The wolf had not just sharpened its teeth—
It had grown a spine.
The days that followed were no longer measured in hunger or survival—
But in rhythm.
Fire.
Hammer.
Steel.
The furnace roared day and night like a living beast, its breath never fading, its hunger never sated. The glow of its flames became a second sun within Blackwood Fortress—one that did not set.
And at its heart—
Berg stood.
No longer a broken man in the shadows—
But the master of fire and iron.
His voice replaced silence.
His hammer replaced despair.
"Again!"
"Too slow!"
"Fold it—don't just hit it!"
The apprentices—boarmen, werewolves, even a few nimble-handed deerfolk—worked under his relentless gaze. Their hands blistered, their muscles screamed, but none dared complain.
Because every strike—
Meant strength.
Every spark—
Meant survival.
And every finished spear—
Meant vengeance.
Colin visited often.
Not to command—
But to observe.
He would stand at the edge of the forge, watching as raw scrap was transformed under flame and will into something lethal.
Something precise.
Something purposeful.
When Berg presented him with the newly forged longsword, Colin tested it without ceremony.
A single swing—
Clean.
Silent.
The practice post split in two before the sound even reached the ears of those watching.
Colin said nothing.
But he kept the blade.
That was enough.
Soon—
The first full formation stood assembled.
One hundred and seventeen warriors.
Each holding a spear crowned with that cold, ghost-blue edge.
Each bearing the mark—
A howling wolf.
They stood in rows within the square where the bonfire had once burned brightest.
But now—
The fire had changed.
It no longer danced in celebration.
It burned in their hands.
Colin walked before them slowly.
His gaze swept across every face—
Human.
Werewolf.
Boarman.
Deerfolk.
No longer scattered.
No longer fragile.
Forged.
"Raise them."
A single command.
In perfect unison—
117 spearpoints rose toward the sky.
And for a moment—
They caught the light.
Not warm like fire—
But cold.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
Like winter itself.
The air seemed to tighten.
Even the wind grew quieter—
As if the land itself recognized what stood before it.
This was no longer a group of survivors clinging to life.
This—
Was a force.
A formation capable of holding ground.
Of pushing forward.
Of killing not just to live—
But to win.
At the edge of the square, the young Giant Snow Wolf cubs tumbled and played, their small bodies clumsy, their fangs barely visible.
Unaware—
That they were growing alongside something just as dangerous.
Time.
Time that no longer belonged to their enemies.
Colin stopped at the front of the formation.
Turned.
Faced them.
For a brief moment—
Silence.
Then—
He lifted his new blade.
Not high.
Just enough.
"Soon."
One word.
But it carried everything.
The memory of the fallen.
The hunger of the living.
The promise made in darkness—
To a dwarf who had chosen to believe again.
The formation did not roar this time.
They did not need to.
Because the message had already spread—
Through steel.
Through fire.
Through blood.
Blackwood Fortress—
Was no longer waiting.
It was preparing.
And somewhere beyond the frozen wilderness—
Those who once hunted them—
Still did not know.
That the prey—
Had learned—
How to forge its own fangs.