Two months slipped by in a steady, unbroken rhythm.
The survivors who had once been hollow-eyed and starving now looked like entirely different people. With full meals—especially the regular supply of meat—their cheeks had filled out with healthy color. Children's laughter replaced the sobs that once echoed through the fortress, and the warriors' training cries grew sharper and more confident with each passing day.
Blackwood Fortress—this patchwork creation of many races—was running with surprising efficiency.
And yet, Colin did not relax.
He stood atop the newly constructed five-meter watchtower, his cloak stirring in the cold wind as he surveyed his domain. Below, Wolf-folk patrols marched with disciplined steps. Smoke curled upward from the communal kitchens. Fox-folk women stretched and dried treated hides in neat rows. Everything was orderly. Everything was functioning.
Too perfectly.
Because Colin knew the truth—this prosperity rested on a fragile balance.
Beyond the forest, the defeat of Earl Raymond's agents would not go unanswered. Their next move was only a matter of time. Within the forest itself, unknown dangers lurked like sleeping predators, ready to strike without warning.
But the most pressing threat came from within.
The original forty Wolf-folk guards had paid dearly in blood during months of hunting and skirmishing. Now, after accounting for the wounded and those tied to defensive duties, fewer than twenty could be deployed as a true mobile combat force.
It wasn't enough.
Expansion was no longer a choice—it was a necessity.
But how? And with what resources?
A familiar thought surfaced in Colin's mind:
Know yourself and know your enemy, and you will never be defeated.
What he needed now was clarity—precise, undeniable data.
So he ordered a full census.
The task fell to two people: Lena and Priestess Sur.
Lena, now the undisputed Chief Steward, possessed an almost instinctive grasp of numbers and logistics. Priestess Sur, the Fox-folk's spiritual leader, brought with her a deeper understanding of people—their capabilities, their limits, their potential.
Together, they became the eyes of the fortress.
For three days, they moved from home to home, carrying a wide roll of tanned hide and charcoal pencils.
Lena handled the questions—direct, efficient, and unyielding.
"How many in your family? Ages? Boys or girls?"
Her charcoal never paused.
Beside her, Priestess Sur observed.
She watched a young Wolf-folk man splitting wood, noting the rhythm of his breathing and the tension in his muscles. She spoke gently with a Fox-folk seamstress, gauging dexterity from the movement of her fingers. She crouched beside children chasing a snow hare, measuring their speed, their reflexes—their future.
When they arrived at Barton's hut, the Boar-folk warrior simply gestured toward his kin.
"Seven," he said. "All fighters."
Lena recorded the number without hesitation.
Priestess Sur studied them longer—broad shoulders, scarred bodies, steady eyes—and quietly marked them all with a triangle: first-class combat power.
Three days later, the census was complete.
In the meeting hall, the core members gathered—Hask, Berg, Elk, Anna, Goff, Linna, along with Lena and Priestess Sur.
Lena stepped forward, the marked hide stretched open before her.
"My Lord. Total population: two hundred and fifty-nine."
A murmur rippled through the room. Not long ago, they had been close to three hundred.
Losses—quiet, relentless—had carved away more than anyone realized.
Lena continued.
"Boar-folk: seven.Wolf-folk: seventy-one.Deer-folk: fifty-three.Fox-folk: one hundred and twenty-nine."
No one was surprised that the Fox-folk were the largest group. Survival had favored their caution.
But then Lena's tone shifted.
"The critical issue is structure."
She pointed to the markings Priestess Sur had added—triangles, circles, and crosses.
"We have divided all individuals into three grades."
"Grade A: fully capable combatants. Young adults able to serve as front-line soldiers."
She paused, then delivered the number.
"Seventy-seven."
Silence.
It felt wrong. Impossible.
Hask's fist clenched. "Seventy-seven? Out of all of us?"
"Look at the rest," Lena replied, her voice steady.
"Grade B: auxiliary combatants and core labor. They sustain production and can defend when needed. Seventy-eight."
"And Grade C—elderly, children, and those unable to fight."
Her voice softened slightly.
"One hundred and four."
That number hit hardest.
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Even the distant clang of Berg's hammer seemed sharper, more intrusive.
Out of nearly two hundred and sixty people, fewer than eighty could fight at full strength.
And more than twice that number depended on them.
Every warrior carried more than a weapon—they carried lives.
Colin stared at the census sheet.
The pressure was immense—but his thoughts moved differently.
Where others saw burden, he saw structure.
Where others saw weakness, he saw potential.
Those one hundred and eighty-two people—the non-combatants—were not excess.
They were the foundation.
Children were the future. Elders held knowledge. Workers sustained everything.
Without them, there was nothing worth defending.
Colin stepped forward.
"Our enemies are strong," he said calmly. "And our warriors are few. That is reality."
His gaze swept across the room.
"But war is not decided by warriors alone."
He picked up a piece of charcoal and drew two symbols on the hide—a blade, and a shield.
"The young and strong will be our blade."
He tapped the first mark.
"These seventy-seven will form our standing army. They will train without distraction. They will become sharper, faster, deadlier."
Then he tapped the second.
"And everyone else… will be our shield."
Murmurs stirred.
"Berg needs apprentices. Elk needs handlers. The kitchens, the walls, the workshops—these are just as vital as the battlefield."
His voice rose, steady and resolute.
"We will become a complete war system. The blade strikes—but the shield sustains it."
"No one here is useless. No one is expendable."
Priestess Sur lowered her eyes briefly, repeating the words under her breath.
"The blade… and the shield…"
When she looked up again, something had changed. There was light in her gaze now—certainty.
Around the room, the suffocating weight began to lift.
The truth had not changed. The danger had not lessened.
But now—there was direction.
And that was enough.