The Optios were peeling away, heading back to their squads. Orders had been given. Schedules finalized. There was nothing left to discuss, only the slow, grinding weight of readiness ahead of battle. Around them, the air was thick with anticipation, and the metallic scent of oiled weapons mingled with the distant clatter of armor plates being adjusted for the coming fight.
Harold stood a few paces from the ridge's edge, arms folded behind his back, eyes tracking the pattern of discipline spreading outward like muscle memory.
Then it came—just a quiet flicker in his vision.
PERK ACQUIRED
Detainer (uncommon)
Enemy soldiers under a rival Human Lord have a 5% increased chance to surrender when facing a superior force.
He stared at it for exactly three seconds, then dismissed it with a blink.
Across the field, Hale was already halfway down the slope, giving short clipped nods as squads formed ranks. Evan trailed more loosely, chatting with a pair of adventurers before veering toward the campfires.
Harold raised a hand, getting their attention, and both men angled back toward him without hesitation.
They met him at the corner of the command fire, where no ears lingered.
"I just got a perk," Harold said without preamble.
That stopped them both.
Evan tilted his head. "Now?"
"Just now," Harold confirmed. "While they were walking away."
"What is it?" Hale asked, calm but alert.
Harold didn't make them wait.
"Detainer. 5% chance of enemy soldiers surrendering. Only applies to soldiers under another Human Lord."
There was a pause while both figured out the implications.
"So we have another Lord poking around," Evan said quietly.
"Looks like it," Harold said matter-of-factly.
"Someone sent a soldier this close to our line, or it was initiative on his part. Either one is a bold move; we aren't exactly hiding right here." Hale added, expression unreadable.
"Mm, we'll know soon enough. I know we have a strong picket line out there, but what do you think about setting a Quick Reaction Force for the night? Just in case." Harold asked.
"Maybe one team from the adventurers as well," Harold said.
Hale looked at him calmly, "I'll make sure it's done, it's a good idea, at least until we know what we are up against."
Harold nodded once. "Either way, it wasn't random. And I want to know who caught him."
"I'll get names too," Hale said immediately.
"Better yet," Harold replied. "Let's go meet them."
They hadn't walked far before a runner caught them — one of Tran's logistics aides, breathing fast but trying to keep his composure.
"Sir," the runner said, saluting awkwardly. "A prisoner was brought in just now. Captured near the southern perimeter. They thought you'd want to be notified directly."
Harold didn't stop walking. "What kind of prisoner?"
"Human and bound, some kind of scout. The Adventurer team says he was sneaking in slowly and was really careful."
Harold glanced at Evan. "One of yours?"
Evan's smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "If they ghosted him before he noticed… yeah. I've got a guess. That team has been very effective so far."
They reached the area where Tribune Tran had made his own when the adventurer team walked in, escorting the prisoner.
Five of them moved with confidence, each clad in practical, dust-streaked leathers. Weapons were minimal—no gaudy insignia, no clinking metals—just the essentials. Their attire was tightly-wrapped, with scavenged goblin sword hilts secured on back-sheaths. Short javelins, fire-blackened and bound with leather cords, stowed at their sides. The entire group had the purposeful look of fighters who knew the land.
The leader wore a tattered scarf high over her face, shadowing her expression but not her eyes. She moved like she'd been born in the underbrush — quiet and watchful. On her right, a smaller woman walked with a bright, bouncing step and a grin she couldn't quite suppress. She carried a bow, but awkwardly, as if she didn't know how to use it. Behind them, two lean men traded quiet jokes under their breath, one flipping a javelin between his fingers like a coin. The last woman, braid tight, carried herself like stone. She mostly just stood there, but Harold didn't fancy a tussle with her.
Their prisoner walked in the center, hands loosely bound in front of him, feet shuffling in worn boots. He wasn't resisting.
Harold's eyes locked on him immediately.
Ash smeared his face. His leather was worn, scratched up from brush and bark. He had burrs stuck in his sleeves and streaks of dried mud across his jawline. Young and fit. Probably a soldier, but not soft. And absolutely not one of Harold's.
Most telling of all—he looked around the Landing with barely concealed awe.
Harold turned slightly. "Is that him?"
"Dragged him in ourselves," said the scarved woman. Her voice was low, even. "Didn't see us until we had steel at his throat."
"He try to run?" Hale asked.
"Nope," said the grinning one. "He was trying to get closer, we took his bow too, better than anything we've seen so far. Those goblin ones aren't worth much."
Evan stepped forward, already smiling. "Vera. Lyn. Dorrin. Maggs. Tresh. Can't say I'm surprised."
Vera looked at Evan with a small smile, just trying to earn an early spot in that dungeon."
Harold nodded toward the javelins. "Custom?"
"Sharpened stakes, my Lord," Vera said. "Fire-hardened and balanced to throw."
"And the goblin swords?" Hale added.
"They don't need 'em anymore," said Dorrin with a shrug. Tresh grinned.
Harold studied the team for a few long seconds. All of them are quiet, competent, and dangerous without needing to posture.
"You five just earned a perk for the Landing," he said finally. "You'll be rewarded."
Vera blinked once. The stone-faced Maggs gave a slow nod.
"Mark their team and contribution in the campaign book," Harold told Evan. "I want it recorded and see if we have any better ranged weapons in the stockpile we can give them now."
"Already had the pen out," Evan said he mimed writing something down on his slate tablet.
Harold looked back at the scout. The boy — because that's what he looked like now, up close — stood still under the attention. Not completely afraid but clearly out of his depth.
He'd made it through the pickets, which took patience and at least some skill.
Harold pointed to a nearby unoccupied fire. "Let's see what he has to say."
The camp was quieter near Tribune Marcus's position, the fires more spaced, the soldiers older in their discipline. No tents — just legionaries in tight formation around their squad fires, working gear, cleaning weapons, rotating through watch without needing to be told.
Torren sat near one of the smaller fires, hands loosely tied in front of him. He wasn't guarded like a criminal — just observed. He hadn't tried to run.
Harold dragged over a fire-blackened log and sat across from him. Hale and Evan remained standing, just behind.
The scout looked up, blinking at the three of them. Ash still smeared his cheeks. One cut ran along the ridge of his knuckle, probably from brush or rocks. He looked worn, not beaten — more like a man who'd been pushing too hard in the woods and run out of luck.
Harold studied him a moment, then spoke evenly.
"Name?" Harold asked.
"Torren," he replied, his voice wavering slightly.
"Dalen's Hold?" Harold said back.
Torren's eyes widened. "I didn't… I haven't told you that yet."
Harold didn't blink. "You didn't need to."
Torren hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'm from Dalen's Hold."
"You were sent?" Harold asked again.
He shook his head. "No, sir. It wasn't an order or anything. I scout southeast of the hold, my regular pattern. Two or three hours out. I smelled fire. Heard wood being split. Not normal, not out here. So I got curious. Came slowly to take a look."
He looked at Harold and asked, "Am I a prisoner?" Torren asked.
Harold gave a single nod. "For now, yes, you are my friend."
Torren didn't argue. He just sat a little straighter.
"You're portal-born?" Hale asked.
"If you're asking, was I recruited for the crucible? Yes, sir. Recruited two weeks ago. Spent my time since in the woods, scouting and dodging goblins."
"You trap?" Evan asked, motioning to his hands.
"Used to. My da taught me." He gestured vaguely behind him. "Not much good against kobolds, but decent for foxes."
Harold leaned in slightly. "What did you expect to find when you came closer?"
Torren gave a faint, tired smile. "Not this."
Then he looked around.
"This is too organized. You've got patrols running like clockwork and dug earthworks in a day. Stakes set in lines. Soldiers working in formation — no slop. Your adventurers actually cooperate with the camp. Ours mostly disappear once the gate closes."
He shook his head. "I didn't know you were real."
Harold didn't answer that.
Instead, he asked, "What's deeper in the forest?"
Torren shifted slightly on the log. "Two groups. Goblins and kobolds. Not fighting now and not working together either. Just holding ground. Almost like they're watching or guarding something. We're right lucky they haven't just attacked us. We wouldnt be able to hold."
"How many?" Hale asked.
"Three hundred kobolds, maybe. Four hundred goblins. Hard to count — they don't mass up except when they raid. There was a skirmish yesterday. Goblins lost maybe 100 against our earthworks. We have enough kobold bows now to hurt them when they come after us. They're still not weak, though."
"Goblins have archers?" Hale asked.
"Yeah, but not good ones. Short range. More like wild massed shots. The kobolds are where the real bows are. They've got armor, discipline. Shields, spears. Hold tighter lines."
Evan raised an eyebrow. "And the goblins?"
"Messy. Clumps of them, there's a lot of them. But…" Torren hesitated. "They've got a few bigger ones now. Berserkers. They don't wear armor. Just run forward, swinging whatever they have. Took three tower shots before one of them dropped last time."
Harold sat still, letting the firelight do the talking for a few seconds.
Finally, he said, "Lord Dalen. What's his condition?"
Torren hesitated. It was noticeable.
"He's… doing what he can," he said carefully. "We're not starving but we arent really eating either. We've got clean water. The earthwork trench is solid and deep — almost two meters in some places. Wooden barricades. We've built up two towers for archers, but not much else."
"Any abuse? Conscription?" Harold asked slowly.
"No," Torren said immediately. "He doesn't use a whip. He's out there with the rest of us when he can be. People respect him. Or… try to."
Evan looked at Harold but didn't speak.
"How many in the hold?" Hale asked.
Torren licked his lips. Four hundred. Maybe a little under. Everyone fights. Some kids, I guess they didn't start to get organized until a goblin raid killed a lot of people."
Harold gave him a long look, then a slight nod, and stood. "You'll stay here for now."
Torren nodded. "Yes, Lord."
Harold turned to a nearby squad leader from Garrick's century. "Keep him watched in your area. He gets food. Nothing else."
The man saluted and moved into position.
Harold lingered just a second longer before turning away, already thinking ahead.
Hale followed behind him and approached him when Harold paused.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"Mm… I'm thinking… that there is an opportunity here." Harold mused. Give me the night to think it over. Keep questioning him till we know everything he knows. Especially about Dalen's Hold and those kobolds."
The camp wasn't noisy, but it was moving. The sun was barely starting to move into the sky, and the fog crowded the camp, concealing it.
Marcus Tran's logistics crews were shifting crates toward the forward trenches, packing rations and confirming armament loads under the low mutter of a single torch and squad fires. Nothing loud. Just the steady rhythm of a machine that had learned how to run.
Torren was seated off to the side near a stack of water barrels, hands now unbound but still watched. The two legionaries from Garrick's century didn't crowd him — but neither did they relax. One leaned against a spear shaft, chewing something fibrous. The other never looked away.
The scout sat quietly. He hadn't asked for anything since being fed. His eyes tracked everything.
That's when the picket runner came in — a legionary, limping between two others. Blood soaked through the side of his armour where it didn't cover, a jagged arrow still jutted out. They moved quickly, not panicked. Tran's medics were already in motion before they hit the firelight.
Torren's head turned sharply.
The injured man was laid out near a barrel. A quick cut removed the arrow. One medic pressed gauze; another uncorked a healing potion — thick, red, and clear. Poured straight into the wound. The reaction was instant: tissue knitting, breath steadying, bleeding stopped.
Torren's mouth opened a little. Then shut. His hands twitched slightly — then locked behind his back like he didn't trust them to stay still.
He'd seen a lot in the last couple of weeks, but not that.
Hale was there watching his reaction the entire time.
Harold was already approaching.
He moved like he always did — quietly, with intent. The medics stepped aside without being asked. He approached the wounded man, took a knee next to him, and made him laugh before turning to Torren.
"On your feet." Harold commanded.
Torren stood up stiffly. He probably didn't sleep well with his hands bound.
Harold held something in one hand — a folded note, sealed with wax.
"This is for your Lord," Harold said. "You'll take it to him."
Torren stared at it for half a beat before taking it with both hands, carefully, like it might shatter if held wrong.
"I'll carry it," he said. His voice was quieter than before. Less like a scout, more like a man realizing just how much he didn't know.
"No detours," Harold said. "Straight to him. Personally."
Torren nodded once. "Yes, Lord."
Torren looked once more at the wounded soldier — now sitting up, drinking water like he hadn't almost bled out two minutes earlier. Then he looked back at Harold. Whatever he wanted to ask, he swallowed it.
He tucked the sealed note carefully inside his vest, cinched it down, and turned toward the trees.
Harold had just turned back toward the nearest supply pile when Hale fell into step beside him.
They walked a few paces in silence.
Then Hale asked, "What are you hoping to get out of that letter? You staged that scene with Max over there getting wounded."
Harold chuckled loudly, "Max really did get hit, Hale. I just made the most of it."" He glanced back in the direction Torren had gone, then scratched at his temple absently.
"I know of Lord Dalen," he said. "From my last life. He used to be semi-active on the forums. He was the one most vocal about not sharing the relic."
Hale raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Not a big poster on it, but I know the name. I scrolled through them last night, just out of curiosity — he's made a few posts asking for help in the area. Had a crude map of the area here. Multiple, actually."
"What kind of help?" Hale asked.
"General. Looking for allies against the hordes. Advice. Volunteers. Anything really. Nobody took him seriously. A couple of threads got no replies at all."
Hale gave a short grunt, half an acknowledgement.
Harold shrugged slightly. "I think there's a chance here to help humanity a little and cement our position at the same time." Hale glanced sideways. "That's what that show with the potion was? You cementing your authority? "
"Hale, like it or not, I do have the authority," Harold said, slowing for a moment as they approached the trench line, watching two soldiers hammering down the next row of stakes. "Being on good terms with him won't hurt," Harold added. "And if we end up moving to take control of the basin, it's better to have Lords who already see us as powerful and in charge. I'll need you to keep my head from getting too big."
Hale fired back in his dry voice, "Too late."