The first light of dawn filtered through the scattered trees, golden rays over the makeshift camp. The faint smell of cooked meat and Gromli's famous stew lingered in the air, a comforting contrast to the blood and ash of prior days. Overhead, crows and vultures cawed in the quiet morning, their cries blending with the occasional clink of armor from sentries shifting to keep warm while standing guard.

Inside one of the larger tents, Rugiel stirred, the heavy fatigue of the past few days still clinging to her. She groaned softly, rubbing her eyes and trying to chase the weariness away. Sitting up, she glanced around the tent. Everyone else was already gone.

Snarling a curse under her breath, she threw off her blankets and grabbed for her armor. "Lazy fool," she muttered to herself as she began strapping on her gear, her frustration mounting with each buckle and clasp.

Stronric stood atop the rough walls of the encampment, the dawn's chill brushing against his face. He had risen long before the sun, spurred awake by the sound of Bauru slipping out into the forest. The younger dwarf had insisted on hunting to replenish their food stores, which were dwindling after days of feeding an additional forty mouths.

"Over-prepared," Stronric muttered to himself with a faint chuckle, recalling Gromli's initial boasts about their supplies. "But not for this lot."

As the first streaks of sunlight lit the horizon, Stronric stretched his stiff limbs, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The sentry at the camp's only entrance began making rounds to rouse the militia, their movements slow but steady.

Taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air, Stronric whispered a prayer to the ancestors. "Watch over us, guide us through what's to come," he murmured. His eyes lingered on the distant forest, where shadows still lingered.

With a practiced leap, he dropped from the wall, landing lightly despite his bulk. He strolled toward the central fire, where Gromli was bent over the kindling, coaxing it to life with practiced ease. The cook's face was etched with weariness, his fiery energy muted in the cold dawn.

Stronric gave him a nod of acknowledgment, which Gromli returned with a faint grunt. Just as Stronric turned to speak, Rugiel stumbled out of her tent, her hair disheveled and her expression thunderous.

"Why didn't you wake me?!" she barked, her voice cutting through the stillness like an axe.

Stronric turned to her, a wide, obnoxious grin spreading across his face. "Oh, time to get up!" he said, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

As Rugiel made her way to the central fire, the camp slowly stirred to life. Militiamen emerged from their makeshift shelters, yawning and rubbing their eyes, while the dwarves moved with practiced efficiency, their natural resilience to fatigue evident. The warm aroma of Gromli's stew wafted through the air, drawing even the most reluctant from their beds.

Mintra arrived first, limping slightly as if the weight of the world rested on his slight frame. One hand was pressed theatrically to his lower back, and he groaned loudly with each step.

"Oh, the indignities I suffer for the cause!" he exclaimed, drawing exaggerated looks of sympathy from a few nearby militiamen. "A gnome of my stature, forced to sleep on the hard, unforgiving ground. My back—nay, my very spirit—is in tatters!"

Behind him, Calmin followed quietly, his face bearing the same tired lines, though he said little. Every few steps, he nodded along with Mintra's lamentations, occasionally murmuring an agreement.

"Terribly… discomforting," Calmin mumbled, his eyes fixed on the dirt.

"Discomforting?!" Mintra turned on him, his voice rising. "No, my dear cousin, this was torture! My poor spine will never be the same! And the damp! Why, I fear my joints will seize before we even reach the next campsite."

Gromli, stirring his pot with one hand while balancing a pan of sizzling bacon over the fire with the other, let out a loud snort. "If yer joints are seizin', ye can use that big mouth o' yers to oil 'em. Now sit yer arse down and eat. We don't have time fer yer dramatics."

Mintra gasped, clutching his chest as though wounded. "Gromli, your lack of sympathy wounds me! Have I not been the glue holding this company together? The very heart and soul?"

"More like the noise and whinin'," Bauru muttered as he approached, a fresh haul of game slung over his shoulder. He dropped the carcasses near the fire pit, brushing his hands off on his tunic. With a faint smirk, he added, "If talkin' were fightin', ye'd be leadin' the charge every time."

The exchange drew a few chuckles from the gathered militia, easing the tension in the air. Rugiel shook her head but allowed herself a faint smile as she took a seat near the fire, adjusting the straps of her armor.

The faint crunch of boots on dirt signaled another approach. Armand appeared, his usually confident stride slower, his face pale but resolute. His armor bore fresh patches where dents had been hammered out, and his hand rested on his side where bandages, now darkened with fresh blood, were still hidden beneath his shirt.

Trailing just behind him, Roi walked with an uneven gait, his flanks streaked with dried blood and fresh patches where the wounds had bled through hastily wrapped bandages. The proud horse tossed its head, its strength undiminished despite its clear exhaustion.

"Ah, Armand, mon ami!" Mintra cried, springing up with dramatic flair. "You are a mess! Sit, sit! I shall fetch you a blanket—and for Roi, clean water and fresh bandages! Ze poor darling bleeds again!"

Armand raised a hand weakly, his movements precise but slow. "Non, non, Mintra. I am not so delicate. But... oui," he admitted reluctantly, lowering himself onto a log with deliberate care, "Roi needs attention. Ze battle, it was hard on 'im. Harder zan it was on me, peut-être."

Roi nickered softly, nudging Armand's shoulder with his nose as if protesting the claim.

Mintra tutted loudly, throwing his hands into the air. "You are too stubborn, both of you! Calmin! Water, quickly!"

Calmin nodded frantically, already moving to fetch a bucket from the wagon. "R-right away… b-bandages too?"

"Oui," Armand said, his voice softening as his gaze shifted to Roi. "And do not forget ze herbs for cleaning ze wound. He is brave, mon cheval, but even Roi cannot fight infection."

Mintra crouched beside the horse, his chatter relentless as he inspected the bloodied bandages. "Oh, Roi, you noble beast! Zis will not do. A hero like you deserves ze best care—and I, Mintra, will see zat you get it."

Armand chuckled faintly, wincing as the motion tugged at his side. "You fret like a mother hen, Mintra. But Roi and I, we are grateful. Even if you talk too much."

Mintra straightened, placing a hand on his chest as if offended. "Moi? Talk too much? Never! Zis is how I show my affection, for you both, of course."

Stronric approached, his sharp eyes narrowing as they flicked between Armand and Roi. He crouched beside the horse, his rough hands steady as he began unwinding the bloodied bandages with practiced care. "He's a tough one," Stronric muttered, his tone reluctant but edged with respect. "But even a fighter like that's got limits. Push him too far, and he'll fall like any other. He's not a ram, he is a horse."

Armand's expression hardened. "Roi is stronger zan he looks, monsieur. He carries me because he chooses to."

"And he'll keep carryin' ye if he's cared for proper," Stronric countered. He gestured to the wagon where Calmin was fumbling with the fresh bandages and water. "Let me see to 'im."

Armand hesitated, his pride warring with his pragmatism. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. But gently, oui? Roi is no ordinary horse."

Stronric smirked. "That's plain enough to see."

As Stronric worked alongside Mintra and Calmin to tend to Roi, Gromli's booming voice called the group to attention. "Breakfast's ready, you lazy lot! Eat quick, this ain't no tavern feast!"

The smell of stew and fresh bread filled the air, and the group began gathering around the fire. Stronric clapped Armand lightly on the shoulder as he passed. "Rest while ye can. We'll need yer sword soon enough."

Armand gave a slight smile, his voice soft but firm. "You will 'ave it, monsieur. Roi and I, we do not run from ze fight."

The dwarves stood back as the humans took their place at the front of the meal line, their weary faces lighting up at the prospect of hot food. Bauru crouched near the fire, one of his daggers flashing as he expertly began skinning the game he'd brought back from the forest. His movements were quick and precise, the blade slicing cleanly through hide and sinew.

Nearby, Gromli let out a booming bark of orders. "You there, lad!" He jabbed a finger at one of the militia members lingering in the line. "Yer spoonin' the stew today. Grab that ladle and start fillin' bowls. Move it!" The startled militiaman obeyed without complaint, fumbling with the ladle as he began serving portions into bowls, cups, or anything else that could hold food.

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Satisfied, Gromli stomped over to his supplies, digging through the organized chaos of pots, knives, and spices. With a triumphant grunt, he stood, brandishing a hefty meat cleaver in one hand and a razor-sharp boning knife in the other.

Bauru finished skinning one of the animals and wordlessly passed it to Gromli, who hefted it onto his broad shoulder. Without missing a beat, the cook marched toward the river, muttering about the importance of clean meat. The sound of rushing water soon mingled with the crackle of the fire as Gromli washed the carcass, his gruff voice humming an off-key tune.

By the time he returned, the fire was roaring, and Gromli had already begun planning his next steps. "Let's see how ye clean up," he said to the skinned animal as he set it on the butcher's block, his cleaver raised and ready. The sharp, rhythmic sounds of the blade meeting bone soon joined the morning's symphony of activity. As the stew and bread were passed around, the group lingered by the fire, savoring the brief respite. Rugiel kept a close eye on the militia, noting how their camaraderie had grown. They moved with purpose now, sharing quiet laughs despite their exhaustion.

Mintra, always eager to fill silence, cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. "You know," he began, his tone taking on a scholarly flair, "there's something endlessly fascinating about portals. Some say they're curses, others blessings. Me? I think they're both."

Stronric frowned from his place near the fire, poking at the flames with the butt of his axe. "Aye? And what makes ye think that, Mintra?"

Mintra spread his hands, clearly delighted to have the floor. "Because not all portals are the same, Thane. Some are unstable, unpredictable, yes, but others? Others are stable and reliable. They're called dungeons."

"Dungeons?" Rugiel asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Precisely!" Mintra said, his voice brimming with excitement. "Stable portals don't collapse like the chaotic ones. They remain open, forming self-contained worlds filled with monsters, treasures, and resources. Adventurers flock to them to test their mettle and gain rare gear. Entire cities have been built around dungeons, thriving off the trade they bring."

Bauru grunted, his single eye narrowing. "Ye mean to tell me people make a livin' off these things?"

"Oh, absolutely!" Mintra said, waving his spoon for emphasis. "Dungeons are vital to some economies. They provide rare materials you can't find anywhere else, not to mention places for adventurers to grow stronger. Some cities even have systems for buying and selling dungeon loot—resources, equipment, magic items. It's a cycle, you see. Adventurers delve into the dungeons, sell their findings, and use the profits to gear up for the next delve. Everyone benefits."

Armand, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. "He's not wrong. I've seen cities built entirely around dungeon portals. The Order of the Rose often took missions near such places, protecting the surrounding villages from dungeon overflows. But stable as they may seem, dungeons aren't without danger."

Stronric tilted his head, his expression skeptical. "Danger how? If they're stable, what's the problem?"

Armand's voice was calm but firm. "Stability doesn't mean safety. Dungeons grow stronger over time, their challenges increasing. If they aren't culled regularly, the creatures inside can spill out—an overflow. When that happens, entire towns can be wiped out before anyone can respond."

Mintra nodded, his tone more somber now. "It's true. Overflows are rare, but when they happen, they're devastating. That's why the Adventurers' Guild runs contracts to keep dungeons culled. They're not just for treasure seekers; they're a line of defense."

Rugiel's brow furrowed. "And the portal we're dealing with now? It's not a dungeon, is it?"

"No," Armand said, shaking his head. His tone was measured but firm. "This one's an invasion portal. It's nothing like a dungeon. Invasion portals are opened intentionally, forcing a connection between two worlds. They're unstable by nature, requiring constant resources, people, supplies, and energy, to stay open. If the gnolls are using it, they're feeding it everything they need to keep it active long enough to launch an invasion."

The group fell silent, the weight of Armand's words settling over them like a heavy fog. Even Mintra, usually quick to fill the quiet with chatter, seemed lost in thought.

"It wasn't always an invasion portal," Mintra said finally, his voice quieter than usual. "This was Ever Green, a dungeon. A floral, plant-based one, if my readings are correct. Beautiful but deadly. The Guild contracted adventurers to clear it, but…" He paused, glancing toward Calmin. "Well, it didn't go as planned."

Calmin fidgeted with the edge of his cloak, avoiding the others' gazes. "T-the Guild sent the baron's son and his friends to c-cull it," he said haltingly. "Ever Green h-had gnolls inside… and a gnoll boss at the end. But t-they didn't finish it."

"Didn't finish it?" Rugiel asked, her tone sharp.

"They didn't even try," Calmin said, his voice bitter despite his stutter. "W-when a dungeon overflows, it c-creates rare magic items. Super rare. The b-baron's son wanted them. So, he l-left it. And Ever Green… it overflowed."

Mintra sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Of course. Rare items formed by overflow energy are worth more than most towns. To those who value coin over lives, it's an obvious choice." He gestured to the surrounding forest. "But look where it's gotten us. What was once a manageable dungeon is now an invasion portal."

"What happens during an overflow?" Rugiel asked, her voice calm but icy.

Mintra pushed his spectacles up his nose. "When a dungeon isn't culled, the energy inside builds until it spills into the normal realm. The creatures trapped within escape, stronger, more aggressive than before—and the portal itself destabilizes. It stops being a dungeon and becomes a doorway, a beacon for whatever lies beyond."

"And that's what brought the gnolls," Bauru muttered grimly, leaning forward. "So now we've got an invasion on our hands."

"Avoidable," Armand said, his voice sharp as a blade, cutting through the growing tension. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, his jaw tightening as his words hung heavy in the air. "If ze baron's son had done his duty as he was sworn to do, zis would not 'ave happened. Ze blood of ze town is on his hands, and I…" He hesitated, his expression darkening. "I carry some of zat weight too, as his mentor and protector."

He looked away from the group, his gaze fixed on the fire. "Once, knights stood for honor, for duty. Ze Order of ze Rose was a shield for ze innocent, a beacon of justice. Now…" His voice trailed off, his brow furrowed. "Now we sell our swords to ze highest bidder, our ideals a memory. I see it clearly now, but too late to stop it."

The fire crackled softly, the group exchanging uneasy glances as Armand's words settled over them like a shroud. Rugiel leaned forward, her expression unreadable. "And what will you do about it, knight?"

Armand's eyes flicked to her, the faintest flicker of defiance in his gaze. "What I must. Protect ze people, stop zis invasion, and perhaps… perhaps find a way to make ze Order what it once was. But first," he added, his voice steeling, "we deal with zis portal."

"And now, we are left to mend the consequences of his negligence," Rugiel said, her tone cool and authoritative.

Stronric grunted, his gaze fixed on the fire. "And how do we do that? Ye said it's no dungeon. So where do we start?"

Mintra hesitated, looking at Armand for support.

Armand met Stronric's gaze, his tone steady but laced with his distinct accent. "An invasion portal, it works like a dungeon, oui? Zere is always a master—a leader who controls ze forces. If we kill zat master, ze portal, it will collapse." He paused, his voice growing heavier, a shadow crossing his face. "But zis? Zis is no longer ze Ever Green dungeon I once 'eard of. Ze portal, it 'as twisted. Whatever lies at ze 'eart of it now… it will be far worse zan a mere gnoll."

"Of course it is," Bauru muttered. "Nothing's ever simple."

Mintra leaned forward, his voice turning cautious. "Shutting down an invasion portal is… trickier than a dungeon. If the SYSTEM wants it open, it will fight us every step of the way. The creatures, the terrain, even our own senses, everything will work against us."

Stronric snorted, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "Good. I'd hate for it to be too easy."

Mintra frowned, tapping his chin. "Still, we'll need a plan. If we're not careful—"

"Careful?" Stronric interrupted, his tone gruff but resolute. "The plan's simple: find the boss, kill it, and shut this portal down. Dungeon, portal, or whatever ye call it—it doesn't matter. If it threatens us, we end it."

The fire crackled as the group exchanged glances. The militia huddled closer, listening intently, their expressions a mix of fear and determination. Even Mintra, normally brimming with words, seemed subdued.

Stronric pushed himself to his feet, his shadow cast long against the flickering firelight. "Enjoy the stew while ye can," he said gruffly, his gaze shifting toward the darkened treeline. "We've got a long road ahead, and no one knows what's waitin' on the other side."

The group nodded silently, their meal suddenly feeling heavier. Though the fire burned warm and bright, the weight of the portal—and what it meant for them all—pressed heavily on their shoulders. Stronric barked the first order. "Up and movin', ye lot!"

The camp stirred reluctantly, the militia rubbing sleep from their eyes as they scrambled to obey. Gromli was already by the fire, scraping out the last of the stew from the pot and muttering about wasted food.

"Rugiel," Stronric said, his voice sharp, "see to the militia. Make sure their packs are light, but they've got what they need."

Rugiel nodded, rising gracefully and moving to inspect the militia's progress. Her sharp eyes missed nothing. "Do not carry what you cannot march with," she instructed, her tone firm but even. "Pack essentials only, water, weapons, and rations. Leave anything sentimental behind. We'll not have room for luxuries."

Mintra stood by his wagon, fussing over the contents as Calmin helped him strap down the last of their supplies. "Careful with that!" Mintra cried as Calmin tightened a rope. "Do you have any idea how delicate that chest is? One jolt, and we'll lose the lot!"

Calmin stammered an apology but continued working diligently, his smaller hands quickly checking the knots.

Bauru knelt near the remains of the fire, his dagger flashing as he stripped the meat from the last of the game he'd hunted the day before. Once satisfied, he packed the meat into a pouch and slung it over his shoulder. Predator, his crossbow, hung heavily across his back, ready for whatever lay ahead. "If we've got no room fer sentiment, gnome, maybe ye can leave some o' yer chatter behind," he teased with a faint grin.

Mintra gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. "My dear ranger, I assure you, my 'chatter,' as you call it, is far more valuable than your dry humor."

"Keep movin'," Stronric growled, cutting through the banter.

Armand, his armor freshly strapped and his sword polished, moved with a measured pace as he loaded his belongings onto Roi. The horse shifted uneasily, its wounds still tender, but Armand's soothing touch calmed it. "Steady, mon ami, we 'ave a long march ahead of us, but you will bear it with ze strength and grace zat only you possess."

Bauru approached, her gaze lingering on the horse. "Are you sure he's fit to march, Armand?"

"Roi is stronger than he looks," Armand replied, his voice carrying quiet pride. "But I will not push 'im unnecessarily. If ze load becomes too great, I will carry it myself."

Stronric passed by, his sharp gaze flicking between Armand and the horse. "Don't be a fool. That beast's carrying what it can. Ye can't do everything yerself, knight, no matter what ye think."

Armand inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I do what must be done."

Stronric grunted but said no more, turning to inspect the rest of the camp.

Indomitable, the dwarves' massive ram, stood stoically as several bags were secured to his sturdy frame. Rugiel checked the straps, ensuring nothing would shift during the march. The ram stamped its hoof impatiently, snorting as if eager to be on the move.

"Almost ready," Rugiel said to Stronric, her tone calm but efficient.

"Good," Stronric replied. He turned to the group at large. "Once yer packed, double check yer gear. This march ain't a stroll through the woods. We'll be hitting rough terrain, and the portal's bound to have nasties waitin' fer us. Stay sharp."

The militia, though weary, moved with surprising coordination, their fear and determination driving them to action.

Stronric hefted his axe onto his shoulder and pointed toward the distant treeline. "Let's move out. The portal's not waitin', and neither are we."

The march began, the sound of boots crunching against dirt and the faint creak of Mintra's wagon mingling with the morning's stillness. Though none spoke aloud, the weight of what lay ahead was clear in every step.

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