12.

  What Matters

  Elaine stepped forward quietly at first, her eyes distant, hand lightly gripping the strap of her satchel. Then, with a breath, she began to sing—a tune remembered from childhood, low and steady, her voice cutting through the hush of the post-oath reverence with surprising force.

  "So, close no matter how faaar…"

  "Couldn't be much from the hearrrrt…"

  "Forever trust in who we arrre…"

  "And nothing else matters…"

  A stillness fell over the group. The tone struck somewhere deep—a subtle tremor rippled through the air with each line. A few heads bowed, others raised high, the whole camp silently pulled into the song’s orbit.

  "Never opened myself this way…"

  "Life is ours, we live it our way…"

  When the last word left Elaine’s lips and faded into the wind, like smoke from a dying fire the silence it left behind was thick with meaning.

  Then it came:

  [System Notification]

  Larsson’s Lament

  Group Bonus: +1 Stamina

  A ripple of awe and chatter passed through the group. Even the more hardened among them looked a little shaken—in a good way. Some exhaled deeply, and one whispered, "We really got a bard..."

  Vorn, still hidden beneath Thorin’s cloak, gave a low, bemused grunt.

  “Huh. Damn bard songs… Still working after all this time. Guess some things really are universal.”

  Thorin let the moment settle for just a heartbeat longer, then stood up straight and spoke clearly, his voice commanding attention.

  “You all know what you need to do.”

  His eyes scanned the crowd, tone sharp and full of purpose.

  “Let’s get to work. Parties—form up. Let the couriers know which direction you're heading.”

  Movement erupted—organized, efficient. Groups clapped each other on the shoulder, weapons and packs were adjusted, and directions quickly shared with the waiting couriers.

  “Crafters—forge area. Let’s move. I’ll get you started.”

  And with that, the initiates surged back into motion—bound by oath, steeled by purpose, and strengthened by the echoes of a bard’s lament.

  Thorin strode into the forge area, sleeves rolled and voice steady, already calling out instructions before he even came to a stop.

  "Alright, crafters—listen up. We’re gonna get this rolling clean and tight. If we’re building a future, we’re building it with our hands. Let’s go step by step."

  He turned to Callum, clapping a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “You’re on bows. Get me straight saplings, waist-thick or thinner. Don’t go too dry—we want something with spring. Grab smaller stuff for arrow shafts too. Once you have a bundle, come back and we’ll talk carving and tempering.”

  Callum nodded with a spark of excitement and jogged off into the tree line with a hatchet and a focused look.

  Next, Thorin pivoted toward Finn and Royce.

  "You two—stone and timber. Get that tower framed out. Windows and door openings too. Mortise cuts on the beams, we’ll peg them in once it’s square. Stack the stone tight—no wobble. I want a base that’ll outlive all of us.”

  Finn gave a respectful nod, and Royce cracked his knuckles with a grin, already eyeing the stacked timber and nearby stone pile.

  Thorin turned finally to the forge team—Lance, Petra, and Duncan—heat rippling in the air as embers flickered around the coals.

  "You three are on tools. Lance—you’re here to learn. Petra, you’ve worked with leather. Tell him what makes a good needle. Duncan—talk him through what a decent mortar and pestle should feel like.”

  Petra stepped forward, rolling up her sleeves and pulling a small leather strip from her belt pouch.

  “Lance, you want the needle to be strong but not thick. Bronze can flex if it’s cast wrong. The eye should be clean, no burrs, or it’ll shred the leather. Point should punch, not tear. I use a thin taper. You’ll see once we pour.”

  Duncan picked up a carved stone bowl from a side table and turned it in his hands.

  “And this? This is balance. You want weight in the pestle, not too much in the bowl. Rough inner surface to grind, but smooth outside so it doesn’t scratch up your station. Bronze ones are good for softer herbs and roots. Clay bowls crack too easy—stick with metal if you can help it.”

  Lance absorbed every word, watching the crucible heat with wide eyes, nodding slowly.

  Thorin leaned back slightly, arms folded, a quiet satisfaction in his posture as the crafters got to work. The heat of the forge, the ring of tools, and the crackle of progress began to fill the air—one more step forward in building something lasting.

  “Good. You’re doing it right,” Thorin muttered more to himself than anyone, a slight grin curling at the edge of his mouth.

  Meanwhile

  The forest around Team Three echoed with the rhythmic crack of clubs, the thud of fists on carapace, and the eerie chitter of the two enormous spiders defending their nest. The underbrush was torn and scattered, webs clinging to branches and boots alike.

  Owen, bleeding from a tear in his sleeve and panting hard, squared up again, brandishing his gnarled club and makeshift shield. The eight-legged menace in front of him hissed, mandibles clicking as it lunged—and Owen roared in defiance, stepping forward to block and absorb the blow.

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  "Come on, you hairy nightmare! I'm still standing!"

  Just behind him, Bran tightened his grip on his focus object—a small wooden stick—and muttered under his breath, channeling healing energy into Owen’s wounds. A faint green glow knit bruises and sealed shallow cuts even as sweat beaded on the healer’s brow.

  To the left, Samara was a blur of motion. She had wrapped her hands in cloth, fists already darkened with spider ichor. She struck low at leg joints, then vaulted forward with a rising elbow into the soft chitin of the spider's thorax. Each strike was raw power, and the spider reared, visibly staggered.

  **"You like that?!" she snarled, ducking under a swinging limb and driving a knee upward into its underside.

  Mervin and Oswald flanked the second spider—Mervin delivering powerful overhead blows with a heavy branch, while Oswald, nimble and quick, danced around the creature's legs, jabbing with sharpened sticks and aiming for the eyes and underbelly.

  The fight was messy. Viscera spattered the clearing. But the tactics held.

  Owen never let the spiders break formation. Bran healed efficiently, never wasting mana. Samara kept up relentless pressure. Mervin and Oswald chipped away with precision and grit.

  Finally—with a sickening crunch—Samara landed a heavy blow that shattered a jointed limb. Mervin followed up with a cracking strike to the cephalothorax. The first spider collapsed, twitching. The second, already wounded, tried to scurry back toward the nest—but Oswald lunged in from behind, burying a sharpened branch in its eye cluster. It screamed—and fell still.

  The group collapsed to the ground, catching their breath, covered in sweat, grime, and spider gore.

  Just then, a familiar voice called out from the trees.

  "Courier incoming!" shouted Garrett, jogging into view. He skidded to a halt, blinking at the scene. "You guys good? Thorin sent me."

  Bran, wiping his hands clean, nodded. "We're alright. Tougher than expected, but we made it. No casualties."

  Owen, chest heaving, grinned wearily. "Tell Thorin: shields help. Even if it’s just a branch. They bite hard."

  Samara added, shaking her aching fists, “Soft spots on the spiders—underbelly and legs. If you can hit hard, that’s where you go.”

  Mervin chimed in, “And don’t let them split you up. Fight tight, hit together.”

  Garrett nodded rapidly, already preparing to sprint. "Got it. Reporting back now!"

  And with that, the courier was gone—feet pounding the forest floor, dodging branches as he disappeared down the trail toward the forge, where Thorin and the others waited for word of Team Three’s battle-tested tactics.

  _______________________

  Team Three finished up the grisly, but useful, post-fight tasks.

  Mervin and Oswald worked together pulling down strands of spider silk, winding them carefully around foraged sticks. Owen cracked open a thorax with a snapped limb, scooping out shimmering venom sacs into a wooden bowl they’d hollowed with a heated rock. Bran, grimacing, used a curved stick like a bone saw to separate the most intact carapace plates. Everything sharp, useful, or valuable was packed away for return.

  The courier, still breathing hard, on his return nodded to Samara.

  "Thorin said to try something. Said it might help you find your rhythm. Something about focusing everything into one perfect strike."

  Samara tilted her head, wiping her forehead with a dirty cloth wrap.

  "One thought only, huh?" She looked toward a stump and strode over.

  She sat down cross-legged in the center of the trampled clearing. The hum of the forest returned slowly around them—soft wind, distant bird calls, the whisper of the trees.

  Eyes closed; Samara breathed in deep. Her fists rested loosely on her knees. Her thoughts cleared one by one. She imagined the movement. Plant the off foot. Feel the earth. Tension from the ground to the hips. Turn, pivot, flow through the core. Add weight. Drive the shoulder, the elbow, the wrist… deliver the fist.

  No rage. No noise. No outside world. Just the strike.

  The others sat quietly nearby, watching without speaking. The energy in the air seemed to change. Her shoulders slackened yet remained strong. Her breathing fell into a smooth rhythm.

  Almost an hour passed before a faint ding echoed across her vision.

  [System Notification]

  Skill Learned: Meditation 1

  You have achieved inner focus. This skill increases Stamina recovery speed, helps improve attack damage, and allows techniques to be refined through repeated focused practice.

  Her eyes opened slowly. She flexed her fingers once.

  "Huh." A faint smirk tugged at her lips.

  "That’s… new. And kind of cool."

  Bran clapped her on the shoulder with a grin.

  "Gonna be dangerous and wise now, huh?"

  Owen chuckled, standing and rolling his shoulder.

  "Let’s hope the spiders spread the word."

  They gathered up their packs, heavier with trophies and newfound knowledge—and set off back toward the forge and the waiting guild,

  Team Three emerged from the tree line into the forge clearing, sun dappled across their dusty clothes and speckled with drying spider blood. Mervin and Owen were hauling a wrapped bundle of spider limbs and carapace plates between them, while Oswald carried a smaller pack brimming with silk, venom sacs, and salvaged fibers. Bran followed, a satisfied look on his face—his robes a little cleaner than the rest, but not by much. Samara strode ahead; her knuckles red but her posture more centered, more grounded.

  Thorin met them at the edge of the clearing with a nod.

  "Good haul," he said, motioning them toward the resource drop pile near the forge. "Silk’ll be useful for bowstrings or armor lining. Carapace could work for light plating if we get it cured and mounted right. Venom too—maybe Finn can experiment when we’ve got safe storage."

  Samara dropped the silk bundle beside the forge and flexed her hands.

  "Spiders are dead… for now."

  "Good. You're not done," Thorin added, his tone clipped but encouraging. "We need more. The better the supplies, the better your gear."

  Team Three shared a glance, the heat of the earlier battle still faintly radiating off their skin.

  Owen cracked his neck and hefted his makeshift shield.

  "We’ll bring back something worth forging."

  Bran gave a mock-salute with his walking staff.

  "And hopefully nothing that tries to eat us this time."

  "No promises," Mervin muttered with a grin as they turned back to the forest.

  As they disappeared into the woods once more, Thorin watched them go—more coordinated, more confident. They were starting to move like a team. Not just survivors… but something more.

  Just maybe… Adventurers.