The fervor of victory at the iron mine ebbed like a receding tide.
The thunder of cheers, the wild drinking, the roaring fires—all of it faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of daily labor.
Only one thing refused to quiet.
From the corner of the fortress—
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Berg's hammer rang day and night.
Heavy. Rhythmic. Unyielding.
It became the new heartbeat of Blackwood Fortress—driving away the morning mist, echoing beneath the midnight stars. To those who heard it, the sound brought an unexpected calm.
Proof that something solid was being built.
Something lasting.
But Colin felt no such peace.
The bonfires were long extinguished. The warriors slept, restoring their strength.
Yet he walked alone.
A bear-skin cloak draped over his shoulders, he moved through the fortress like a silent shadow—past walls, past homes, past the life he had carved from ruin.
Until he stopped.
The granary.
Plain. Rough. Reinforced wood. No decoration. A faint sour scent of grain and timber hung in the air.
Unremarkable—
Yet more important than the forge.
Because this was life.
Behind him, footsteps approached softly.
"Leader."
Lena.
She held a wooden board, its surface crowded with charcoal markings—numbers, symbols, records. Primitive bookkeeping, learned from him.
But her voice—
Tense.
"How bad?" Colin asked without turning.
"…Not optimistic."
She handed him the board.
"The goblins had stores, but far less than expected. They were barely feeding themselves."
Colin lifted the board toward the torchlight.
Population: over 400.
Seventy-two warriors.
Nearly two hundred non-combatants.
Apprentices. Wolf pups. Goblin laborers.
A number that would have seemed impossible not long ago.
Below—
Consumption.
Meat for warriors. Minimal rations for slaves. Daily depletion.
"Our reserves…" Lena continued quietly, "at this rate… will last one month."
One month.
The words struck like ice.
Moments ago, he had taken pride in steel—the first blade, the first true sign of progress.
Now—
That pride shattered.
Steel could build a fortress.
But it could not fill a stomach.
An army without food, no matter how well armed, was nothing but prey.
Enemies could be fought.
Killed.
Defeated.
But hunger—
Hunger was everywhere.
Invisible.
Unstoppable.
"I understand."
Colin handed the board back. His expression remained calm—but his eyes had turned cold, deep as winter.
"Summon Priestess Sur. And the Deer-folk elders—the ones who know plants best. Bring them to the watchtower."
The meeting began under firelight.
Shadows flickered along the walls, dancing across maps and weapons.
Colin sat at the head of a rough wooden table.
Across from him—
Priestess Sur.
Old. Frail. Wrapped in worn robes, leaning on her staff. Her cloudy eyes were sharp beneath their age.
Beside her—
Three Deer-folk elders.
Their hands were like roots, twisted by years of working the land. Living records of the forest.
Lena stood behind Colin, silent, the board in her hands.
No pleasantries.
No ceremony.
Colin began.
"We have a problem."
He placed the board on the table.
"Our food will last one month."
Silence.
The room froze.
"The forest is failing us," Colin continued, voice steady but heavy. "Game is disappearing. To hunt more, we must go deeper—risk more—for diminishing returns."
"Seizure?" He gave a faint, humorless smile. "We cannot rely on enemies to feed us."
He leaned forward.
"We need a stable source of food."
A pause.
Then—
"We need fields."
"Fields?" one elder repeated, confused.
They understood planting—loosely. Scattering seeds. Hoping.
Waiting.
But control?
That was something else entirely.
Colin's gaze sharpened.
"Not scattering seeds and praying. I'm talking about controlled agriculture."
He reached into his bag and tossed several potatoes onto the table.
"These will be our foundation."
Murmurs rose.
"The best ones," Colin said, picking up a large, flawless tuber, "we do not eat."
Shock flickered across their faces.
"We cut them. Plant them."
Silence.
"Strong seeds produce strong harvests. Just like strong wolves produce strong offspring."
Understanding dawned.
"Second—compost."
This time, the reaction was immediate.
Disgust.
Hesitation.
"Everything that rots," Colin said evenly. "Waste. Bones. Leaves. Refuse. Let it decay—then return it to the soil."
"That is… filthy," an elder muttered.
Even Priestess Sur frowned.
Colin didn't argue.
He asked.
"In the forest—where beasts relieve themselves—what grows there?"
Sur paused.
Then—
Realization.
"…Stronger growth."
Colin nodded.
"Nature already does this. We're just guiding it."
Her expression shifted—resistance giving way to thought.
"Third—rotation."
He poured out dark beans.
"These."
The elders nodded reluctantly.
"Fields must rest. One year tubers. One year beans."
"Why?" someone asked.
"Because these return strength to the soil."
They didn't understand.
So he simplified.
"A warrior cannot swing his blade every day. He must train differently—or he breaks."
That—
They understood.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Transformative.
Old beliefs cracked.
New ones struggled to take root.
Finally, Priestess Sur spoke.
"What you say… is strange. But not without truth."
She lifted her head.
"We cannot rely on the forest forever."
Agreement—hesitant, but real.
That was enough.
Colin rose and moved to the map.
"Berg will forge tools. Hoes. Shovels. Priority over weapons."
His finger marked the southern land.
"Clear this. This will be our first field."
He turned.
"Ore determines how far we can fight."
A pause.
"Food determines whether we live."
He bowed slightly.
"Priestess Sur—you will lead this. All agricultural planning. Full authority."
Shock.
Then—
Weight.
"Lena, you assist her. Logistics. Records. Coordination."
He looked at both of them.
"You will be the ones who sustain this fortress."
Silence.
Then Priestess Sur stood.
Slowly.
Firmly.
"I accept."
Later—
Colin stood alone atop the watchtower.
The wind tugged at his cloak.
His gaze turned south.
Not barren land—
But possibility.
He could already see it.
Fields.
Rows.
Green vines spreading across the earth.
A harvest strong enough to feed them all.
The shadow of hunger still loomed.
But now—
They had found something to fight it with.
Not steel.
But something far more powerful.
Hope.