Before I finished speaking, Morgana almost bit my hand.

  Not aggressively — with the direct urgency of someone who sees no reason to wait for permission for something that has already been offered. The stone disappeared before I processed the movement. She chewed, or let the Nectar dissolve, with the expression of someone who has just confirmed a hypothesis they already expected to be true.

  "Thank you."

  So that was that.

  I stared at my own hand for a few seconds. Then at her. Then back at the hand.

  I had devoured the five previous ones like a starving animal, without thinking of sharing a single one, and had only considered the last because she was looking at me with those eyes that made ignorance impossible. The universe had given me a queen from another world — a woman who had commanded armies, negotiated with gods, governed millions — and apparently the first thing royalty taught you was everything except table manners.

  "I hope there are no side effects…"

  I examined my own body as a precaution. Nothing different, at least nothing perceptible.

  "Zeus. Any changes registered?"

  [ After analysis: estimated 0.1% increase in overall conditioning. Slight extension of life expectancy by 5 years. ]

  "That's all?"

  "Yes, Lord."

  I sighed. After five Nectar stones, only 0.1%. Of course — however negligible it was, it was progress. And in the Oasis, any accumulated progress was the difference between who survived and who didn't. The mathematics of survival was made of tenths, not leaps.

  ?

  When day broke, the tension eased slightly — not because the danger had passed, but because sunlight reorganized risks in a way I could manage better. Nocturnal creatures retreated. Diurnal creatures I hadn't yet fully mapped in that territory, but at least they were the kind of problem I could see coming.

  "Zeus, what constructions are available?"

  The system opened four paths.

  Extraction. Defense. Attack. Utility.

  Each represented a different philosophy of how to survive the Oasis — expand resources, strengthen position, conquer territory, optimize what already existed. In theory, the choice depended on the stage of development and the predominant type of threat. In practice, it depended on what I had time to build before the next attack.

  The Wendigo Alpha was still, probably, the leader of the external territory. Alone, without subordinates, it wouldn't advance — it wasn't irrational enough to attack two opponents who had wiped out its entire pack. But "probably" and "wouldn't be irrational" were bets, not certainties. And bets failed.

  The image of the colossal serpent still appeared when I closed my eyes for too long.

  If it was the next threat, none of the four philosophies would be sufficient.

  But I couldn't plan for the impossible. Only for the probable.

  "Defense first."

  The offensive options were tempting — soldiers, attack capability, active expansion. But investing in conquest before consolidating position was the mistake that killed Lords with potential on the fourth or fifth day. I had gotten this far by being careful. This wasn't the time to change the philosophy.

  The wall available was technically a palisade — nearly four meters of wood reinforced with iron nails. Nothing impressive. But "nothing impressive" that existed was superior to "very impressive" that I didn't have time to build.

  A stone wall would be more resistant. But its construction consumed iron in quantities I couldn't afford to waste — iron was the most versatile resource in the territory, needed simultaneously for weapons, tools, and structures. For now, a wooden palisade would be sufficient.

  With three builders, I enclosed the castle before midday.

  It wasn't pretty. It worked.

  The problem was the mine. It sat a hundred and fifty meters from the castle — outside the direct protection of the palisade, at the most vulnerable point in the corridor between the two locations. Building a structure that covered everything would be impossible with the available resources.

  The solution was to divide the problem in two.

  Front one: castle. Myself and Morgana, primary defense, immediate reaction capability.

  Front two: mine. Palisade, cover towers, dedicated workers with a defined retreat route and direct deposit in the protected area.

  For that I needed two additional things: more towers and a depot.

  The depot was the most underestimated construction in the early stages — most Lords only considered it when the territory had already grown beyond the point where its absence caused real damage. But in my case, the distance between mine and castle made every worker journey a constant risk. The depot resolved that. With it positioned at the mine itself, storage occurred at the point of collection, eliminating the route as a risk vector. The workers didn't need to travel to register what they collected.

  "These palisades won't stop an intelligent enemy."

  But they would buy time. And time was the only currency I couldn't produce — only spend efficiently.

  When night fell again, I was out of resources for new constructions and without any margin for error.

  No attack came.

  I released the breath I hadn't even noticed I was holding.

  ?

  I had just closed my eyes when Zeus spoke.

  [ Lord. The market is available for construction. Sufficient resources confirmed. ]

  I sat up immediately.

  The market was useless on arrival — no newcomer had anything to trade. But the mistake wasn't building it early. The mistake was building it late. There was a brief period when every Lord in the quadrant was equally desperate, equally under-resourced, equally willing to negotiate without leverage. The best deals in the Oasis happened in that window, between equals who needed each other. Miss it, and the market was still open — just no longer for you.

  "Build market."

  The structure that emerged was modest to the extreme — a small cabin beside the House of Iron, in front of the temple, with no external features that would justify attention. I pushed the door open.

  And the interior matched the exterior in absolutely nothing.

  A large hall, illuminated by a light with no identifiable source, full of figures in constant motion. Humans, other races, forms I couldn't classify with any reference I had. Everyone speaking at once, at volumes that overlapped without canceling each other out, creating a background noise with the specific texture of places where money and information circulate in the same flow.

  They weren't physical. They were projections — holograms without tangible mass, connected from their own territories through a dimensional interface the market served as a point of intersection. I saw the other Lords. The other Lords saw me.

  Which meant I had just become visible to the entire Oasis.

  The reception was immediate.

  [Unknown_447]: Hey everyone — a newbie!

  [Unknown_891]: Hey, newbie! Which quadrant are you from?

  [Unknown_1221]: Newbie! I have exactly what you need. Only three thousand wood!

  [Unknown_203]: Shut up, Marak! Who the hell has 3k wood at the start?

  [Unknown_1221]: Lords with long-term vision, obviously.

  [Unknown_891]: You okay, newbie? Looks like you took a beating.

  The noise hit me like a physical wave. I had read about the market — described in the Compendium as a "point of commercial and informational confluence between active Lords." The description was technically accurate and completely inadequate for what it was in practice: chaos with minimal structure, where every voice competed for attention and every offer had at least three embedded traps.

  Morgana entered right behind me.

  The whistles came before she finished crossing the door. Comments in at least three different languages, two of which I understood but would have preferred not to.

  She ignored them with the naturalness of someone who had governed a kingdom and developed immunity to unsolicited opinion long before arriving at the Oasis.

  I moved to one of the central counters. Behind it, a figure the system had clearly generated to serve as an interface — eyes fixed without blinking, expression calibrated to appear welcoming without appearing human, with a margin of error small enough to be unsettling.

  "Lord Leonidas, quadrant 24B." — the voice was too smooth, without the micro-variations that turn speech into communication. — "Congratulations on surviving the first days. Your territory is classified as unexplored and highly dangerous… but great dangers bring great opportunities, don't they?"

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  "I suppose they do."

  The mechanical smile that followed left me uncomfortable in the specific way that almost-human things do — too close to ignore, too distant to trust.

  "How may I assist you, Lord?"

  My body responded before the analysis finished.

  "I want to buy meat."

  There was a brief silence — the kind artificial interfaces produce when processing a request that wasn't at the top of the probability list.

  "Any preference?"

  "No. As long as it's edible and doesn't come with a built-in infection."

  Wendigos were out of the question — not because they were bipedal, but because their flesh was toxic by nature, a direct product of the same biochemical process that made their bite a transformation vector. Even if Morgana could cure the poisoning, the energy cost to her wouldn't compensate for the nutritional value to me.

  "Form of payment?"

  "Iron ore, stone, or wood. Whatever is most advantageous for the seller — within reason."

  "Locating offers…"

  While the interface processed, I kept my attention divided between the hall and what was happening outside the market. I hadn't built soldiers to trust the territory without supervision. Perhaps in the future — with stone walls, with a functional barracks, with Morgana trained in coordinating defense across multiple fronts. But right now, every minute inside the market was a minute without eyes on the perimeter.

  That was when Zeus interrupted.

  [ Lord. Trade request received. Identity: anonymous. Do you wish to accept? ]

  I frowned.

  Anonymous identity in the market was rare — the system charged a considerable cost to mask origin, which meant that whoever paid for it had concrete reason not to be identified. Nobody hid their face without reason. And reasons in the Oasis were rarely simple.

  "Accept."

  The hall vanished. In its place, a neutral space — empty, silent, stripped of everything that wasn't the transaction itself. Two floating chests facing each other across the center. The other party, invisible beyond their side of the exchange. Just the mechanic: deposit, cross, open. No inspection before the switch. No take-backs after.

  My chest was empty. The request had been unilateral.

  They crossed paths in the air and settled into position. I opened mine.

  An egg. The size of a basketball. Blue-grey shell with a texture that seemed to shift slightly depending on the angle, and a low, constant internal vibration — not mechanical, but organic. Like something that was waiting.

  "Zeus. What is this?"

  [ Request: unilateral trade. ] [ Item received: Random Mount Egg — grade unknown. ] [ Item required: none. ]

  I froze.

  Unknown mount. Free. Without declared counterpart, without visible condition, without any element of the trade that made sense within any commercial logic I knew. In the Oasis, nothing was given without reason — especially not something of disproportionate value to a newcomer from a peripheral quadrant.

  "Why are you giving me this?"

  The silence lasted longer than I expected. Long enough for me to consider that the connection had been closed without a response.

  Then came the voice.

  Feminine. Distant, as though coming from behind something that deliberately muffled sound. Distorted enough to make recognition impossible, clear enough for every word to arrive without ambiguity.

  "I know who that ring belongs to."

  My heart tightened.

  "An enemy of my enemy… is my ally."

  The connection was severed. The isolated space dissolved and the market reassembled around me — same hall, same noise, same indifferent crowd. As though nothing had happened. The egg was in my hands. Real weight, temperature slightly above ambient, the internal vibration I now felt through my palms.

  I stared at my own fingers.

  The ring.

  I had been careless in a way that wasn't characteristic of me — the ring was discreet, small, easy to overlook in a quick analysis. But the market connected Lords from multiple quadrants, and some of them had item recognition systems that went far beyond what I had assumed as standard. Someone had seen. Someone had identified. And someone had decided that me being the new bearer was information worth a mount egg.

  This wasn't generosity.

  It was political investment.

  Someone hated the vampire — or the ring's former owner, or both — with enough intensity to spend considerable resources on an unknown Lord from a peripheral quadrant, simply to signal alignment. Which meant there was an already established conflict structure that I had entered without knowing, simply by wearing the ring.

  And if there was someone willing to help me for that reason…

  There was someone willing to kill me for the same reason.

  I tucked the ring inside my uniform — not on my finger, not visible. Then I looked at Morgana, who had observed everything without comment, with that silent attention I was learning to recognize as her way of saying she had understood before I finished processing.

  "I'll need to be more careful."

  She nodded slightly. No "I told you so." No observation about what could have happened. Just confirmation that the diagnosis was correct.

  A queen, truly.

  ?

  "Lord, I found a seller." — the interface resumed as though nothing had happened. — "Offer: 100 kg of Crukoton for 10 iron ore."

  I almost laughed.

  "Counter-offer: 3 iron ore and 5 wood."

  "Sending."

  Crukoton — a large bird, resembling a muscular ostrich with reinforced bone structure and an aggressive temperament toward anyone who didn't know how to approach it. Dangerous for beginners without adequate equipment. For a Lord with iron tools and coordinated workers, it was walking protein. It could be domesticated, raised on a farm, transformed into a sustainable food source in the medium term.

  The seller was pricing iron for livestock. Either they thought I was ignorant about the relative value of resources, or they thought my newcomer status left me desperate enough to accept any offer. Perhaps both.

  But in the Oasis, whoever negotiated in desperation negotiated from a permanent disadvantage.

  "Lord, the seller is requesting a conversation. Do you wish to accept?"

  "Of course."

  Before entering the interface, I pressed my uniform over where the ring was. Lesson learned.

  The screen opened to a large bald man, broad shoulders, with the direct gaze of someone who had spent enough time in the Oasis to stop trying to appear less threatening than he was.

  "Hey, newbie… so you studied the prices on this creature." — it wasn't a question. He tilted his head slightly. — "Wait… is that an egg?"

  I was still holding the egg. I had no stable, nowhere to store it — carrying it was the only option for now.

  "Found it on the ground."

  A stupid lie for a foolish question.

  "Shall we finalize the trade?"

  He studied me for a few seconds with the expression of someone who recognizes a lie and decides not to make the recognition a problem — at least not now.

  "You don't look like a noble." — the observation came without preamble. — "Where are you from?"

  "Colony or farm — take your pick of terminology."

  A small smile.

  "Then we're two of a kind." — a pause. — "I like you. I'll accept the trade. If you need anything, call on me. My name is Josafar."

  Before I could respond, he confirmed and disappeared.

  The meat appeared — but there was more than agreed. A hundred and fifty kilograms where I had asked for a hundred.

  I stared at the difference for a moment.

  "I'm not sure if this is luck…"

  Or the beginning of something I didn't yet know how to name. Unexpected gifts from people you had just met were rarely just gifts.

  But it wasn't the time to analyze Josafar. It was time to leave the market.

  ?

  I left immediately.

  "Zeus, do I have material to build a stable?"

  "Yes, Lord."

  "How long with three builders?"

  "Five hours."

  "Begin construction."

  I turned to Morgana.

  "Hold this." — I handed her the egg. She received it with both hands, with the specific care of someone who recognizes what they are holding without needing an explanation.

  I organized the meat on the ground and stored it in the ring — the cube didn't accept any item that wasn't a collection input, but the ring was superior for storage regardless. Even after being emptied of the tools, it had proven itself more essential day by day than anything else I carried.

  "Unfortunately, I didn't buy salt…"

  The ocean was suicidal territory for any Lord below a level of strength I was far from having — and since it was the only source of salt in the region, the resource had become a luxury item priced accordingly. Preserving meat without salt meant cooking everything now and consuming it within a short window.

  I lit a fire inside the castle. The structure muffled the light, preventing it from spreading outside — the smell would still travel, but that was a lesser risk than a visible beacon.

  "At least there are no flying creatures in the region."

  There were few advantages to living in a territory classified as D. The absence of aerial predators was the main one — and I had learned not to underestimate small advantages. They were what separated those who reached the tenth day from those who didn't.

  While the meat cooked, I reflected on what the day had revealed.

  The ring was a political risk vector I had underestimated. Josafar was a new variable, with intent not yet confirmed, but who could become a viable economic partner. And the unknown mount egg represented a resource I hadn't planned on having — which meant my development timeline needed to be revised to incorporate it without wasting the potential.

  A Lord was only considered established when they no longer needed to get their own hands dirty. I was far from that. But I was closer than I had been yesterday — and that was sufficient for today.

  I roasted all the meat and stored it in the ring. The smell would attract nocturnal predators if left exposed.

  That was when Morgana spoke.

  "Lord… I sense a new presence."

  I sighed.

  "Could you talk to me sometimes without it being to announce disaster?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "No. Go on. Can you identify it?"

  She narrowed her eyes — not from difficulty, but with the kind of concentration that precedes certainty.

  "It seems… a pack of Putrid Snarlers."

  My stomach went cold.

  I knew what they were. Similar to saber-toothed tigers in structure — broad frame, dense musculature, speed that didn't match the size. But they hunted like wolves: coordinated, with defined roles within the pack, with the patience of something that had learned to wait for the right moment before committing to the strike.

  The name came from the breath. A putrid stench that preceded the attack — not accidental, but functional. It disoriented prey, masked the direction of approach, and in high concentrations could be toxic on its own.

  The blood was acidic. Extremely corrosive — it could be used as a weapon directly, or exploited through dead companions as an area damage vector. A pack that lost members didn't just become smaller. It became more dangerous.

  "How many?"

  "Fifteen, Lord."

  "Any Alpha?"

  "Not that I've seen."

  I breathed deeply. Fifteen Snarlers. No Alpha — the blue-grey dorsal marking was impossible to miss at any reasonable distance, and Morgana hadn't wavered. Acidic blood. Defined hunting roles. Against a wooden palisade, two towers with limited range, and Morgana with five seconds between shots.

  The numbers were manageable. The absence of an Alpha wasn't.

  Putrid Snarlers had a unique characteristic: they only formed a leader while actively seeking their own territory. A leaderless pack meant they had already been established somewhere long enough to no longer need one. That alone was strange. Putrid Snarlers were territorial by nature — displacement wasn't their pattern.

  Displacement was something that happened to them.

  And displaced packs without an Alpha lost the one thing that would have kept them from moving toward occupied territory — because Alphas knew better. They avoided established ground. They calculated risk. Without one, the pack moved on instinct alone, which meant whatever direction they had been pointed in, they would follow without question.

  Instigated. The word arrived before I finished the thought, and I didn't like what it implied. A pack this size, already established, moving without an Alpha — and arriving exactly two nights after the Wendigo Alpha had retreated without a fight. That was either coincidence or it wasn't. In the Oasis, coincidence was rarely the simpler explanation.

  The Wendigo Alpha was patient. Old. Intelligent enough to know that fifteen displaced Snarlers would stress my defenses far more efficiently than its yours subordinates ever could. It hadn't retreated out of fear.

  It had retreated to calculate — how to dismantle what I had built more effectively than nine subordinates ever could. The direct approach had failed. So it had found an indirect one.

  I filed the hypothesis without confirming it.

  For now: fifteen leaderless beasts were fifteen impulsive beasts. Predictable.

  I scaled the palisade and saw them before they arrived — my night vision had improved slightly after the Nectar, not to predator level but enough to distinguish movement in dim light at a useful distance.

  "Morgana. You may fire."

  The towers fired first — massive bolts that tore through ground and vegetation along their path, powerful enough to pass through anything they struck. The problem was speed: the Snarlers were too fast for projectiles of that caliber in open movement. The bolts found earth where a creature had been half a second before.

  Morgana had the advantage. She didn't aim at where the creature was. She aimed at where it would be.

  [ Towers: 3 neutralized. Morgana: 4 neutralized. 8 remaining in motion. ]

  I descended from the palisade and positioned myself in front of her.

  "Fall back to the tower."

  She retreated without questioning. I had learned from the previous battle — it wasn't overconfidence in the palisade, it wasn't underestimating the enemy. It was recognizing that losing Morgana in any battle meant losing the variable that made all the others manageable.

  When the first ones reached the wall, ten were already down.

  Five remained.