The desert heat shimmered over the dunes, but nothing burned hotter than Draven's anticipation.
Two new recruits knelt before him. Luq—a spear-wielder with the stance of a born predator—would be his first true lancer. And Xyra, a quiet seamstress with golden eyes that held more cunning than thread and needle suggested, showed potential just a step below his own.
Not the architect he'd hoped for, but makeshift shelters could still house a warband.
Xyra's gaze lingered on his tunic—not with awe, but critique.
"It's fine," Draven said, glancing down at the scratches and frays from yesterday's hunt.
She didn't blink.
"…Fine. Here." He peeled off the shirt and tossed it her way. She caught it without hesitation, her stare drifting boldly over the hardened ridges of his torso before setting to work with a needle kit from her belt.
Draven ignored her, issuing orders—Luq was to report under Selene's command, four new men were assigned to the Sword-Shield Corps, and two women were sent to reinforce the food quartermasters. With more than two hundred mouths to feed, the kitchen was stretched thin.
When he returned from a brief rest, his senses felt razor-sharp—three hours of sleep in this enhanced body felt like eight.
Outside, the soldiers had already gathered. Selene greeted him, bow in hand, reporting they were battle-ready. Only one odd note—Xyra had been studying the unit's standard gear like a jeweler inspecting stolen gold. Draven waved it off.
"We move now," he said. "Potts dies today."
Xyra returned his shirt—perfectly mended—along with two unexpected gifts: a sky-blue leather coat and a tiger-striped helm. Both shimmered faintly with protective enchantments, warding off steel and sorcery alike.
"May you return victorious," she said.
He nodded and donned them.
An hour later, they reached Potts' stronghold, ringed by the shimmering dome of a novice's ward. The Caroran Lord lounged in the sun, flanked by two tamed Desert Lizards.
Draven's lips curled. The plan he whispered to Selene drew a faint blush to her cheeks, but her eyes lit with predatory approval.
The trap unfolded perfectly.
A battered Desert Lizard—one of Draven's controlled beasts—limped into Potts' view, slamming against the barrier. Potts, smug and careless, sent his lizards to kill it, following close to maintain control.
That was the mistake.
The ground cracked open behind him—sand spilling away as Draven's warriors burst forth, steel flashing. Potts spun, but too late. Shields pinned him, blades tore through him, and the Caroran Lord collapsed, eyes wide in disbelief.
Draven rose from the shifting gravel like a specter, standing over the corpse. His gaze flicked across the battlefield as the system's cold text etched the spoils into his mind—mist cores, potions, rare skill books, and, most precious of all, a Green Bronze-Tier Lord Talent Sphere.
Another throne toppled. Another step toward dominion.