Weaklings don't last here. That's just how the dungeon works. Doesn't care if you're clever. Doesn't care if you're fast. It grinds you down, wears you out, chews you up, and spits the bones into the moss.
I'd seen it too many times to count. Good kobolds. Brave ones. All gone now. Torn apart because they hesitated or trusted the wrong tail, or just ran out of luck.
So when I first saw her, I figured it was already over. Another soon-to-be corpse. Small. Thin. Barely enough meat on her to make a decent snack. Dragging a burned torch behind her, swinging a broken stick like it would scare off anything that wanted real blood. Three others stumbled after her—limping, coughing, hungry enough that the dungeon air probably smelled like food.
I crouched in the shadows, tail still, breath low. Watching. Not to scavenge. Not even out of curiosity, really. Something about the way she moved made my claws itch.
She should have looked beaten. Should have looked like prey. But her eyes... Bright. Sharp. Daring the dark to come for her.
It was stupid. It was suicide. It was... something I couldn't walk away from.
The dungeon came for them quick. Pack of lavarats, starved and vicious, smelling weakness from half a mile off.
I settled into the stone, ready to watch it end. One quick rush. Screams. Gone. Just like all the others.
But that didn't happen.
She didn't run. Didn't scream. Didn't even flinch. She shoved the injured ones behind her and roared. A sound too big for her tiny frame, tearing itself raw out of her chest.
And then she fought. Wild. Messy. Fury and desperation bundled into a snarl with legs.
It wasn't skill. It wasn't strength. But it was enough. Enough to drive the rats back, bloody and limping, into the cave.
When the last one squealed and vanished, she didn't collapse. Didn't cry. She just turned back to her people—her pack—and started tying splints with hands shaking so hard she could barely hold the moss.
That night, while they huddled around a fire that spat more smoke than heat, I stayed nearby. Silent. Watching. Not judging anymore.
The next few days told me everything else I needed. No food? She gave hers away first. Injured? She carried them. Lost supplies? She rebuilt with dirt and stubbornness.
She wasn't smart. Wasn't strong. She was... relentless.
It gnawed at me. Because the dungeon isn't fair. It doesn't reward stubbornness. It punishes it.
But she didn't break. And the ones around her—the weak ones who should have died days ago—didn't break either. Because of her.
By the fourth night, I stopped telling myself I was "just watching." I was staying. Whether she wanted me or not.
It was at the broken moss pit where it finally happened. She caught me standing on the ridge—bold as anything—and marched up to me. Not careful. Not polite. Just straight fury wrapped in a shaking frame.
Challenge. No fear. No expectation of mercy.
I looked down at her—this tiny thing who had no right to survive—and something inside me shifted. Not pity. Not duty. Recognition.
The dungeon only respects two things: Strength and the will to keep standing when the world says lie down.
She had both. Ugly. Cracked. Burning. But real.
I grunted. Stepped forward. Drew my blade. And when her eyes widened in wary hope, I bared my teeth in something close to a grin.
"I'll fight."
Because she was already doing the impossible. And if she was insane enough to try and build something here—something more than just surviving until the next kill—then maybe, just maybe...
I wanted to see how far she could drag us.
Ashring wasn't much. A big fire. Some walls. Some scared kobolds pretending we could hold back the dungeon.
But it was more than nothing. And she made it so.
She didn't do it alone. She had claws swinging beside her. Mine included. Even if I grumbled the whole way.
It was her idea to go after the Node. Madness.
Nodes meant monsters. Meant death. Meant more attention than we could afford.
I thought she'd back down when the risks piled up. When we scouted the crumbled tunnels and smelled the rot deeper in. When we heard the wailing of old things guarding what we needed.
But she didn't. She just looked around at Ashring—the fires guttering, the sick coughing—and said:
"We can't live half-alive anymore."
So we went. Me. Her. The kid, clumsy but too serious for his age. Embergleam, reckless but burning bright.
And her, our little fool of a leader, marching with nothing but spit and stubbornness.
The journey was bad. Narrow tunnels. Collapsed bridges. Moss pits that swallowed whole squads if you stepped wrong.
Twice we almost turned back. Once when the kid tripped a stone curse that almost shattered his legs. Once when something big and wet and invisible stalked us for a night and a half.
But she pressed forward. Not fearless. Not stupid. Knowing exactly how much could kill us—and daring it to try.
I saw her patch Ember's arm with a strip of her own tunic. Saw her lift the kid out of a pit by the scruff of his neck, cursing the whole way. She bled for every step. But she never told us to turn back.
And then—the Node. It wasn't just a glowing rock. It was alive. Rotting. Crawling with guardians that stank of old death and madness.
The fight wasn't fair. We were outnumbered. Outmatched. Half-dead already from the journey.
But she didn't falter. Didn't hesitate.
I remember standing back-to-back with her, claws slick, breathing smoke and blood. I remember hearing her laugh—wild, desperate—as we drove the last beast back into the pit.
And I remember the moment the Node accepted her. That blast of heat through the stones. That pulse like a second heartbeat in my chest.
System pings raining down like falling stars:
[Sovereign Node Secured.]
[Settlement: Ashring. Recognized.]
She staggered, blood dripping from her jaw, eyes burning. Not with pride. Not with greed. With the raw, wild certainty that somehow—somehow—we'd carved out a place no one could take without a fight.
I looked at her then—really looked. At the dirt under her claws. At the scars already forming. At the fire that refused to die in her bones.
And I knew.
This wasn't just surviving anymore. This was building. Claiming. Daring the dungeon to try and crush us.
I did pledge myself with words. Did kneel. Did bow. Stood a little taller. Sharpened my claws. Watched her back.
Ashring wasn't hers alone anymore.
It was ours.
Built with blood.
Built with will.
Built with teeth.