Clan Dalkurharn’s presence sat across the road like a stone in the throat of the morning, the embassy quiet, its walls stiff with carved symbols of stone, water, and grove. Their banners hung still, but the air around them was tense, swollen with resistance before the first confrontation had even begun. They hadn’t liked the foreign district when it was still blueprints on parchment.

Now that it stood? They hated it.

My ears angled back at the embassy as we passed. Not in fear, no such thing lived in me anymore but in irritation, the kind of slow-burning, territorial disgust I got whenever something dared to occupy my master’s air. Clan Dalkurharn believed themselves ancient, rooted in old magic and old law. To them, Mire Point was a temporary stain. A blemish. A swamp settlement built by goblins whom they believed long extinct, yet they saw Master as an ally.

But Mire was alive. Growing. Changing. And this new district, foreign or not, was a sign of power they couldn’t ignore. My master’s power. I moved closer to his side, tail slipping behind his back and looping gently around his wrist like silk rope. My steps matched his as we crossed the final stretch of cobblestone toward the Marshal’s new chambers.

Pontune’s new home. A foreign woman, set over a foreign district, in a kingdom that hated foreigners more than it hated its own history. I couldn’t help but smile, sharp, crooked, entirely too pleased at the contradiction she now embodied.

A Pure Class Alderian, red-eyed and polished like a jewel of Redstone’s noble caste… living in a district built for non-citizens, traders, wanderers, and breeds the old laws didn’t even acknowledge.

It was poetic. Cruel. Beautiful. Exactly the kind of punishment she deserved for her little steel-record betrayal. We approached the Marshal’s estate, smaller than Castle Veil but still carved with stone authority. Fresh mortar lined the archway. Workers stepped aside the moment they saw us coming, bowing to my master and staring at me with that mixture of awe and apprehension usually reserved for bombs and holy icons.

My claws tapped against the stone as we entered, the sound sharp, deliberate. A reminder. A warning. A promise.

Pontune was seated at her desk inside the main hall, her posture perfect, her Pure-Class poise unbroken despite the newness of her surroundings. The early sunlight caught in her dyed red eyes, the mark of her birth, of her clan, of a lineage that once looked down on this entire town.

She looked up as we entered. Not startled. Not afraid. But uncomfortable. She knew she owed my master her life. She knew she owed him her position. She knew she owed him everything. Good.

I drifted a pace ahead of him, tail swaying slow and lazy behind me, watching her with that unblinking stare that made nobles squirm and goblins worship. My master’s shadow fell beside mine on the polished stone, blending together on the floor like they always did.

“Marshal Pontune,” I purred softly, voice carrying that edge of manic sweetness.
“You’re settling in.”

She stiffened. “It is… adequate.”

Her eyes flicked to my master. Not to mine. They never held mine long. And she bowed her head, slow, respect tinged with a kind of confusion that clung to every word she spoke.

“My lord. The district is functional. Clan Dalkurharn expressed their… concerns.” A pause. “Several times.”

My tail curled sharper, ears tilting back with predatory amusement. Dalkurharn resistance. Of course. They saw themselves as a spiritual noble house, ancient, immovable, carved from mountains and old rites. The idea that a Pure Class Alderian of Clan Redstone was now a foreign-liaison Marshal living beside their embassy?

It must have tasted like poison to them. My master stood calm, unreadable, a walking blade wrapped in a cloak. He didn’t have to say anything yet. His presence alone filled the room, heavy and iron-bound.

Pontune swallowed. “You asked for a report,” she said quietly. “Clan Dalkurharn believes this district undermines the cultural purity laws. They see the rise of goblin governance here as… an affront.”

Her gaze flicked toward the window, toward the embassy hidden beyond the trees. “They claim goblins are extinct.” A soft, sharp laugh slipped from my throat, involuntary and cruel. Not loud. Not mocking. Just a jagged whisper of amusement.

“They’re extinct,” I echoed, stepping closer, claws tapping lightly on the stone floor.
“And yet they’re everywhere.”

Goblins extinct? Hardly. They crawled out from under every broken law, every closed door, every so-called “purge” that just pushed the cleverest further underground. Feudalism here was a joke with too many punchlines, one king’s corpse on another’s throne, a million little tyrants vying for the same inch of mud. And yet, my master, the only constant, moved through it all like a shadow that refused to be cast aside.

He spoke, the words rolling out like the slow drag of smoke, dry and edged with the old, familiar irony. “It’s funny. Clan Dalkurharn, the proud isolationists, now holding court in my town. Weren’t they the first to bleed with us at Maw Tower, when that bandit scum tried to play at kings? Now they want a seat at the table. I suppose that’s how history gets made, one strange bedfellow at a time. We don’t bother them, they won’t bother us. Or so the story goes.”

Pontune’s lips twitched, the smallest ghost of a smile, like she could almost appreciate the dark joke. She stepped forward, crisp as ever, voice clipped but tired, eyes haunted by the burden of too many secrets. “They’ve requested an audience with you, Lord Protector. Formally, through the embassy. They seem eager, or desperate, or both.”

I could taste her unease. The way she said “requested” as if it might turn into “demanded” if anyone blinked too slow. My claws flexed against the edge of my cloak, a silent threat to any who’d try to claim my master’s time, or his attention.

He shot her a look, one brow arched, mouth pulling into that flat line that said he’d seen it all before. “And yet, you’re the marshal here. My foreign district, your rules. Funny how I’m still the one with my name on the door when trouble comes knocking. Very well. If they want a conversation, they’ll get one. I do so enjoy being a curiosity for their collection.”

His voice was a blade, slicing through her pretence of authority. She didn’t flinch, not exactly, but the moment hung in the air, her status, her pride, all just so much glass under his boot. That’s how it always went: a million heads stacked one after another, each believing they’d be the last. But my master, he just kept walking, never looking back, always dragging the world with him.

I pressed closer, my body half-wrapped around his arm, tail twitching with every step. My gaze flicked to Pontune, daring her to try and keep up, to pretend she was anything but a pawn playing marshal for someone else’s game. “Careful, Marshal,” I purred, voice low, velvet edged with claws. “Not every request is a courtesy. Some doors, once opened, never close again.”

She ignored me, the way she always did when she thought herself above it all. But I saw the tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers curled around the papers she carried, the nerves she tried to hide. It was almost cute, if you liked watching nobles drown in their own pride.

The embassy loomed ahead, Dalkurharn banners fluttering with that stern promise of stone, water, and groves. A new alliance, a new piece on the board, the world turning beneath our feet whether we liked it or not. My master strode forward, his shadow falling long, my claws whispering threats to anyone who thought to claim him.

I stalked at my master’s side as we entered the Dalkurharn embassy, tail flicking through the doorway like a shadow refusing to be left behind. The walls were thick, stone quarried from somewhere far colder than this, rough, damp, humming with that strange Dalkurharn pride, a place built not for comfort but for survival. Moss crept up the corners, a subtle display of the Threefold Path: stone, water, groves, resonance over opulence. Lanterns were hung low, glass shaded and iron-banded, casting an underground glow that turned every face to shadow and steel.

They led us, with the stiff, silent courtesy of a people who’d rather never bow at all, through narrow halls until we came to a square chamber where every wall was painted with the ancient sigils of her clan. No gold, no banners, just the memory of stone. Amber Dalkurharn herself sat at the centre, broad-shouldered, short-cropped hair, eyes like the heart of a frozen spring, grey, sharp, unwavering. The leader of a clan that had no patience for weakness, and less for soft words.

She didn’t stand when we entered. Her head tilted, appraising, not as a guest, not as a rival, but as one hunter weighs another at the edge of a thinning wood. “Protector,” she rumbled, her voice layered with the stone of her homeland, vowels clipped, consonants ground out slow, like river rocks rolling together. “Long miles since the tower, eh? Last I saw of your shadow, she left with the blood still drying on her claws.”

Her eyes flicked to me. My ears flattened, challenged, not cowed. I remembered that night: smoke, blood, a war cry cutting through the storm, and the cold satisfaction of walking away before the dust settled. I bared my teeth, just enough for her to see the truth: I would do it again, and again, and again for him.

Amber’s face didn’t soften, but the corners of her mouth twitched in a way that might, in another life, have been a smile. She gestured to the table, where thick ceramic cups stood—no delicate Alderian porcelain here. Water, not wine. “Sit, if you claim the right.”

My master sat, never waiting for permission. I pressed close, claws digging into the rough floor, every nerve tuned to him. Pontune hovered behind, pretending composure.

Amber wasted no time on courtesies. “Clan has a wound, Protector. The Crimson Swarm, rot, not of the marsh but of city streets, have come crawling through our stones. It started small. Missing tools. Disappeared boys from the night shift. Smuggled silver. Now I see their marks painted on the wall of the old miners’ hall.” She tapped her fingers, thick and calloused, against the mug. “They come from Maw Mine. Embercrack’s heart, or what’s left of it.”

Her words hung in the air, the silence afterwards hard as frost. “You track them. You break their nest. Clan Dalkurharn will owe you a debt. Ours is stone. We do not forget.”

She looked at my master, but I knew she meant me as well, her gaze held the memory of that night at Maw Tower, where every promise was written in blood.

Pontune shifted, half ready to protest, but I curled tighter against him, daring her to speak out of turn.

Amber leaned forward, elbows braced on the stone. “We will not bribe you with coin. Dalkurharn pays in passage and shelter. Aid us, and my clan’s safe-conduct is yours, from here to the deep mines and back. Through our tunnels. Through our gates. No one will touch your kin while our name stands. And when the marsh howls, you will have a place among stone.”

The offer was old-world, no golden handshake, no titles, just the right to travel and be shielded by her clan’s honour. It was more valuable than gold in this world. I could almost taste my master’s calculation through the bond, his mind racing, ice cold, as he weighed every possibility. My ears twitched, catching every sound, every unspoken word.

Amber’s voice dropped, rough as breaking gravel. “You’re hunters. Hunt. The Swarm burrows in shadows. Follow the cracks. They’re coming from Maw Mine.”

Her eyes fixed on me, then on my master. “Will you bind your claws to this hunt, Protector? Or will you leave the wound to fester until it’s your blood leaking next?”

The choice hung heavy. This was the true offer of the Threefold Path, protection for protection, blood for blood, a hand on the stone when the world tried to take everything away.

I pressed closer to him, my tail winding possessive, voice a low, dark purr. “My master does not leave debts, Amber Dalkurharn. Your enemies are already as good as dead.”

Amber’s mouth twitched again. “So the cat remembers how to fight. Good. We will speak again, when the Swarm has learned to fear the shadows.”

Amber Dalkurharn lifted her mug, letting the water inside slosh against the sides like a trapped winter stream. When she spoke, it wasn’t the polished tongue of nobles or diplomats, it was the voice of stone, scraped raw from cold mountains and harsher years.

“Maw Mine is sick,” she said simply. “Sick in a way stone should never be. Streets crowded with miners who don’t dig, merchants who don’t sell, shadows that don’t belong.” Her fingers drummed the mug again, three slow taps, each one landing with the weight of a burial stone.

“Crimson Swarm came like rot. Quiet. Hidden. Little pieces first, trades that shouldn’t happen, tokens exchanged where no light reaches.” Her voice dropped to a gravel growl. “Mawgraven, our capital, has a market now. Unmarked stalls. Closed shutters. Men who don’t show their faces. They sell things no honest clan would touch,Serrean steel without sigils, narcotas, forged travel papers, cursed charms from the coast.”

Pontune stiffened at that, her red-dyed eyes reflecting a flicker of recognition. But she stayed silent, which was wise. Amber Dalkurharn was not someone you interrupted.

Amber leaned forward. “Someone in Maw Mine is feeding the Swarm. Someone with access to storerooms, guard schedules, trade manifests. Could be miners. Could be a foreman. Could be a private clan priest for all I know.”

She exhaled, long and slow, like a mountain grieving.

“Stone remembers every step. Every whisper. And right now? The stone says danger.”

My tail curled tight behind my master’s leg as Amber continued.

“I do not ask you to solve our shame. I ask you to track it. Find where the Swarm crawls in. Find who opens the door. Find what they dig for in our capital. Maw Mine is not a pit for thieves.” Her jaw tightened. “Not yet.”

There was nothing dramatic in her voice, no trembling fear, only the iron certainty of a woman who had crushed rebellions under her boots and still woke before dawn to listen for cracks in the stone.

My master’s tone slid into the room like a shadow, calm, cold, impossibly controlled.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “They’re coming from Maw Mine. Embercrack's capital and that alas does not surpise me.”

My voice slithered through the quiet then, soft, low, edged with a dark sweetness. “My master has a few connections there.” Amber’s eyes flicked to me. She knew exactly which ones. The cultists. Rhovak’s zealots. The ones who whispered my title in Embercrack’s capital as though speaking it might wake the thing I left sleeping there.

“The Beast of Mawmine,” Amber murmured, her voice tasting the words like a test. “Honoured title. Feared title.”

My smile sharpened as I leaned in against my master, brushing my shoulder against his.
“It opens doors,” I said simply. “And closes a few throats.”

Meanwhile Pontune hovered behind us like a misplaced statue, silent, stiff, far too polished for a room carved from earth and old rites. She looked like she needed to speak but knew better. Her presence was tolerated, nothing more.

Amber straightened. “Track the Swarm. Cut out the rot. Bring me the truth of Maw Mine. Do this, and Dalkurharn stands with you.”

Her eyes flicked to the bond between me and my master, something she didn’t understand, something ancient and invisible to her but she respected power when she saw it.

I slid my hand along my master’s arm, claws pressing just faintly through cloth. “My master,” I purred, “this hunt will be interesting." With that we take our leave, my tail staying curled around masters leg.