The night did not answer him.
It simply watched.
Colin's figure disappeared into the darkness beyond the shack, his footsteps fading into the quiet rhythm of the fortress.
He had said everything that needed to be said.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Inside that broken shelter—
Something had changed.
Berg did not move for a long time.
The barrel lay empty beside him.
The warmth of the liquor still burned in his chest—
But it was no longer just alcohol.
It was memory.
His gaze drifted downward, landing once more on the small silver jug in his hand.
His thumb brushed over the engraved mark—
The hammer.
The flame.
The snow lotus.
For a moment—
His fingers stopped trembling.
Then slowly—
Very slowly—
He reached out with his other hand.
Toward the pile of scrap.
The broken sword.
The warped spearhead.
The shattered arrow tips.
Trash.
That was what he had called them.
And it was true.
But—
His hand did not withdraw.
Instead—
It tightened.
He picked up the broken sword.
Held it up.
Turned it slightly, letting the faint firelight catch along the jagged fracture.
His eyes narrowed.
Not in sorrow.
In judgment.
"…Too much carbon loss…" he muttered hoarsely, almost unconsciously.
"…impurities not burned out… no proper quenching…"
The words came naturally.
Instinctively.
Like breathing.
Like living.
For a brief moment—
The hollow emptiness in his eyes flickered.
And something else—
Something ancient—
Something forged in flame and hammered into bone—
Stirred.
He gripped the blade tighter.
Then—
With a sudden motion—
He slammed it against the ground.
"Wrong."
Not despair.
Not anger.
Correction.
The kind only a master could make.
His breathing grew heavier.
Not from grief—
But from something returning.
Across the fortress, the wind howled softly against the wooden walls.
Inside the warm cabin, the young Giant Snow Wolf cubs whimpered in their sleep, unaware that another kind of "beast" had just begun to awaken.
A furnace.
One that had not truly died—
Only been buried.
Berg looked again at the scrap.
This time—
Not as a reminder of failure.
But as material.
Raw.
Flawed.
Yet usable.
"…Steel teeth…" he rasped, recalling Colin's words.
Slowly—
He leaned forward.
Closer.
His eyes, though still bloodshot and wet, now carried a faint—
Dangerous—
Light.
Not hope.
Not yet.
Something harsher.
Purpose.
Revenge.
His hand reached again—
This time not hesitating—
And gathered several arrowheads into his palm.
Weighed them.
Tested them.
"…Too soft…"
A pause.
"…but fixable."
Outside—
Blackwood Fortress slept.
Peaceful.
Secure.
Unaware.
But in that forgotten corner—
The first spark struck.
And though it was small—
It was enough.
Because in the world of fire and iron—
A single spark—
Was all it ever took.