Their next raid defense was less than an hour away. Every instinct told Rourke they weren't ready.

Darian stood off to one side, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the patchy sky like it had personally offended him. The old tank adjusted the battered shoulder guard he never bothered to fix properly. "We’re down two bodies," he grunted as Rourke approached. "And Tobin says his wrist’s still buggered from yesterday."

"I said it’s manageable," Tobin shot back quickly. The young off-healer hunched over a bench nearby, massaging his wrist with short, nervous motions. "I can still cast. I just… might need a second longer to stabilize heavy spells."

Darian snorted. "Second longer’ll get you or someone else killed."

Rourke swallowed a sigh and kept his tone steady. "We’ll adjust positioning. Keep Tobin second-line only. I'll cover direct triage."

Across the square, Maeve stretched lazily, bow strung and slung across her back. She tossed Rourke a wink. "Always knew you liked being hands-on, boss."

Kara, leaning against the fountain’s cracked base, gave a low, dry chuckle. She didn’t speak, but her amusement was clear enough.

Rourke shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. "Focus, Maeve."

"I’m focused," Maeve said, grinning as she tested the tension on her bowstring. "Focused on not dying because pretty-boy Tobin here trips over a healing chant."

"I’m not going to—!" Tobin began hotly, but Rourke cut him off with a raised hand.

"Enough. Everyone knows their assignments. Darian anchors the front. Kara sweeps flankers. Maeve, you stay mobile and pick off archers and mages. Tobin, stabilize from the rear. I’ll float between."

They all nodded, even Tobin, though his expression was tight.

Rourke ran a hand through his hair. They weren’t polished. They weren’t a perfect unit. But they were better than they had been a week ago—and for this fight, that would have to be enough.

He caught Darian’s eye as the group began prepping gear. The older man gave a slight nod, the closest thing to approval Rourke was ever likely to get from him.

It was a fragile rhythm they had built—half trust, half stubbornness—but it was theirs.

And Rourke intended to make damn sure it held.

---

The raid came faster than expected.

No system warning, no global shout—just the sudden, sharp thud of boots on stone and the distant bark of shouted orders. A low horn sounded beyond the tree line, and a dozen hostile figures spilled into the village square.

"Positions!" Rourke snapped, already moving.

Darian let out a rumbling curse and stepped forward, planting himself like a wall of iron between the raiders and the villagers they sheltered behind. His shield slammed into the dirt with a loud thunk, signaling the others to fall in.

Kara vanished into the shadows without a word, slipping around the perimeter like smoke.

Maeve nocked an arrow before Rourke had even finished barking orders. "Pick your favorites for me, boss," she called cheerfully over the noise. "I like my targets squirmy."

Tobin hesitated a half-second too long before pulling back to the second line, hovering behind a battered cart for cover. Rourke caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, biting down on the urge to snap. No time.

The first wave hit hard—brutes swinging rusted axes and low-tier magic users lobbing sparks like amateur fireworks.

Darian absorbed the charge like a living fortress. Every blow that landed on his shield sent a jolt up Rourke’s spine, but the old tank barely budged. He grunted with effort, teeth bared, as he shoved one attacker back into his own line with a brutal shield-bash.

"Still breathing," Darian growled. "Don't screw it up, healers."

Rourke already had hands raised, energy coalescing between his palms. His interface flickered with health bars dipping sharply into the red.

Minor Heal—cast.

Minor Heal—cast.

A stream of stabilizing energy flowed from him to Darian, then to Kara as she materialized behind an archer and slit his throat with surgical precision.

Maeve’s arrows sang past his ear, one after another, each one punching cleanly into exposed flesh or soft gaps in armor. She didn’t miss.

But it was Tobin that made Rourke’s gut clench.

The younger healer was lagging, late on his target switches. Twice Rourke had to cross-cast into Tobin’s sector to patch holes before the frontline buckled.

"Prioritize Darian and Kara!" Rourke snapped without looking. "They’ll break formation if they fall!"

"I’m trying!" Tobin called back, panic edging into his voice.

An axe-man broke through the left flank, charging toward the villagers.

Without thinking, Rourke shifted Mass Heal into readiness—felt the familiar sharp pull at his mana reserves—and unleashed it.

A wave of healing burst outward, surging over the group like warm rain. Cuts closed. Bones knitted. The faltering line stiffened.

Even Tobin looked stunned at the sudden reversal.

Maeve whooped from somewhere behind him. "That’s what I’m talking about!"

The raiders hesitated, momentum broken. And hesitation, Rourke had learned, was blood in the water.

"Push them back!" Darian barked, slamming his shield into another raider and sending the man sprawling.

Kara flowed in like a ghost, finishing the downed enemy before he could rise.

Maeve’s arrows found two more.

Within minutes, the attackers broke and fled into the woods, dragging their wounded with them. Their horn sounded again—this time thinner, more desperate.

The fight was over.

---

They regrouped near the fountain, breathing hard.

Rourke staggered a little as he dropped onto the cracked stone ledge. His mana reserves were scorched nearly dry. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

Maeve sauntered over, grinning wide. "Not bad, Firestarter," she teased, ruffling his hair like an affectionate older sister. "Starting to believe you’re good for more than just paperwork."

Darian leaned on his shield, face grim. "Could’ve been cleaner."

"We survived," Kara said quietly from his left.

Rourke met Darian’s stare, refusing to shrink under it. "We’ll be cleaner next time."

A grunt. Almost approving.

Tobin stood apart, rubbing his wrist and looking miserable. Rourke caught the glance—the guilt, the shame—and made a note to deal with it later. Now wasn’t the time to tear each other apart.

Now was the time to hold.

"Good work," Rourke said aloud, voice firm enough that even Tobin straightened slightly. "We lived. They didn’t. That’s a win."

The others nodded, the tension slowly bleeding out of their postures.

Above them, the sun finally broke through the mist, casting pale gold across the battered village.

It wasn’t a clean victory.

But it was theirs.

And for now, that was enough.