Blackwood Fort had never been this crowded.
Nor this unstable.
What had once been an open, wind-swept outpost was now choked with bodies. Crude shacks had sprung up everywhere—crooked, hastily built, pressed together like mushrooms after rain. They swallowed every inch of space. Many newcomers had no shelter at all, forced to huddle in tight clusters around roaring fires, clinging to one another for warmth against the merciless cold.
The air itself felt suffocating.
Damp hides that had never fully dried. Bodies unwashed for weeks. The sharp, sickly tang of herbs smeared over festering wounds. Beneath it all, the thick smoke of burning wood.
It was the smell of survival.
And of something beginning to rot.
The chaos peaked at mealtime.
Twice a day, the entire camp seemed to tighten around a single point.
The pot.
Lina stood behind it, her small frame rigid.
Her face was pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The hand gripping the long wooden ladle trembled—not from fear alone, but from exhaustion.
Inside the iron pot, the so-called "meat porridge" boiled.
In truth, it was little more than murky water filled with shredded roots and wild grass. Now and then, a scrap of meat surfaced—so rare it felt like a miracle. Most bowls received nothing but thin broth.
Warm, perhaps.
But empty.
The line stretched long and silent.
Too silent.
Eyes followed every movement of Lina's hand. Not just with hunger—but with something darker.
Expectation.
Resentment.
As each bowl was filled, whispers spread like ripples.
"…this again…"
"My child hasn't even cried today… no strength left…"
"At least bark fills your stomach…"
"Quiet! Do you want trouble?"
The voices were low, but the anger beneath them was not.
It was growing.
And hunger was not the only problem.
Friction simmered everywhere.
Different tribes. Different instincts. Different tolerances.
At night, the boar-men slept like beasts—heavy, unmoving, their thunderous snores rolling through the camp like distant drums. They rested well.
Others did not.
The deer-folk. The fox-blooded. Lighter sleepers. Nerves always taut.
They lay awake in the dark, flinching at every rumble.
Until finally—
"Can you keep it down?!" a deer-woman cried one night, her voice cracking. "My child hasn't stopped shaking!"
The response came like a hammer.
"If you don't like it, leave!" a boar-man barked. "Think we're loud? Then stay away!"
The line snapped—but only a little.
Not yet broken.
That came at the pot.
"That's it?"
The crack of shattering clay cut through the air.
A bowl hit the ground, breaking cleanly in two.
Silence fell.
The boar-man who had thrown it loomed like a wall—huge, thick-shouldered, his eyes bloodshot with hunger and fury.
He pointed straight at Lina.
"I've been eating frozen dirt for half a month," he snarled. "And this is what I get? Water?"
His voice rose, echoing across the camp.
"I cut more wood in a day than you weigh! And this is my share?"
Behind him, more figures stepped forward.
Boar-men.
Large. Powerful. Hard-eyed.
Not just angry—
Contemptuous.
"Yeah! Why do the deer eat the same as us?"
"They do nothing—we do the work!"
"Move aside! We'll divide it ourselves!"
Lina flinched—just half a step.
Then she steadied herself.
Her grip tightened on the ladle.
"No," she said.
Her voice shook—but did not break.
"These are the leader's rules. Everyone gets the same."
"Rules?"
The lead boar-man laughed.
A harsh, ugly sound.
He gestured around them—at his own kind, at the guards, at the crowd.
"What are your rules worth?"
His finger jabbed toward the Blackwood defenders.
"You think a dozen of you can control all of us?"
His voice surged, loud and clear.
"Right now, the ones who can fight—the ones who can work—are us."
A beat.
"Why should we listen to you?"
The words hit harder than any blow.
Because they were true.
Or close enough to be dangerous.
Behind him, the other boar-men stepped forward.
Not shouting now.
Not posturing.
Moving.
Together.
A wall of flesh and strength.
They shoved past others without effort, closing the distance between themselves and the defenders.
The camp shifted.
People pulled back, instinctively clearing space.
No one intervened.
No one spoke.
They watched.
Waiting.
Lina's heart pounded.
On one side—
Two tired guards. Too few. Too thin.
On the other—
A dozen well-fed, battle-ready giants.
And around them—
Hundreds of silent eyes.
Measuring.
Choosing.
"To hell with your rules!"
The boar-man pushed forward, sweeping aside anyone in his path.
"I'm eating real meat today!"
His hand lifted, pointing straight at the pot.
"This belongs to us!"
And just like that—
The line was crossed.
For the first time since the storm began…
Blackwood Fortress was no longer threatened from the outside.
But from within.
A single spark—
And everything would burn.