Boulder's towering figure—like a walking slab of stone—gradually disappeared into the morning mist at the southern edge of Blackwood Forest. What he carried with him was more than an invitation to ally; it was a spark cast into deep water, sending ripples through the very heart of Blackwood Fortress.
Even after he was gone, the crowd at the gates lingered.
Colin could feel it clearly—the clash of two opposing currents.
Behind him, Barton and the Bedrock Squad burned with barely concealed excitement. Their eyes gleamed with the promise of bloodshed, their whispers filled with visions of battle. To them, this was not a risk—it was an opportunity long awaited. Revenge, at last, seemed within reach.
Across from them stood Goff and Lena.
The old hunter stroked his beard, gaze fixed southward, heavy with unease. Lena clutched her ledger tightly, her expression calculating, as though weighing lives against numbers. Where others saw glory, they saw danger—uncertainty, exposure, and the risk of annihilation.
Desire and caution. Fury and reason.
The fortress stood divided.
Colin said nothing.
He simply observed—every face, every flicker of emotion. Boulder's visit had done more than deliver a proposal; it had exposed the fault lines within his people.
That night, he would forge them into one.
As darkness settled, the Council Chamber came alive.
Firelight danced across rough wooden walls, casting long shadows behind those gathered within. Around the great stone table sat the core of Blackwood Fortress—warriors, hunters, leaders, craftsmen, and healers.
For the first time, all power in the fortress had been brought into a single room.
Colin broke the silence.
"The Bearman tribe has invited us to join their offensive against the Western Earldom," he said plainly. "If they succeed, we gain a third of the land and spoils."
He paused.
"Speak your minds."
Barton slammed his fist onto the table.
"Then we fight!" he roared. "What more is there to discuss? This is a gift from the heavens!"
His voice rang with fury and hunger.
"With the Bearmen holding the front and us striking from behind, victory is certain! We've waited long enough. Let us march!"
Hask nodded in agreement.
The warriors' blood was boiling.
Then Goff spoke.
His voice was quiet—but it cut through the heat like cold steel.
"A desperate bear is dangerous," he said. "Not just to its enemies—but to everything around it."
He looked at them steadily.
"We know nothing. Not their strength. Not their plan. Not the enemy's response. If they fail, we will be the first target when the humans turn."
He let the words sink in.
"And even if we win… can we hold what we take?"
Silence followed.
Lena tapped her ledger.
"I will say three things."
Her tone was calm—clinical.
"First, our food reserves will last fifty days at most if we enter war footing."
"Second, our crops need two more months. If we abandon production now, winter will kill us even if the enemy doesn't."
"Third, we have fewer than a hundred trained warriors."
Her eyes locked onto Barton.
"What will your soldiers eat when the food runs out?"
Barton had no answer.
All eyes turned to Colin.
He stood slowly and walked to the map hanging on the wall.
"I understand your anger," he said to Barton and Hask. "But war is not fought with anger alone."
He turned sharply, his gaze cutting like lightning.
"You speak of battle—but you know nothing of your own readiness. That is not courage. That is recklessness."
The rebuke struck hard.
Then he faced Goff and Lena.
"Your caution is justified," he said. "But tell me—do we hide forever?"
His voice sharpened.
"No matter how we conceal ourselves, we will be found. The question is not if—but when."
He stepped forward.
"If we are to be discovered, then we must become something worth fearing."
The room held its breath.
"We will fight," Colin declared. "But not blindly. Not on another's terms."
His voice dropped, steady and absolute.
"We fight when we choose. Where we choose. How we choose."
He returned to the table.
"From today onward, Blackwood Fortress enters combat readiness."
He paused.
"Our doctrine is simple—"
"A hoe in one hand. A sword in the other."
Orders followed in rapid succession.
Training intensified. Weapons production doubled. Scouts expanded their reach.
Then came the unexpected.
"Spring farming is our highest priority," Colin said.
The warriors froze.
"Outside training, all soldiers will work the fields."
Hask blinked in disbelief.
"Even the wolves?"
"Especially the wolves."
It was not a suggestion.
Within days, the fortress transformed.
Mornings rang with the clash of training. Afternoons saw warriors—once proud and untamed—awkwardly digging irrigation ditches under Woodhoof's guidance, while their massive wolf companions churned the soil with chaotic enthusiasm.
The forge burned day and night.
Scouts became unseen eyes across the forest.
And at the center of it all stood Colin—binding war and survival into a single, relentless rhythm.
Half a month later, that rhythm faltered.
Linna appeared silently, placing several items on the table.
A copper button. Fresh ash. Gnawed bones. A strand of hair.
"A human squad," she said quietly. "Five at most. They passed through thirty miles southwest."
Colin's gaze sharpened.
"Direction?"
"West," she replied. "And… they were fleeing."
Colin frowned.
Fleeing meant defeat.
Or something worse.
He turned to the map.
Whatever was happening beyond the forest… had already begun.
"Switch to silent observation," he ordered. "Track their destination."
"And prepare twenty veterans."
War, it seemed, would not wait.
Blackwood Fortress—newly balanced, newly forged—was about to face its first true trial.