Colin's words—"it will become exceptionally interesting"—fell into the council hall like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the air.
Elder Shield-Bearer's amber eyes flickered.
Then, slowly, the towering Bearman lowered himself into his seat.
The motion was deliberate, controlled—as though he feared his sheer strength might shatter the thick wooden chair beneath him. Even so, when his full weight settled, the chair groaned under the burden. Hask, standing nearby, instinctively tensed at the sound.
One by one, the other Bearman warriors followed suit. Their massive frames filled the hall, compressing the space, their presence thick with the scent of beasts and wilderness. It mingled with the sharper, predatory aura of the werewolves, creating an atmosphere heavy with primal power.
At the stone table, two forces faced each other.
On one side—Colin, Goff, Hask, and Lena. Young. Sharp. Rising.
On the other—Elder Shield-Bearer and his warriors. Ancient. Steady. Rooted.
This was no ordinary meeting.
It was a negotiation that would shape the future of two races.
Colin spoke first.
He did not rush into strategy or demands. Instead, he picked up a polished clay cup and poured fruit wine with his own hands, sliding it across the table.
"You've come far, Elder."
Shield-Bearer looked at the cup, then at Colin.
Without a word, he picked it up—his massive hand dwarfing it—and drained it in a single gulp.
"Good wine!" he declared, smacking his lips.
The gesture, small as it was, softened the tension in the room.
"Elder Shield-Bearer," Colin began, his voice steady and clear, "Blackwood Fortress welcomes sincere friends. Your proposals… we accept in principle."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed the elder's face.
"We share the same goal—resisting humanity, avenging our kin, and securing our survival. As for trade…" Colin glanced toward the forge. "As long as we have ore, we can produce weapons and tools. Trading them for supplies is fair."
Lena gave a subtle nod.
Salt. Meat. Hides.
Things they desperately needed.
Shield-Bearer was about to respond—
"However," Colin continued.
The tone shifted.
Sharper. More deliberate.
"A true alliance is not built on empty words or future victories. It is built on facing reality—together."
He stood and walked to the map.
"Our fortress grows fast. But our foundation… is weak."
He circled a small patch of land.
"This is all we truly control."
Then he turned.
"Our greatest problem is not enemies."
"It is people."
Silence fell.
"We don't have enough hands," Colin said plainly. "These fields were carved out by warriors and civilians alike. To survive, our soldiers must farm."
His gaze hardened.
"But soldiers should fight."
"We need labor. We need efficiency. We need a way to expand without sacrificing our strength."
He met the elder's eyes directly.
"Can your tribe… lend us people?"
"We will pay in iron."
The room froze.
Hask's jaw tightened.
The Bearman warriors exchanged glances.
This was not what they expected.
Then—
Laughter.
Deep. booming laughter.
Shield-Bearer slapped his knee, the sound echoing like thunder.
"Good! Good!"
His eyes gleamed with approval.
"A leader who hides weakness is a fool," he said. "But one who shows both strength and difficulty—that is someone worth trusting."
He leaned forward.
"We won't send farmers," he said bluntly. "That's not our way."
Then a glint of cunning appeared.
"But we can offer something better."
"Mountain Bison."
The words hung in the air.
"Strong. Stubborn. Tireless. Hard to tame—but once they are, they work without complaint."
He gestured as if pulling something unseen.
"Humans use them with iron tools to turn soil. Faster than dozens of workers."
For a moment—
Colin froze.
Then his mind exploded with clarity.
Ox-plowing.
Animal labor.
A revolution in productivity.
How had he overlooked something so fundamental?
His breath caught slightly.
And for the first time in the meeting—
His composure cracked.
Shield-Bearer saw it.
And smiled.
"But that's not all," the elder continued, voice lowering.
"Salt."
Lena's eyes widened.
"In our lands… there is a valley."
"A place we call the Forbidden Valley."
He leaned back slightly.
"There lies a surface rock salt mine. We don't boil water like other tribes. We simply… break the salt from the earth."
"Enough to last generations."
The room went still.
Salt.
An endless supply.
A strategic resource more valuable than gold.
At that moment—
Everything aligned.
Blackwood Fortress had knowledge. Industry. Innovation.
But lacked manpower. Resources. Stability.
The Brown Bear Tribe had strength. Numbers. Territory. Salt. Beasts.
But lacked tools. Efficiency. Advancement.
Separately—
They were incomplete.
Together—
They were formidable.
Colin looked at the elder.
This rugged, battle-hardened Bearman—
Who understood far more than he appeared to.
A slow smile spread across his face.
Genuine.
Certain.
He raised his cup.
"To our future."
Shield-Bearer lifted his own.
"To the future."
Clink.
The sound echoed through the hall.
Not loud.
But decisive.
In that moment, something fragile yet powerful was born.
Not just an alliance of convenience—
But a partnership of necessity.
A bond forged not only in shared hatred—
But in shared survival.
And far beyond the walls of Blackwood Fortress—
The balance of the South had already begun to shift.