"Iron ore!!!"
Berg's roar struck the council hall like a falling boulder, shattering the fragile calm.
Hask's breath hitched, then deepened, chest rising like a beast scenting blood. A rare light flashed through Goff's steady eyes. Lena froze mid-thought, all her worries about dwindling food swept aside—her lips parted slightly, disbelief plain on her face.
Iron ore.
No one there needed it explained.
It meant weapons—real ones. Armor that could turn aside claws and blades. Reinforced walls that would not splinter under siege. Tools, traps, plows—possibilities that stretched far beyond mere survival.
It meant that Blackwood Fortress could stand.
Not just endure.
—
The next morning, the cold felt sharper than before.
Wind cut across the central clearing, but no one moved to shield themselves from it. The chill in the air was nothing compared to the weight pressing on every chest.
All combat units stood assembled.
Steel and wood caught the pale sunlight, reflecting hard, unforgiving glints. Behind them, the rest of the fortress gathered—silent, watchful. No orders had called them here, yet none stayed away.
They all understood.
Food was running out.
Only a third remained.
And now—hope had appeared, distant and uncertain, in the form of iron hidden somewhere beyond their reach.
Colin stood beneath the watchtower. Behind him, the animal-hide map was stretched wide, its markings stark and decisive.
His voice cut through the wind.
"Food—and iron ore."
A pause.
"One decides whether we survive today."
"The other decides whether we stand tomorrow."
His gaze swept across every face.
"We will take both."
The words fell like iron.
"Today, we divide."
He turned sharply, driving a sharpened wooden pointer into the marked symbol Berg had identified—a crude crossing of pickaxe and axe.
"This place…" His voice lowered slightly, carrying weight rather than volume. "It may be our future. Our armory. The key to everything we build next."
A beat.
"Or it may be a trap."
The air tightened.
"A warning left behind by those who came before us."
Then his tone hardened.
"So we will find out."
"Goff. Anna."
They stepped forward without hesitation.
Goff's movements were slow but certain, his silence more reassuring than any words. Anna followed, tension visible in her shoulders—but her eyes did not waver.
"You will take twenty from the Forest Tracker Squadron," Colin ordered. "You are not there to fight."
His gaze sharpened.
"You are there to disappear."
"To see without being seen."
"To learn—and return."
"If there is danger, you withdraw immediately. No risks. No glory."
"Your lives are worth more than any ore."
Goff gave a single, quiet nod. Already, his eyes were on the map. His weathered fingers traced invisible paths—routes in, routes out, contingencies layered upon contingencies.
Anna turned, voice quick and precise as she began selecting her team. One by one, names were called. Those chosen stepped forward without question—light on their feet, sharp in their movements.
They were the best at vanishing.
"The rest of you."
Colin's voice pulled the focus back like a tightened rope.
"Follow me."
He pointed in the opposite direction—toward land unmarked, unknown.
"The Wolf Fang Squadron. The Bedrock Squad. And selected Sentry units."
A shift rippled through the warriors.
"We form the Spring Hunt."
A low growl answered him—Wolf-folk and Boar-folk alike, something primal stirring beneath their discipline.
"I will lead it."
Hask's grin was sharp as a blade. Barton rolled his shoulders, the ground seeming to echo the motion.
"Our task is simple."
Colin's voice turned cold.
"Anything that can be eaten—dies."
No embellishment.
No hesitation.
"We fill our stores."
"We make sure no one in this fortress wonders where their next meal comes from."
The decision was made.
The machine moved.
—
The reconnaissance squad gathered first—twenty figures light and lean, clad in leather, carrying bows and short blades. Their packs were minimal. Speed and silence were their only protection.
Goff moved among them like a shadow already detached from the world behind him.
Anna checked each one, her earlier unease gone—replaced by focus.
They were ready.
—
The hunting force stood in stark contrast.
Where the scouts were quiet, this was pressure barely contained.
Wolf-folk with spears. Boar-folk with shields like moving walls. Fox-folk at the rear, eyes sharp, already scanning, already calculating.
They were not subtle.
They were inevitable.
—
At last, the gates began to open.
Wood creaked. Frost cracked loose.
Light spilled through.
Beyond lay the forest—vast, silent, waiting.
All eyes followed.
Some with hope.
Some with fear.
Some with prayers unspoken.
Without ceremony, the two forces moved.
One split left—vanishing almost immediately, their presence dissolving into the trees like mist. A silent arrow loosed toward the mountains, chasing truth that might bring salvation—or ruin.
The other surged right—heavy, deliberate, unstoppable. A hunting pack unleashed, carrying hunger and steel into the wild.
Within moments, both were swallowed by the forest.
Only their tracks remained—two diverging paths pressed into thinning snow.
Two choices.
Two risks.
Carrying, between them, the fate of Blackwood Fortress.