The blood-soaked scent of the hunt that once defined Blackwood Fortress was slowly fading, replaced by something steadier—the salt of preserved meat, the sharp tang of cured leather, and the faint, comforting aroma of cooked food. The massive giant-horned bison had been fully processed, their flesh turned into carefully stored reserves that would sustain the entire fortress for the next three months.
Colin's personally led "practical lesson" had paid off.
The recruits were no longer naive youths who only understood battle in theory. They had witnessed true combat—swift, brutal, decisive—and had felt the strength of coordinated effort. Their defiance toward the veterans had quietly transformed into respect, even admiration.
Even the young Snow Giant Wolves had changed. After tasting real blood and participating in a true hunt, their playful foolishness had dulled, replaced by the beginnings of a predator's composure.
Barton returned to training duty after rotating shifts with Hask, proudly wearing his newly forged armor along with his squad. For a brief moment, everything in Blackwood Fortress seemed to move with purpose and momentum.
And then, the unexpected arrived.
The southwestern edge of Blackwood Forest had always been the fortress's most fragile boundary. There, the dense woods thinned into open terrain—dangerously close to lands frequented by human nobles.
Colin had long ordered strict patrols in that region.
That afternoon, a five-man reconnaissance squad moved silently through the forest—four Deer-folk and one Fox-folk.
Their captain, Fenrir, raised a hand.
"Stop."
The squad froze instantly, melting into the undergrowth.
Fenrir inhaled slowly, his sharp nose twitching. His expression hardened.
"There's blood in the air," he murmured. "Fresh… and not from beasts."
A Deer-folk scout climbed a nearby tree and quickly descended, signaling grim news ahead.
They advanced carefully.
What they found was carnage.
A clearing lay in ruin—earth torn apart, trees snapped, the ground soaked in darkening blood.
Four human soldiers lay dead.
Their leather armor and standard longswords marked them clearly as a patrol unit. Each corpse bore a different end—slashed throats, crushed chests, torn flesh.
It had not been a clean fight.
Fenrir knelt, examining the wounds, then glanced around at the massive footprints and broken trunks.
"This wasn't a hunt," he said quietly. "It was a clash… with something powerful."
"Captain," one of the Deer-folk called softly.
A trail of blood led into a nearby thicket.
Fenrir tightened his grip on his blade and stepped forward, pushing aside the dense brush.
Behind it sat a giant.
A Bearman.
Even seated, he towered over Fenrir. His body was a fortress of muscle, wrapped in thick pelts—but now it was broken.
Crossbow bolts pierced his limbs. A massive gash split his abdomen open, blood still seeping steadily. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a struggle.
"Still alive," one scout whispered in disbelief.
Fenrir hesitated.
Bearmen were not known for friendliness. Saving him could invite trouble—perhaps even danger to the fortress.
But then he remembered Colin's words, spoken under firelight:
All oppressed demi-humans on this land are our brothers.
Fenrir clenched his jaw.
"We take him back," he ordered. "Now."
The journey was brutal.
They fashioned a crude litter from branches and vines, hauling the massive body through the forest with immense effort. Every step was slow, exhausting—but they did not stop.
When they finally reached Blackwood Fortress, the sight stunned everyone.
Workers paused mid-task. Conversations died.
A blood-drenched giant lay carried through their gates.
"Call the leader! Call the Priest!" Fenrir shouted.
Colin arrived quickly.
One glance told him everything.
The Bearman hovered on the edge of death.
"What are his chances?" Colin asked.
The Deer-folk herbalist shook his head. "Slim. He's lost too much blood. That wound…" He didn't finish.
Colin's eyes flicked to the arrows, the blade wound.
Human weapons.
His thoughts sharpened instantly.
A Bearman fighting human troops here—this close—was no coincidence.
Whatever this warrior knew could be vital.
"Save him," Colin said firmly. "No matter the cost."
The medical tent became a battlefield.
Hot water. Herbs. Sutures. Bitter medicine forced down an unconscious throat.
The wound was cleaned, packed, stitched.
Again and again, the Bearman hovered between life and death. Fever consumed him. His breathing faltered.
But the healers did not give up.
And neither did Colin.
Each day, he came—not out of compassion alone, but for the answers locked behind those sealed lips.
On the fifth day, something changed.
A young Fox-folk girl entered the tent—and froze.
The Bearman's eyes were open.
Wild. Alert. Dangerous.
He scanned his surroundings like a trapped beast, muscles tensing despite the agony.
"Don't move," the girl said softly. "You're safe."
He didn't believe her.
But thirst betrayed him.
Slowly, painfully, he reached for the water she offered.
And then—
The tent flap lifted.
Colin stepped inside.
Their eyes met.
One calm and calculating.
The other fierce and untamed.
In that silent moment, something shifted.
The storm beyond Blackwood Fortress had finally reached its gates.