The first drop of meltwater slipped from the edge of the watchtower roof and fell.
Plop.
It struck the mud below, soft and quiet—but it was enough to stir the world awake.
Blackwood Fortress was emerging from winter.
The long, suffocating freeze had finally loosened its grip. Snow retreated into shrinking patches, and thin streams of water began threading through the camp, gathering into shallow channels that carried away mud and slush. The land breathed again.
Spring had come.
Sunlight filtered through thinning clouds, scattering across the fortress in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. The air carried a mingled scent—wet soil, pine resin, and the rich aroma of broth simmering in the distance.
It smelled like life.
On the training ground, Hask's roar tore through the calm.
"Faster!"
The Wolf Fang Squadron sprinted across the field, weighted packs dragging at their shoulders. Their bare backs gleamed with sweat despite the lingering chill, every exhale bursting into white mist. Compared to a month ago, they were transformed—stronger, sharper, moving as one.
Above them, on the watchtower, Fox-folk sentries stood motionless, their sharp eyes sweeping the forest beyond. The silver of winter had faded from the trees, revealing deep green beneath.
Everything felt alive.
Everything felt hopeful.
And yet—
Inside the council hall, the warmth was fading.
The charcoal in the brazier had burned down to dull embers, their glow weak and uncertain. The air, like the mood, had begun to cool.
Colin sat at the head of the table, his expression calm, almost too calm.
Spread before him was a sheet of animal hide, covered in dense charcoal markings—numbers, symbols, records.
Their lifeline.
Lena stood nearby, clutching the edge of the table. Her face, usually composed, had lost its color.
"My Lord…" she began, her voice tighter than usual. "After the final inventory… all remaining dried meat, roots, and stored grain combined…"
She swallowed.
"…less than one-third remains."
Silence.
The words did not echo—but they struck just as hard.
"One-third?"
Hask's voice was low, restrained—but the tension in his arms betrayed him. His crossed muscles tightened, veins standing out beneath his skin.
"That's impossible. Our hunting hasn't stopped."
"It's not about hunting," came a calm, aged voice.
Priest Sul, seated quietly in the corner, lifted his gaze.
"Our population has grown. And more importantly… so has our activity."
He spoke evenly, as though stating an unavoidable truth.
"Training. Construction. Production. Every person now expends far more energy than before. And so… they consume more."
No one argued.
They couldn't.
This was the cost of progress.
The stronger Blackwood Fortress became, the more it needed to sustain itself.
And now—
It was starving.
Spring famine.
An old terror, as inevitable as the seasons themselves.
Winter's end brought movement back to the wild—but it also stripped the land bare. Stored food dwindled. New growth had yet to arrive. The world, for a brief and cruel moment, offered nothing.
Colin's fingers tapped lightly against the table.
Once. Twice.
He already understood.
Hunting and gathering alone would no longer suffice.
That method could sustain a handful of survivors.
Not a fortress.
Not an army.
They needed more.
A stable source. A larger supply. Something beyond survival.
Something that could support growth.
"We don't have time to panic," Colin said at last.
His voice was quiet—but it cut cleanly through the tension.
"The problem is here. So we solve it."
He stood and retrieved another roll of hide from the corner, unfurling it across the table.
A map.
Rough, hand-drawn, marked with symbols—mountains, rivers, swamps. The surrounding territory of Blackwood Forest, as far as they knew it.
"This was taken from the Earl's patrol," Colin said. "I've added what we've discovered since."
His finger pressed firmly onto a valley marked deep within the forest.
"We begin with a large-scale spring hunt."
"Giant Bear Ridge!" Barton burst out, eyes blazing. "The prey there is strong—and plenty!"
Colin gave a slight nod.
"Yes. We return there."
But his hand did not stay still.
It moved—sliding across the map, tracing the unknown.
"We cannot rely on one place alone."
His finger passed over blank regions marked with crude question marks.
"We explore. We expand. We find new hunting grounds."
A pause.
"And land… that can be cultivated."
The room shifted slightly at that word.
Cultivated.
It was more than a plan—it was a direction.
Berg, who had been sitting quietly by the brazier, idly polishing his small hammer, leaned forward.
At first, it was just curiosity.
Then—
His gaze caught something.
Top-left corner.
Deep forest.
A symbol.
Small. Easily overlooked.
A mound-like marking… with something drawn across its peak in faded red.
Two lines.
Crossed.
Berg froze.
The cloth slipped from his fingers.
Clang.
The hammer hit the ground.
No one spoke.
His eyes—once dull from years of smoke and labor—suddenly burned with light.
"No…" he whispered.
He pushed forward, nearly knocking someone aside as he leaned over the table. His rough hands slammed onto the hide, gripping it as if it might vanish.
"This isn't…" His voice trembled. "This isn't a human mark…"
His breathing quickened.
"This pattern… this angle…"
He shook his head violently.
"These fools… they don't even know what they found…"
Then he looked up.
Straight at Colin.
Wild. Fierce. Alive.
"My Lord!"
The shout thundered through the hall.
"This is no warning sign!"
His finger stabbed at the symbol.
"This is a Dwarven survey mark!"
"The hammer—forge!"
"The chisel—mine!"
His voice cracked with raw excitement.
"This…"
He drew in a sharp breath.
"…this is very likely an unmined iron vein!"