one's cracked."

  "Add it to the list." Torven hammered in a stake. "After we sell the haul in Glasshold."

  Kael emerged from the treeline, arms full of deadfall. He dropped the wood near the fire pit and started arranging kindling. Lyss pulled flint and steel from her Dimensional Pack, tossing them to him.

  The second tent went up faster. Lyss helped Torven with the stakes while Borin set up a windbreak using their spare canvas.

  Fire caught with a soft whoosh. Warmth spread slowly through the clearing as Kael added larger branches. Lyss stood near the flames, letting heat sink into her gray fur.

  "Right then." Torven straightened, brushing snow from his knees. "Who's cooking tonight?"

  Lyss's tail flicked. Here it came.

  Borin produced a set of carved bone dice from his pouch. Standard protocol—lowest roll cooked. They'd been using the same dice for six years.

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  They huddled near the fire as Borin shook the bones. Torven rolled first. Five. Kael tossed without comment. Seven. Lyss made a show of blowing on the dice before rolling. Eight.

  Borin stared at the remaining dice in his hand, then rolled.

  Three.

  "Bloody—" The dwarf glared at the bones. "Weighted."

  "Your dice," Lyss pointed out, her ears perked forward in amusement.

  Borin harrumphed, beard bristling. "Fine. What've we got?"

  Lyss opened her Dimensional Pack, pulling items into the firelight. Dried venison, hardtack, a small sack of grain, root vegetables wrapped in canvas, and a tin of salt. Not much, but enough.

  "Could make a decent stew," Borin muttered, examining the venison. "If we had fresh herbs."

  "We don't," Torven said. "Make do."

  The dwarf grumbled but gathered the supplies, setting a battered pot over the fire. Lyss settled near the flames, watching Borin work. Say what you would about the dwarf—he knew his way around a camp pot.

  Kael sat cross-legged on his bedroll, cleaning his shortsword with methodical strokes. Torven checked their packs one more time, his Battlefield Awareness keeping him tuned to the camp's perimeter even at rest.

  The stew bubbled. Aroma drifted through the clearing—simple, but welcome after three months underground

  "Feels strange," Kael said quietly, sheathing his blade. "Being above ground again."

  "Aye." Borin stirred the pot. "Strange and cold."

  Torven leaned back against his pack. "We did good work down there. Level gains. Quality loot. No injuries." He glanced at each of them. "That's a successful run."

  Lyss's tail curled around her legs. Successful. Yes. And now they needed to sell their haul and figure out what came next.

  Kael stood abruptly. "I'm heading back to Waypoint. See what's new. We've been gone a while—might've missed something important”

  Torven's blue eyes fixed on him. "Don't cause trouble."

  "I won't." Kael's expression stayed neutral, but Lyss caught the faint smirk.

  The young human grabbed his cloak and disappeared into the darkness, footsteps fading toward town.

  Lyss stretched, letting the fire's warmth sink deeper. Stew. Rest. Then Glasshold tomorrow.

  Finally, she could relax.

  An hour passed in comfortable silence. The fire burned low, and Lyss's eyes had just started to drift closed when the sensation hit.

  Her ears swiveled before she consciously registered it. Something strong had just entered the camping ground. Not hostile—at least not immediately—but powerful enough that her instincts flagged it anyway.

  She straightened.

  Across the fire, Torven's hand drifted toward his sword. His blue eyes tracked the darkness beyond their camp's glow.

  Borin stopped stirring the stew. The dwarf's stance shifted—weight balanced, axe within reach. He didn't move otherwise, but Lyss saw the change in his posture.

  "You feel that?" Torven's voice stayed low.

  "Aye." Borin's gaze swept the tree line.

  Lyss stood, letting her Treasure Sense pulse outward. The skill responded immediately, pulling her attention northeast—toward the far side of the clearing where the main road entered the camping ground.

  Movement. Silhouettes against the pale snow.

  A wagon rolled into view, pulled by something massive. Not a horse. The shape was wrong—broader, with antlers that caught the moonlight. The beast's gait was smooth despite the wagon's size.

  Lyss's eyes narrowed. What in the hells is that thing?

  Then she saw the flag.

  Bright yellow. Unmistakable even in the dim light. A bird-like silhouette stitched in darker thread, round body and stubby wings.

  She blinked.

  "That's… new," Torven muttered.

  The wagon itself caught her attention next. Her Treasure Sense sharpened, tracing the structure. Quality materials. Reinforced joints. Something about the construction felt… different. The skill whispered back values—high-grade timber, enchanted metal bands, and something else layered beneath the surface that she couldn't quite identify.

  That wagon's worth more than it looks.

  The group surrounding it moved with practiced efficiency. Lyss pulled back from Treasure Sense and activated Identify, sweeping across the figures.

  A woman on foot—green-gray skin, tusked jaw, broad shoulders encased in hide armor. A warhammer rested across her back, its head pulsing faintly with blue-white light.

  Level 46.

  Lyss's ears flattened. That's… that's beyond master tier. The kind of level you don't see unless someone's survived the kind of things that kill most people.

  The driver came next—human male, middle-aged, well-groomed despite the road dust. Level 37. Master tier, but the merchant kind. Experienced enough to handle himself but not a front-line fighter.

  Beside him sat a beastkin woman with pale fur-trimmed ears and amber eyes. Level 35. Another master. A small creature perched on her shoulder—rabbit-sized, with faint violet patterns. Lyss's Treasure Sense flickered toward the bundle near the woman. Valuable. Magical. But the rabbit itself felt… strange. Off somehow.

  Movement in the wagon bed—two more figures. A younger human, maybe mid-teens, working with the kind of efficiency that came from long practice. Level 25. Lyss's ears twitched. For someone that age, that was remarkable. And beside him, an older human. Level 34. Master tier.

  Then her gaze landed on the figure walking beside the wagon.

  Armored. Dark plating with smooth, seamless joints—no visible buckles, no straps, just integrated construction that looked impossibly precise. The helmet covered their face entirely. At his sides hung weapons she couldn't quite identify—sleek, unfamiliar designs.

  Lyss activated Identify.

  Nothing.

  She blinked. Tried again.

  Still nothing.

  Not blocked. The skill couldn't find a target at all.

  Her ears flattened completely. That's not right. Identify always returns something.

  Beside the armored figure, a wolf moved—midnight-black fur with violet patterns that shimmered faintly in the firelight. The wolf's amber eyes locked onto Lyss for a single, unblinking moment.

  Then it turned away, padding after the armored figure without apparent concern.

  Lyss exhaled slowly.

  "Well?" Borin asked quietly.

  "Quality wagon," Lyss said, keeping her voice even. "Enchanted gear. And the orc leading them? Level forty-six."

  Torven's expression didn't change, but his posture shifted. "Forty-six."

  "The rest are masters. Mid to high thirties, except for one younger one at twenty-five." She hesitated. "And the armored figure… my Identify failed. Completely."

  "Failed?" Torven's gaze sharpened.

  "Not blocked. Failed. Like the skill couldn't find anything to read."

  Borin frowned, his stirring slowing. "Never heard of that."

  "Neither have I."

  Across the clearing, the group continued setting up camp. The orc scanned the perimeter with the kind of alertness that spoke to years of survival. The merchant secured the massive antlered beast. The beastkin woman and the two human men moved supplies with quiet coordination.

  And the armored figure stood near the tree line for a moment, hand resting near that strange weapon, before turning back toward the camp.

  "Strange group," Torven murmured.

  "Very," Borin agreed. "But not hostile."

  Lyss's ears flicked forward. "A level forty-six, a crew of masters, quality enchanted gear, and something my skill can't even touch?" She sat back down, her gaze still tracking the distant camp. "That's not a normal merchant caravan."

  Torven's hand left his sword, though his posture stayed alert. "No. It's not."

  The strange group's fire started. Then came the bronze oven—gleaming, completely out of place—and it began to hum with some kind of magic Lyss couldn't identify.

  And above it all, the yellow flag fluttered in the cold wind.

  Lyss shook her head.

  Torven sat near the fire, his watch shift settling into the familiar rhythm of vigilance. Borin had turned in an hour ago, and Lyss dozed lightly in her tent—the kind of sleep that could snap to full alertness in seconds. The camp beyond theirs had quieted, though movement still flickered near the bronze oven's glow.

  Someone approached from the direction of Waypoint.

  Kael emerged from the darkness, his stride silent despite the snow. The young man dropped into a crouch near the fire without being invited, his gray eyes reflecting the flames.

  "Long walk," Torven said.

  "Worth it." Kael pulled his cloak tighter. "Got news."

  Torven waited.

  "Imperial group passed through earlier in the week. Full escort—knights, the works. Carrying the High King's daughter to the Academy."

  Torven's eyebrows rose slightly. "Which one?"

  "Fifth daughter." Kael shrugged. "Guard at the gate said she's being enrolled for the season. Whole convoy moved through without stopping."

  "Political theater," Torven muttered. That explained the increased traffic. Academy season always brought students, but royalty brought scrutiny. "Anything else?"

  "Brigands." Kael's expression flattened. "More than usual. Road patrols are thin—military's busy dealing with draugr infestations west of here. Guards said three merchant caravans got hit in the last two weeks."

  Torven's jaw tightened. Brigands and undead. Perfect.

  "Gate captain's advising armed escorts only," Kael continued. "Solo travelers aren't making it through."

  Torven nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the distant camp with the yellow flag. "You see that group come in?"

  Kael followed his line of sight. "Yeah. I was near the gate when they arrived."

  "And?"

  "Spoke to the guard briefly. Merchant caravan heading to Glasshold for trade." Kael paused. "Guard didn't ask many questions. Just waved them through."

  Torven turned back to him. "What do you think?"

  Kael had spent his youth running with brigands before Torven gave him a second chance. The man knew how to read people—especially the dangerous ones.

  Kael studied the distant camp for a long moment. "Good group," he said finally. "Disciplined. The orc's the leader—probably. Rest of them move like they've been working together a while." He tilted his head. "And they didn't flinch when the gate guard checked their wagon."

  "Lyss said the orc's level forty-six."

  Kael's eyebrows lifted. "That's beyond master tier."

  "It is."

  "Then they're more than merchants." Kael's gaze sharpened. "But they're not hostile. And with a group that strong, brigands won't touch them."

  Torven considered that. A powerful deterrent. If the road's as bad as Kael says, traveling alone is suicide. But if we grouped up with them…

  "I'll talk to the orc tomorrow," Torven said. "See if they're open to traveling together."

  Kael nodded. "Worth a shot. Worst they can do is say no."

  "And if they do?"

  "We take the long route. Add three days, avoid the main roads." Kael's expression didn't change. "Better slow than dead."

  Torven grunted. True enough.

  Kael rose, brushing snow from his cloak. "I'm turning in. Wake me for third watch."

  "Will do."

  The younger man disappeared into his tent, leaving Torven alone again with the fire and the distant hum of the bronze oven.

  He stared at the yellow flag for a while longer, the bird silhouette barely visible in the firelight.

  A level forty-six orc. A merchant who moved like he'd seen his share of fights. A beast tamer with something strange perched on her shoulder. And an armored figure Lyss's skill couldn't even touch.

  Where does a group like that even come from?

  The fire crackled. The wind shifted. And overhead, the northern stars burned cold and indifferent against the endless black sky.

  Torven exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the frozen air.

  Tomorrow, then.

  He'd find out.

  Thanks for Reading!!

  Chapter 80 drops friday!