Commander Renard came down from the shell with his blade cleaned and his cane snapped back together, looking every inch the composed officer again. He found Ethan near the rail, the Pack gathered close.

  “You held the deck,” Renard said without preamble. “Your Pack kept the crew alive. Against a Shellback Horror, that’s no small thing.” His gaze swept over Moose bracing sailors, Mason still scuffed from the blows he’d taken, and Pixie perched proudly on the railing. “There are usually losses. Many, in fact. Today there weren’t.”

  He gestured toward the carcass floating beside the barge. “Take the main parts of the loot. You’ve earned them. We’ll haul the rest ashore for the convoy.”

  Ethan blinked, caught between gratitude and suspicion. “That’s… generous.”

  Renard’s smile was polite, but his eyes slid past Ethan toward Lyra. “Good standing is valuable. With certain families, more than most.”

  The bond tightened in Ethan’s chest with Lyra’s discomfort. She smoothed it quickly, tails flicking once as she turned away, but the angle of Renard’s attention stuck in his head. Ethan held the Commander’s face in his sightline and didn’t let go—cataloguing the practiced ease of his posture, the light touch on the cane, the way his cloak settled as if it belonged to the wind. He pushed past the surface the way he did when he debugged a stubborn string of logic, looking for what refused to show itself.

  Something answered.

  A pane snapped into being behind his eyes:

  [New Skill Acquired: Inspect]

  Title: Commander

  Name: Renard Valecrest

  Class: Royal Vanguard Commander

  Level: 58

  The number hit hard. It explained the one-swing kill and the way the crew’s nerves had steadied the moment he stepped forward. Ethan closed the pane quickly, but the knowledge stayed lodged where he couldn’t ignore it.

  The sailors lashed the Shellback to tow ropes and hauled it to shore at the next shallow bank. Work started as soon as they grounded the hull—cleavers flashing, saws biting, barrels rolling while orders snapped along the line. The Pack moved with them. Moose shifted timbers and propped the carcass where it would slide least. Mason planted his rocky feet and took rope strain without complaint. Amelia slipped through gaps that weren’t there a moment before and drove off scavenger birds with quiet, sharp swipes. Pixie ranged along the river edge “supervising,” nose high, chirping suggestions nobody asked for and everybody heard.

  By late light the ridge of shell stood bare, meat had been cut down and salted, and the stink of brine mixed with the heavy, iron smell of blood. Even as they salted meat and stacked crates, Ethan felt Moose’s steady pulse through the link — perimeter checked, all safe. Ethan crouched by the salvage and worked through it piece by piece.

  The plates came first—fourteen broad slabs pried from the back, jagged-edged and heavy enough to serve as shields. He stacked, shifted, and drew them into his storage, each one tugging at his arm before the weight vanished. Six crown spikes followed, black and curved like lances, river water still dripping from the edges. Armorers in any city would pay for that kind of material; he slid them away before idle curiosity turned into bargaining.

  The beak lay where they’d wrestled it free—a hooked crescent nearly three feet across with a bite that didn’t need honing to be dangerous. He took care with his grip and let it go to storage with a faint pull of air. The tentacles had been bundled like cables, each length as thick as his forearm and dense with braided muscle. Three went into the ring, where he could reach them fast if a use presented itself. Smaller shell shards followed, the sort of fragments that made sense for charms and test runes when he didn’t want to waste a full plate.

  Most of the meat was bound for the galley. He kept a few cuts back and tucked them away; Buster would remember that promise, and Ethan didn’t intend to argue with him on an empty stomach later.

  Last, he lifted the core. Light pulsed faintly inside the crystal, the Shellback’s mana compacted into something steady and alive under his palm. Useful, and not common. He turned it once to feel the thrum of it, then stored it with the rest.

  Back aboard, the galley had changed with the day’s work. The air hung heavy with turtle—rich and savory—and the stew had gone dark with fresh meat and onion. Pixie bounced onto a bench and announced her greatness to the nearest ladle. Moose waited his turn like a stone in a stream. Amelia folded into shadow at Ethan’s boots and ate in silence. Mason ducked at the doorway and stayed there, a polite boulder who didn’t quite fit.

  Ethan took a bowl and set a couple more aside into storage for later. Buster might still be planted in the Homestead and swearing off rivers, but he’d eat the second it made sense to him.

  The stew filled his stomach, but the knot in his chest stayed. Renard hadn’t been speaking to him at all—every careful word about “good standing with certain families” had been meant for Lyra. That was what unsettled him. Why her? What did Renard know?

  Back in the Homestead, Buster sprawled in the grass like he was still punishing the river by refusing to move. Ethan set a bowl beside him.

  “Finally,” Buster grumbled before plunging his nose into the stew.

  Ethan had only taken a step away when Moose froze, nose lifted. His ears tipped forward, body going still. “I know this smell. Familiar.”

  He padded to the stacked crates near the porch, nosed through, and pulled something free with his teeth. He set it down in front of Ethan: a wooden toy sword, the handle worn smooth, the edge scarred with clumsy notches.

  Pixie gasped. “Relic of a fallen knight! Or a cursed treasure! We should sell it to pirates!”

  Ethan turned the little sword over in his hand, recognizing the notches for what they were—someone’s imaginary victories carved into the wood. He shook his head and set it on the porch rail. “Probably got mixed in when we packed.”

  Moose gave a grunt, but didn’t argue. Amelia walked past without a word, shadows brushing the floor. Pixie was already trying to balance Buster’s empty bowl on her head, declaring herself “Queen Biscuit the First,” until Buster rolled over and muttered, “Make it Queen Noisy.” That earned a round of yips and sputtering laughter from her, and the toy sword was left where it sat.

  Night came steady and quiet. Ethan pulled out one of the Shellback fragments and turned it over in his hands, testing the grain where he might cut a rune. Pixie suggested snack compartments and lightning strikes, Moose called it dense enough for armor, Amelia traced a claw lightly over the grooves. Ethan listened, weighed the ideas, then packed the piece away. “Not tonight.” The Pack settled into their usual spots, and the Homestead dimmed with the hour.

  Morning light broke through the shutters in slanted beams. Ethan sat at the table, mug in hand, still not fully awake but steady in the quiet. Lyra padded in, tails brushing the doorway, and poured herself tea. She sat across from him, ears twitching faintly as if she was listening to something only she could hear.

  “You going to drink that,” Ethan asked, “or let it cool so I can steal it later?”

  Her lips curved faintly. “You’d find it too bitter. Besides, you hoard enough already.”

  He huffed into his mug. “That’s efficient management.”

  “Of course.” She lifted her cup with smooth precision, leaving him to wonder whether she was mocking him or agreeing.

  From the outside it would have looked like flirting—small smiles, easy banter, quiet warmth neither of them seemed aware they were giving away.

  Lyra set her cup down, eyes lingering on him a beat too long. “You’ve been steadier lately,” she said, then hesitated—her voice dropped before she could stop it. “And… handsome, when you’re not thinking about everything at once.”

  The silence that followed was instant. Her ears twitched back hard, as if she could catch the word midair and stuff it back down her throat.

  Ethan blinked, completely thrown. “Uh—thanks,” he managed. His face stayed still, but his ears betrayed him, flushing to the tips.

  She took a long sip of her tea, pretending the cup was suddenly fascinating. “Forget I said that.”

  Ethan tipped his mug toward her. “So. What were you and Commander Valecrest discussing yesterday? He seemed… focused.”

  The light shifted in her eyes, easy humor fading. Her ears angled back, unease brushing the bond before she caught it. “It was—”

  Moose’s voice cut in, sharp and certain. Fresh. Close.

  Ethan turned just as Moose shoved open a cupboard door. Biscuits spilled out across the floor, along with one very guilty stowaway.

  Kip crouched inside, crumbs all over his shirt, both hands full of stolen food. His eyes went wide.

  “…hi.”

  Pixie shrieked with laughter, bouncing so hard she skidded across the floor. “Stowaway! We have a stowaway!”

  Pixie shrieked with laughter, bouncing so hard she skidded across the floor. “Stowaway! We have a stowaway!”

  Ethan hauled Kip out of the cupboard by the collar, deadpan. “You’ve got about three seconds to explain yourself.”

  Kip clutched his biscuits like they were life preservers. “…I was hungry?”

  Pixie collapsed onto her back, legs flailing in the air as she howled. “Hungry for adventure! Hungry for glory! Hungry for biscuits!”

  Moose lowered his head until his eyes were level with Kip’s. “Discipline would serve you better.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Amelia crouched in the corner, eyes steady and unreadable, shadow stretching toward the scattered crumbs.

  Ethan sighed and dug the communication stone from his pack. “Time to face the real trouble.” He pressed his thumb to the groove, and the stone chimed. Aldric’s voice came through, brisk as always. “Report.”

  Ethan held the stone up so his words carried. “Tell Mara Silverthorn her son decided to join the convoy. Without permission.”

  There was a pause, then Aldric exhaled through his nose. “Of course he did. I’ll pass it along. Stand by—you’ll be hearing from them soon enough.”

  The stone went quiet.

  Pixie draped herself across Kip’s shoulders like a queen on her throne. “Your execution is scheduled for sunset! Any last requests?”

  Kip tried to duck her weight and muttered, “Not helping…”

  Moose settled himself in the corner, unimpressed. “He should be put to work.”

  “Kitchen chores,” Ethan said. “Every meal.”

  About half an hour later, the stone chimed again. Ethan picked it up, already bracing.

  Mara’s voice burst through, sharp as a whip. “KIP SILVERTHORN!”

  Senna’s voice overlapped hers at once. “I told you not to try this!”

  Tessa came right after, shrill with fury. “You’re such an idiot!”

  Kip shrank smaller with each word, still clutching his biscuits like a shield.

  Jorrin’s deeper voice tried to push through the noise. “At least we know where he is, and he’s safe—”

  “Don’t you defend him!” Mara and both girls roared back in unison.

  The noise left Kip so rattled that the biscuits crumbled apart in his hands, scattering to the floor. A shadow slipped out beneath him, sweeping the crumbs away and carrying them neatly into Amelia’s mouth.

  Pixie snorted. “Even your biscuits ran off.”

  Kip stared at his empty hands, looking miserable.

  Ethan rubbed at his temple. “He’s safe. I’ll see him to Aldenreach in one piece.”

  Mara’s voice snapped back, sharp as a lash. “Then he’s your responsibility.”

  Ethan stiffened. “He’s already my responsibility. I didn’t invite him aboard, but I’ll keep him safe. That’s what I do.”

  That only seemed to stoke the fire. “Don’t take that tone with me, Ethan Cross! You don’t know how much trouble this boy can cause. You think keeping your Pack fed makes you ready to handle my son?”

  Pixie whispered, “Uh oh,” and ducked behind Kip like it might shield her. Kip looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

  Before the storm could roll further, Lyra’s voice cut through—calm, clear, steady. “Enough. He is with us now, and I will watch over them both. You have my word.”

  The weight in her tone was enough to settle the air. On the other end of the stone, Mara exhaled, the edge leaving her voice. “Then I’ll hold you to it. Thank you, Lyra.”

  The stone went quiet.

  Ethan lowered it, muttering, “What am I, chopped liver?”

  Lyra gave him a long, steady look. That was all the answer he got.

  By evening, the Homestead had settled into a steady hum. Doors stood open across the hall as everyone explored their own rooms for the first time. Most of the Pack still preferred being close—old habits didn’t fade easily—but Ethan wanted them to have their own spaces, to treat the new house as something that belonged to all of them.

  Moose was the first to push back. He lingered in the doorway of Ethan’s room, eyes fixed on the floorboards. “I would rather stay here,” he said quietly.

  Ethan crossed the space and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Start in yours tonight. If it doesn’t feel right, come back. We’re still under the same roof.”

  The bond flickered with reluctant agreement before Moose turned away.

  Pixie trotted by with a blanket in her mouth and a determined look in her eyes. “Hero Headquarters is almost complete!” she announced, dragging her spoils toward the biggest upstairs room. Amelia followed close behind, tail brushing the floor. When Ethan raised a brow, Pixie answered before he could speak. “She’s staying with me. Someone has to guard the fort.”

  Lyra chose the room beside his. She didn’t say anything, just rested her hand on the door handle. When she did, Ethan caught a flicker through the bond—soft, hesitant warmth that she usually kept locked away. A faint blush rose against her fur as she glanced over her shoulder. He pretended not to notice at first, but the feeling lingered, steady and real. She was good at masking herself, always careful, yet the closer their bond grew, the harder it was for her to keep those traces hidden. Ethan watched her disappear into the room and exhaled quietly. So much had changed since he’d arrived in this world—the Pack, the homestead, all of it—and somewhere in the middle of it, whatever was happening between them had started to shift too. He didn’t know what it meant yet, only that he wasn’t closed to it.

  Buster had claimed the bedroom next to the hearth room downstairs, close enough to the fire to keep warm and within easy reach of the kitchen. For now he’d sprawled across the rug in front of the fireplace like he owned both rooms. “Training’s going well,” he grumbled, then hauled himself upright. “I can stand outside for almost three minutes now before my stomach threatens mutiny. That’s progress.” He disappeared through the Homestead door and reappeared moments later, pale but triumphant. “Two minutes, fifty-eight seconds. Close enough.”

  Mason stayed on the porch, half in shadow, content to listen to the creak of the boards under his weight.

  Ethan lingered in the hall a moment longer, listening to the quiet life moving through the house—the steady pulse of the bond weaving it all together—and then turned into his own room. It was still unfinished: plain desk, bare walls, and the faint smell of fresh timber. For now, that was enough.

  He sat down, pulling his pack closer and rubbing at his eyes. He was terrible at keeping up with his own stats. Half the time he forgot to check them until the system started reminding him. Points had been sitting there for days, untouched, waiting for him to actually act on them. He needed to be better about that.

  With a sigh, he brought up his interface. The pane responded with a soft hum.

  Stat Points Available: 1

  Trait Points Available: 1

  He exhaled and made the first decision quickly. A single pulse confirmed the change.

  Intellect: 35

  A satisfied flick hit through the bond. Finally, Buster’s voice carried, smug and amused.

  Ethan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Are you always watching the stats? How do you even know?” He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one, just a faint sense of laughter echoing before the connection quieted.

  Clarity threaded through him, sharpening thought into focus. The second pane appeared before he could close the first.

  The list reshaped itself in clean light.

  Mana Conductor (Passive) – improves channel flow through bonded Packmates, reducing backlash when links overlap.

  Precision Weaver (Passive) – tightens enchantment patterns, increasing stability and efficiency.

  Corrupted Arcana (Rare Passive) – stabilizes tainted or hybrid mana by filtering it through neutral arcane control; heightens awareness of corrupted signatures.

  Ethan read each one twice, weighing the logic behind them. Mana Conductor offered reliable teamwork utility, though nothing that solved the strain he’d felt during the last fight. Corrupted Arcana pulsed faint violet, the hue carrying a pressure that made his chest tighten; the system clearly wanted his attention on that line. Precision Weaver, on the other hand, fit him best—refinement over risk, clean results through deliberate control.

  He hovered on it a moment longer, picturing the runes he could tighten, the enchantments he could finally finish without burning half a night’s mana. It made sense. He reached out and confirmed.

  The pane shimmered—then the light snapped, folding inward before the confirmation could finalize.

  Trait Selected: Corrupted Arcana (Rare Passive)

  Ethan jerked his hand back. “That’s not what I—”

  Cold pressure rolled through his chest, threading under his heartbeat. His mana steadied on the surface, but deep underneath it he could feel another current rising, patient and deliberate, as if the system were breathing through him.

  Then the world tilted.

  The light in the room stretched, faded, and went black. For an instant, the bond flared with confusion—Pixie’s spark of alarm, Moose’s deep rumble, Buster’s sharp pulse of worry—but it all slipped away as his vision narrowed to a single point.

  He hit the mattress without feeling it.

  The next thing he knew, sunlight pressed against his eyelids. The house was quiet, but the bond buzzed faintly with relief. He blinked up at the ceiling, throat dry, head full of static.

  The door eased open and Lyra appeared, ears low, tail flicking. “You’re awake.”

  Ethan pushed himself upright, still a little unsteady. “Was I… out long?”

  “Most of the night.” Her gaze searched his face, calm but worried beneath it. “You vanished in the bond. Everyone felt it.”

  A heavier tread followed—Moose filled the doorway, Buster close behind. Pixie popped her head around Moose’s leg, eyes wide. “You stopped pinging,” she said. “Like—gone. Whole system went quiet.”

  “I’m fine,” Ethan said, voice rougher than it should have been. He flexed his fingers, feeling the faint hum still moving under his skin. “Just… new trait. Guess it didn’t like being installed.”

  Pixie squinted. “We should return it. Maybe get a refund.”

  Buster huffed, tension easing through the bond. “Next time, warn us before you faceplant.”

  Ethan managed a tired smile. “Next time, I’ll try to stay conscious.”

  The bond steadied again, the others slowly drifting back to their routines. When the room finally emptied, he let out a long breath and leaned back on his hands. The hum in his chest was still there—quiet, constant, threaded through his mana like an echo that wouldn’t fade.

  Whatever the system had done, it was finished. For now.

  The days on the river slipped into a rhythm. The barges moved steady and sure, sails catching long stretches of wind while the current did the rest. Meals blurred together—fish stew, hard bread, and whatever cuts of Shellback the cooks found creative uses for.

  The Pack fell into their patterns. Moose took it upon himself to keep Kip practically under guard, shadowing him whenever he stepped onto the deck and steering him away from the rail with a steady shoulder. Kip didn’t dare argue, not when Moose rumbled about “discipline” every time he so much as leaned too far over the water.

  Mason claimed the role of Kip’s quiet companion, lumbering after him like a rock-shaped shadow. When Kip tried to hide, Mason simply planted himself in front of the boy’s favorite cupboards until he gave up. At night, Mason crouched near his bedroll, a squat sentinel who never seemed to blink.

  Pixie treated the boy like a prize she’d personally discovered. She rode his shoulders when she could, declared him “mascot,” and loudly announced his chores to the crew as though she were training a squire. “Kitchen duty! Floor sweeping! Biscuit retrieval!”

  Amelia said nothing, but her shadows liked to slip under Kip at the worst possible moments. He would yelp when crumbs or scraps vanished at his feet, only to see Amelia calmly licking her paw in the corner.

  Buster remained firmly in the Homestead, sprawling in the grass and muttering that the river was a personal betrayal. He never missed a meal, though, and Ethan made sure bowls found their way to him at regular intervals.

  Through it all, Ethan kept the Pack steady and the barge’s crew at ease, while Lyra matched his pace with her own calm presence. When logistics demanded attention, they handled it. When quiet stretched, they slipped into small banter, easy and unguarded.

  On the third evening, Ethan leaned against the rail with Lyra beside him. The river spread wide, silver in the last light, the barges a line of shadows moving with the current.

  “You’re staring again,” Lyra murmured.

  “At the water,” Ethan said.

  Her ears flicked, the corner of her mouth curving. “Of course. The water.”

  He gave a low huff. “And you’re judging me.”

  “Efficient management,” she echoed back at him, voice smooth with the faintest tease.

  Their banter faded into quiet. Somewhere in that silence, their eyes caught and lingered. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t even deliberate, but neither of them looked away.

  “Enjoying the view?” Gwenna’s voice cut in as she strode past with a bow slung across her back.

  Both Ethan and Lyra jerked back from the rail, startled like they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Gwenna raised a brow at the reaction, clearly puzzled, but went on without waiting. “Current’s smooth for another mile. Best time to stretch your legs before the next bend.” She disappeared toward the prow.

  The air between them shifted, awareness prickling where the silence had been. Ethan cleared his throat, looking back at the water. Lyra sipped her tea, eyes forward, but her tails swayed once behind her, slow and deliberate.