The late-night meeting in the watchtower council hall spread through Blackwood Fortress like a stone dropped into still water, its ripples widening with every passing hour.
"Reclaim land? Grow our own food?"
When Lena and the tribal leaders announced it the next morning, confusion was the first response.
"Don't we already have hunting parties?" a young werewolf warrior asked, scratching his head. "We just took the mine—we'll have more weapons than we can carry. Why worry about food?"
It was how most of the warriors thought.
To them, strength was everything. Food was taken, not grown. Claws and blades were meant to hunt, not dig. Farming felt like something beneath them—work for the weak.
Among the non-combatants, doubt spread more quietly. Unease lingered beneath the surface, heavy as an unseen weight. Generations of instinct and tradition pressed down on them, resisting change.
And yet—no one objected.
Because the order came from Colin.
The leader who had dragged them out of ruin. Who had slain the Frost-Claw Bear. Who had taken the mine. Who had split the Boulder with a single strike.
Victory after victory had turned his authority into something close to faith.
And when Priestess Sur publicly declared her full support, resistance dissolved before it could take shape.
Thus began seven quiet days of transformation.
The forge burned hotter than ever—but Berg and his apprentices set aside their nearly finished blades.
Instead, their hammers fell again and again on rough iron ingots, shaping something new.
Under Colin's rough but precise sketches, strange tools took form.
Crude. Heavy. Unadorned.
Plows. Hoes. Shovels.
They lacked beauty. They lacked elegance.
But they carried purpose.
At the same time, Priest Sur and the eldest Deer-folk walked the southern wilderness.
Not as observers—but as listeners.
A staff tapped against the earth. Bare feet pressed into soil. Hands sifted dirt, testing its life.
They mapped the land not with ink, but with instinct.
Marking. Dividing. Understanding.
It felt less like surveying—and more like communion.
In this way, Colin's cold, practical plan merged with the ancient reverence the tribes held for the land.
Lena became the busiest person in the fortress.
She moved from tribe to tribe with a wooden board in hand, counting workers, assigning roles, planning supplies.
Exhaustion showed on her face—but her eyes shone brighter than ever.
Responsibility had transformed her.
As for Colin—
He led by example in the strangest way of all.
In a remote corner beyond the fortress, he dug pits.
Then, without hesitation, he dumped in foul waste—latrine refuse, animal remains, blood, rotting scraps, leaves, dust.
The stench was overwhelming.
Hask gagged loudly. "What is this? A new kind of jerky?"
No one laughed.
Because Colin didn't.
When the pit was full, he covered it with soil and said calmly:
"In a month, this will become black gold. It will double our harvest."
Doubt lingered.
But so did curiosity.
Seven days passed like this—caught between disbelief and anticipation.
On the seventh evening, Berg completed the final iron hoe.
On the eighth morning, a horn split the dawn.
This was their third great mobilization.
Not against enemies.
But against the land itself.
The gates opened.
A different kind of army marched out.
At the front, the werewolves—still powerful, still imposing—but carrying axes and hammers instead of blades.
Behind them, the Fox-folk, each bearing a new iron tool, curiosity lighting their faces.
Scattered among them, the Deer-folk moved like guides—eyes and minds of the operation.
At the rear, the elderly and women carried baskets of seed potatoes.
Not food.
But future.
More than two hundred souls moved as one, toward the untouched wilderness.
"Here," Priestess Sur declared, driving her staff into the ground.
"Begin."
Hask roared first.
He swung his massive axe into a towering tree.
Wood exploded.
The forest answered.
Soon the silence of ages shattered under steel and strength. Trees fell. Stones were uprooted. The wilderness resisted—and was broken.
The werewolves cleared.
The Deer-folk refined.
They studied soil like healers tending a wound, guiding the work with quiet precision.
"Turn deeper here."
"Channel water there."
"This soil—preserve it."
Then came the Fox-folk.
A young one raised his hoe and struck.
The blade sank deep.
He froze.
Then pulled back, turning rich soil with ease.
"This… this is incredible!"
Excitement spread instantly.
The tools worked.
Effort halved. Results doubled.
Doubt vanished—replaced by energy.
Behind them, a wooden plow carved clean furrows through the earth.
Step by step, the process unfolded:
Clear.
Break.
Level.
Turn.
Furrow.
A system.
A machine.
A beginning.
Finally, the planters stepped forward.
They moved with reverence.
Fertilizer first.
Then potatoes, placed gently into the soil.
Covered.
Protected.
Every motion carried meaning.
This was no longer labor.
It was faith made tangible.
From above, Colin watched.
This—this felt different from war.
War destroyed.
This created.
He removed his armor.
Set aside his symbols of power.
Walked down into the field.
Took a hoe.
And struck the earth.
Once.
Again.
No words.
Just action.
In that moment, everything changed.
He was no longer just a warlord.
He was one of them.
A builder.
A laborer.
A man securing the future.
The field erupted.
Cheers. Howls. Laughter.
Hask swung faster.
The Fox-folk worked harder.
Energy surged through everyone.
Sweat fell like rain into the soil.
Exhaustion followed.
But so did joy.
As the sun dipped low, golden light washed over the newly turned land—and the people who had shaped it.
Colin straightened slowly, wiping sweat from his brow.
Before him lay dark, fertile earth.
Alive.
Claimed.
His.
Theirs.
And for the first time—
Blackwood Fortress was no longer just surviving.
It had taken root.