I didn't need to wait long. The first of the goblin conscripts shuffled in, his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor. He was followed by another, and another, a slow, hesitant funnel of green-skinned uncertainty. Elara had done her work well. They knew the protocol. They knew who was in charge. They knew that their continued existence was contingent on the contract I was about to offer them.
She had given them the necessary rundown—how to address me, what to expect, the basic social choreography required to avoid getting on the wrong side of the man who had erased their former chieftain from existence. It was a mercy, really. I was hard-pressed for time as it was. The logistics of managing a settlement of nearly fifty souls, planning an expedition into unknown territory, and trying to reverse-engineer the fundamental magical principles of this new reality was a task that consumed every waking moment. I didn't have the bandwidth to explain basic etiquette to creatures whose previous social interactions primarily involved hitting each other with rocks.
My main project, the one that hummed with a quiet, dangerous promise, lay on the workbench beside my desk. Elara's axe. The Orcish Greataxe. It was a brutal, ugly thing, a slab of pitted, dark iron that seemed to absorb the light. But my Analysis skill had revealed a hidden truth within the crude forging.
[Orcish Greataxe (Superior)]
[Quality: Superior]
[Properties: High Carbon Content. Latent Magical Affinity (Dormant). Durable.]
That latent affinity was the key. It was a vessel waiting to be filled, a weapon strong enough to withstand the violent, intrusive nature of runic magic. I had considered modifying my own short sword, the one Leo had crafted with such pride. But I'd dismissed the idea almost immediately. It was a pointless allocation of resources. I was a Scholar. My battlefield role was that of a controller, a strategist, a puppeteer pulling the strings from the back lines. My sword was a tool of last resort, a sharp, pointy declaration that my plan had gone catastrophically wrong. To waste a powerful, mana-draining enchantment on a weapon I hoped never to use in earnest would be the height of tactical stupidity.
My true weapons were my skills, and Rune Scribe was rapidly becoming the most versatile, most powerful tool in my arsenal. It was a unique and demanding discipline, a perfect fusion of my Vocation's core attributes. It required the intense, unwavering focus of a high Willpower, the ability to hold a complex, multi-layered concept in the mind without deviation. And it required the raw intellectual horsepower of a high Intelligence, the ability to project that concept, that will, into the very fabric of an object, to write a new word into its fundamental code.
The magic wasn't permanent, not in the traditional sense. Every runic inscription was a self-contained magical construct, powered by its own dedicated battery. I had to pour a piece of my own mana into the object, creating what the System called a 'Reserve'. The rune would then draw from that Reserve to sustain its effect, the duration determined entirely by the size of the initial investment and the complexity of the enchantment. A simple Rune of Minor Hardening on a wooden shield might last for weeks on a small Reserve. A more powerful enchantment, something that actively shaped the world around it, would burn through its mana in a matter of hours, or even minutes.
The word had to match the object. That was the first, most fundamental law of Runic Scribing. You couldn't inscribe 'Burn' on a waterskin or 'Float' on an anvil. The object's nature had to be receptive to the word's intent. The Rune of 'Empower,' for instance, was a beautifully versatile word. It could be placed on a blade of sufficient quality, feeding on the weapon's inherent purpose to increase its sharpness, its killing potential. It could be inscribed on the stone of a wall, drawing on its strength to make it more resilient. It could even, in theory, be placed on living flesh. I had experimented with inscribing 'Empower' on my own arm, and the result had been a temporary but significant boost to my Strength attribute. The problem was one of efficiency. The human body was a dynamic, constantly changing system, and the rune fought against that dynamism. The mana drain was immense, a constant, voracious hunger that would leave me magically exhausted in minutes. The rune would resist the temporary nature of flesh, and then, inevitably, it would fade.
The Rune of Unraveling was the exception. The anomaly. The terrifying, beautiful monster I had bound to my own soul. It was not powered by a simple Reserve. For some reason I did not yet understand, it had formed a symbiotic, parasitic bond with my very existence. It was a part of me now, a permanent scar on my soul, its crimson light a constant, quiet hum beneath my skin. Or so I believed. The System's description had been ominously vague on the long-term consequences of hosting such a volatile piece of magic.
But Elara's axe would not require such a complex, soul-scarring piece of work. Her purpose was simple. Her fighting style was direct. She did not need a web of intricate, conditional enchantments. She needed a single, brutal, and profoundly effective word. A word that would honor the nature of the weapon she wielded. A word that would turn her from a deadly warrior into an unstoppable engine of destruction.
I looked at the heavy, dark iron of the greataxe, and the word formed in my mind, clean and perfect.
Cleave.
[Rune Word: Cleave]
[Type: Active Enhancement]
[Effect: Upon activation by the wielder's will, the enchanted weapon will temporarily ignore a percentage of the target's physical armor. The effectiveness of the armor penetration is dependent on the wielder's Strength and the quality of the inscription.]
[Mana Cost: High initial activation cost, followed by a moderate drain per swing.]
It was perfect. It was a can opener for armored opponents, a solution to the heavily-plated brutes like the Orcs who could shrug off lesser blows. It would turn Elara into the ultimate giant-killer. The inscription would be difficult, requiring a significant portion of my mana pool to create a lasting Reserve, and a level of focus that would leave me drained for hours. But it would be worth it. Every point of mana, every moment of concentration, was an investment in the safety of my Captain, and therefore, in the safety of us all.
The first goblin conscript shuffled forward, his head bowed, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. He knelt before my desk, awaiting the contract that would bind him to our new tribe.
I remained seated behind the heavy oak desk, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of my presence settle over them. The air was thick with the scent of their fear, a sour, animal odor that mingled with the clean smell of pine from the furniture and the distant, metallic tang of Leo's forge. I steepled my fingers, a gesture I'd seen a thousand times in old-world boardrooms, a simple posture of calm, analytical authority. It felt absurdly out of place, and yet, in this moment, it felt absolutely right.
"I believe that you all understand the nature of the choice before you," I began, my voice quiet but carrying an unnatural resonance in the stone-walled chamber. I deliberately kept my tone level, devoid of anger or threat. The most terrifying pronouncements are always delivered in a calm, reasonable voice. "When you accept this contract, you will be bound to this settlement. To me. This is not a temporary arrangement. This is not a reprieve from the executioner's axe. This is forever."
I let that word hang in the air. Forever. For creatures who had lived their entire lives in a state of brutal, moment-to-moment survival, the concept was so vast, so alien, it was a cage in itself.
"I will not tolerate the old ways here," I continued, my gaze sweeping over their bowed heads. "There will be no disrespect. There will be no squabbling over scraps of meat. There will be no petty cruelties enacted upon those weaker than you. This is a place of order, of purpose. You will not shirk from your duties. You will not question the commands of your appointed leaders. You will work, you will contribute, and you will earn your place in this home."
I paused, leaning forward slightly, my voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper that forced them to strain to hear. "And should any of you be foolish enough to betray that trust… should you think for even a moment that the life of a traitor is preferable to the life of a citizen… I want you to understand something very clearly."
I lifted my left arm, the one that bore the faint, white tracery of the Rune of Unraveling. I focused a minuscule, almost insignificant thread of my will into the parasitic construct. The runes, which had been dormant, flickered. A faint, crimson light, like the glow of a dying ember, pulsed beneath my skin. It was not a grand display. It was a subtle, intimate threat, meant only for them. The air in the room grew colder, the shadows in the corners seeming to deepen and writhe. The goblins flinched as one, a collective, instinctual recoil from something their primitive souls recognized as fundamentally wrong.
"My wrath," I whispered, the crimson light on my arm pulsing in time with my words, "will be much, much worse than anything you could ever find outside this Grotto. Grul's death was a mercy. The Pain-Artist's end was a gift. What I would do to a traitor… well. Let's just say it would be a very long, very detailed, and very final lesson in the nature of deconstruction."
The crimson light faded. The oppressive cold receded. I let them kneel there in the sudden, ringing silence, their own terrified breathing the only sound.
'Goddess, am I that intimidating?' The thought was a flicker of my old self, a moment of academic surprise at the raw, visceral effect I now had on other beings. Then the leader, the strategist, reasserted control. 'Well, it's better used than thwarted.' Fear was a tool, and a sharp one at that. If they feared me, truly feared me, it would solve a thousand potential disciplinary problems before they even began. They would cause as little trouble as possible while I was gone, though I was sure even half the Gutter-Guard could slaughter them all in minutes if they stepped out of line. Not to mention Torvin, whose simmering rage was a far more immediate and understandable threat than my own strange, quiet menace.
"With that being said," I said, my voice returning to its calm, reasonable tone, the sudden shift in demeanor designed to be as jarring as possible. "Do you understand?"
A wave of vigorous, terrified nodding rippled through the kneeling goblins. They did not dare to speak. They understood perfectly.
"Good." I leaned back in my chair, the picture of a reasonable, benevolent leader once more. "It seems your numbers reach around fifteen. That is a significant addition to our workforce. And because I am a generous leader, because the MourningLord believes in the power of purpose, you will have the luxury to decide your place in this new life. You all have a few options."
I held up a single finger. "First is the path of sustenance. The path of the farmer. This is a life of hard, honest labor. You will work the new fields we are clearing in the valley. You will feel the good, clean dirt under your fingers. You will learn the secrets of the seed and the sun. It is not glorious work, but it is the most vital. A soldier cannot fight on an empty stomach. A blacksmith cannot forge without the strength that food provides. You will be the foundation upon which our entire settlement is built." I let them consider this. The promise of endless food, of being the source of it, was a powerful lure for creatures who had known only starvation. "This path also means you will work in the kitchens, helping the humans there. You will learn to cook, to prepare, to create. You will be the heart of our home."
I held up a second finger. "The second path is the path of the warrior. You can choose to become a member of the Gutter-Guard." A murmur went through the goblins at the name of their new, Hobgoblin elite. "This is a path of blood and honor. You will be given the finest iron weapons our forge can produce. You will be clad in the toughest leather our tanners can craft. You will be expected to fight, and if necessary, to die in the name of the Grotto. You will be expected to grow stronger, to hunt for the deep-meat, to walk the path of the big change in the name of the Grotto. You will also be the keepers of the law within these walls."
I let my gaze harden. "But I warn you. This path is not for the weak or the cowardly. The training will be brutal. The discipline will be absolute. Should you become a problem, should you fail in your duties, you will have to face the wrath of Captain Elara and War-Chief Gnar. And their wrath is far more direct and unpleasant than my own. Continual failure," I said, my voice dropping to a cold, flat finality, "will result in banishment or death. We have no room for weak links in our shield wall."
The choice was stark. The chance for ultimate power, at the risk of ultimate failure.
I held up a third finger. "Then there is the path of the craftsman. The path of the builder. Our settlement needs more than just food and soldiers. It needs tools. It needs homes. It needs the things that turn a cave into a city." I gestured towards the distant, rhythmic clang of Leo's hammer. "You can choose to apprentice yourself to the forge. To learn the secrets of fire and iron from Master Leo. It is a life of heat, and sweat, and endless, back-breaking work. But you will create things of power and beauty. You will forge the very weapons that defend our home."
I then gestured in the other direction, towards the scent of sawdust and curing hide. "Or you can apprentice yourself to the workshop. You can learn the secrets of wood and leather from Mistress Maria. You will learn to shape a bow, to fletch an arrow, to stitch a suit of armor that can turn a blade. It is a life of patience, of skill, of quiet, meticulous work. But you will create the things that make our lives better, safer, more civilized."
I leaned back, my hands resting on the arms of my chair. I had laid the choices before them. The farmer, the warrior, the craftsman. The belly, the fist, and the hand of our new society.
"The choice is yours," I said, my voice a quiet, final pronouncement. "You will not be forced into a role. You will choose your own purpose. You will decide what kind of citizen you will be. Consider carefully. Your new life begins now."