Raka finishes pulling on the new breeches—loose at the waist, but light and well-cut. A clear step up from the trader’s rags. She ties the drawstring and glances back at me, her expression quieter now. Not closed… just not settled yet.
I sit on the edge of the bed and bring up the HUD.
“Something’s been off since I got back,” I mutter. “There it is… I never actually added you to the party.”
Raka looks up sharply.
Kit leans in, peering at the display. “Wait—so she wasn’t fully linked?”
“Bonded, yes. But not listed.” I tap through the menu and select her name.
The confirmation chime rings.
The interface shifts.
Her health bar snaps into place. The bond tightens—sharp, immediate. Like someone stepping out of fog and into sunlight.
Raka exhales softly, one hand flexing at her side. “So… I’m in now?”
“You’re in,” I say. “But not quite where I thought. You’re close to fifteen… not there yet.”
Kit raises a brow. “Wait, didn’t the Greasy Slave Trader swear she was already subclassed?”
I sigh. “He was probably rounding up to press for extra coin.”
“It’s fine,” I continue. “You’re close. A few good fights should push you over. Once you hit fifteen, you can lock in your subclass.”
Raka leans back against the table, thoughtful now. “I’ve never had one,” she says. “A subclass. Most of what I’ve done…” She shrugs. “Instinct. Rage. Survival.”
I nod slowly.
“Then we’re not just leveling you.”
“We’re helping you choose who you want to be.”
Raka’s lips curve faintly. “So what… we go hunting?”
I smirk. “Something like that.”
The road winds through the brush and familiar stone, sun filtering down in sharp beams through scattered clouds. The late afternoon air is brisk, but clear — good travel weather. Kit walks at my side, light-footed and humming softly, while Raka leads the way up the narrow trail, my spear in one hand and my shield in the other—on loan.
She wears no armor. Just the simple breeches, a loose leather wrap for her chest, and the same steady pace that made her seem more like a stalking predator than a soldier.
It takes less than half an hour to reach the overgrown mouth of Kobold Cavern. Horrible, just like we left it.
I stand near the entrance—Kit beside me, tail flicking—while Raka steps inside without hesitation.
A screech echoes from deeper in the cavern, and Kit and I step in after her.
A swarm of kobolds — spears, slings, chipped daggers in hand — come rushing through the narrow cavern bend. They never stood a chance.
Raka meets them with savage efficiency. I watch as my borrowed spear lashes forward in vicious arcs, knocking weapons aside, piercing skulls, smashing windpipes. Her shield arm moves in tight, brutal strikes — not for defense, but for impact. She drives it into jaws, drives it into throats, crushes ribs without slowing down.
The first five fall like wheat. She doesn’t pause. The next few try to run.
Raka doesn’t let them.
She moves through their ranks like a wolf in a chicken coop — savage and surgical. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Just raw instinct, honed over years of chained survival and silent fury.
I don’t lift a finger.
Kit watches, wide-eyed. “Okay… she’s terrifying.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
“But she’s with us.”
When the final kobold crumples to the cave floor, silence returns.
Raka stands in the blood-drenched gloom, chest rising and falling slowly. She lifts her head, eyes closing for a brief moment.
Something shifts. I feel it through the bond—a subtle pull, her presence settling into something more defined.
DING
“Raka has reached Level 15! Choose a subclass.”
The interface flickers. New options unfold.
I nod, bringing up my HUD. “It’s open. Your choice.”
I take a step forward. She glances back over her shoulder, golden eyes narrowing slightly.
“You already know which one, don’t you?” she asks.
I smile faintly. “I’ve got ideas—but we’ll talk it through. It’s your choice.”
I open the HUD and pull up the list. Light spills out between us, options unfolding like ghost‑lit sigils—each one carrying weight. Not just mechanics. Choices. A path. I’ve felt this moment before, the narrowing of possibility, the quiet shift where what you become starts to take shape.
Raka steps closer—slower than Kit had—her eyes tracking the list with a hunter’s focus. Not curious. Measuring.
“Alright,” I say quietly. “Let’s see what fits.”
I scroll. “Berserker. Pure rage. Strength spikes hard, but you burn through yourself to do it. Hard to stop once it starts.”
Raka exhales through her nose. “That’s not a path. That’s a spiral.”
I nod and move on. “Totem path. Animal spirits, layered defenses, adaptability. More… trained. Ritual-based.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t learn in circles and chants.”
“Storm path,” I continue. “Elemental surges. Pressure. You become the center of a battlefield.”
Kit hums. “Flashy.”
Raka’s lip curls faintly. “Loud. Too much show.”
Kit snickers.
I glance between them, a thought flickering—was that a jab at me?
I let it go and keep scrolling—war-born paths, weapon-bound styles, disciplines built on command and control. None of them land. Raka doesn’t dismiss them anymore; she simply doesn’t react.
Until I slow.
“…Moonfang Sentinel.”
The bond pulses. Raka freezes.
“…Say that again.”
I met her eyes this time. “Moonfang Sentinel.”
Her expression shifts—not confusion, but recognition. Something deeper. I bring the details into focus, reading slower now. “Pack-bond instinct amplification. Defensive response scales with proximity. Strength increases when guarding bonded allies. Shared resilience under pressure…”
Raka’s breathing changes.
“Designed for wolfkin lineages. Rare. Requires compatible instinct patterns and physiology.”
Silence settles between us, heavy and full. I feel it more than hear it.
“That’s not just a path,” she says quietly. “That’s… ours.” Her gaze drops, voice softening. “My clan’s. My old pack.”
Kit stays quiet. Even she feels the weight of it.
Raka looks back at me, steady now, certain. “That’s the one.” Then, quieter: “Choose it for me.”
I hold her gaze for a moment—making sure—then nod and select it.
The bond answers immediately—sharp, deep, and right. I feel it lock in.
A new tag pinged in my HUD:
[Raka – Barbarian: Moonfang Sentinel]
Status: (Harem-Bound)
The moment holds—then deepens. Not a surge, not a flare, but something locking into place. The bond shifts, tightening not just between us but through her. Raka inhales sharply, shoulders rolling once as if something unseen has settled across them. Not weight.
Presence.
A faint sheen of moonlight gathers along her fur—soft at first, like reflected glow, then steadier. Not bright or showy. Just there. Her stance changes too. Not larger, but wider, as though the space around her suddenly belongs to her.
I feel it immediately.
Before, the bond with Raka had been strong and real, but now… now it has edges. Kit feels it as well; I don’t need to look to know. Her tail stills, her attention snapping fully to Raka.
“…Okay,” she murmurs. “That’s new.”
Raka doesn’t answer right away. She lifts her clawed hand slowly, flexing her fingers like she’s testing something invisible. The air around her hums—cold, quiet, steady. That pale sheen traces her knuckles, her shoulders, subtle but alive. Her eyes shift—not glowing, not altered, just sharper. Focused past the surface.
Reading.
Then she turns toward me and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like she’s standing with me.
It feels like she’s standing between me and everything else.
“…I can feel you,” she says, voice low. Her gaze flicks briefly to Kit, then back to me. “…both of you.”
She breathes in again, slower now.
“…and I can see when you’re hurt.”
I smile, warmth settling in my chest at what she’s become.
“Let’s get you some proper gear of your own.”
We leave Kobold Cavern—again—pausing just long enough for me to reclaim my spear and shield before turning toward Marrowpine. Raka walks differently now. No roaring, no frenzy, just quiet power behind steady footfalls. She’s still adjusting; I can feel it through the bond—the way the new strength settles into her, how she tests its edges. A fresh subclass can be intoxicating. It never hit me quite like that… at least not until I bonded with Kit.
Kit remembers too. The two of them fall into an easy rhythm beside me, talking low—Kit teasing, Raka answering with that dry, grounded calm of hers. Not overwhelmed. Not lost in it. Just aware.
We reach Marrowpine before long and head straight for the Honed Edge. The Weapon Merchant looks up as we enter, recognition flickering across his face. I nod toward Raka.
“She’s picking this time.”
He doesn’t argue.
Raka moves through the shop with quiet purpose, running a hand along weapon racks, testing weight and balance—nothing rushed, nothing uncertain. The Weapon Merchant watches her for a moment, then steps in when it matters.
They settle on a war axe first—blue steel, clean-forged, heavy without being unwieldy. Then a shield to match—large, oval, built for real impact. Solid. Practical. Hers.
I give a small nod as the deal closes, coin changing hands.
Raka rolls her shoulders as she straps the shield on, testing the fit and weight. The axe settles into her grip like it belongs there. No grin. No boast. Just a faint, satisfied exhale.
Ready.
Next stop.
The bell over the door gives its familiar chime as we step back into Threads of Fortune. The Leather Merchant looks up from a half-finished jerkin—then her eyes land on Raka.
She blinks once.
Twice.
Then she slowly sets her needle down.
“…You,” she says, pointing at me with a mock-accusing squint. “You really do enjoy bringing me challenges, don’t you?”
Kit snorts.
Raka tilts her head.
I raise my hands innocently. “What? She just needs armor.”
The Leather Merchant gestures at Raka’s seven feet of wolfkin muscle and moonlit presence.
“Sweetheart, that’s not ‘armor.’ That’s a project.”
Kit leans in, whispering loudly, “He likes projects.”
Raka rumbles a low, amused sound. “He likes trouble.”
I sigh. “I’m surrounded.”
“Yes,” the Leather Merchant says dryly, “and now I am too. Come on then, moon-mountain, let’s see what we can do before you break my mannequins just by looking at them.”
She ushers Raka toward the reinforced racks—clearly meant for larger adventurers—and starts pulling down pieces of heavy hide reinforced with metal plates.
Kit circles Raka like a fashion consultant with opinions.
“Oooh, that chest piece is nice. It has a very ‘I could lift you with one arm’ look to it.”
Raka deadpans, “I could.”
Kit beams. “See? Perfect.”
The Leather Merchant holds up a fitted underlayer—thick, soft, clearly designed to sit comfortably under armor.
“Now, before we start strapping plates onto you, we need to talk undergarments.”
Raka blinks. “Why?”
Kit gasps dramatically. “Oh no. She’s a naturalist.”
The Leather Merchant pats Raka’s arm like she’s consoling a confused puppy.
“Wolfkin fur is lovely, darling, but armor rubs. And chafes. And pinches. And if you think you’re too tough to care, trust me—every wolfkin who’s ever come through here has said the same thing. Then they come back limping.”
Raka’s ears flatten slightly. “…I do not limp.”
“You will,” the Leather Merchant says cheerfully, “if you don’t wear the right lining.”
Kit leans in, whispering conspiratorially, “She’s right. I tried going without once. Never again.”
I raise a brow. “When was this?”
Kit waves a hand. “I was naive.Trying to impress a boy.” She winks at me. “Reckless.”
“You’re still reckless,” I say with a smirk.
She grins. “But now I’m cute about it.”
Raka huffs a laugh.
The Leather Merchant hands Raka a padded, seamless underlayer designed for furred species.
“This one won’t snag, won’t bunch, and won’t make you want to rip your armor off mid-battle. Also comes in black, brown, or ‘don’t you dare make me choose.’”
Raka points at the last one.
The Leather Merchant nods approvingly. “Excellent taste.”
Kit elbows me. “See? She’s already learning.”
Raka lifts the heavy hide chest piece next, testing its weight. The Leather Merchant watches her with a satisfied smirk.
“Oh yes,” she says. “This is going to look very good on you.”
I clear my throat. “Function first.”
Kit counters, “Function can be pretty.”
Raka adds, “Pretty can be functional.”
The Merchant tags on… “And functional can be pretty expensive.”
I groan.
All three women grin at me in perfect, terrifying harmony.
“…and now we’re broke again.”
Raka grins—broad, wolfish, a low growl curling under her breath as her grip tightens around the axe. Her eyes gleam with that new Moonfang certainty.
“Then it’s time to hunt.”