The midsummer sun burned like a merciless furnace suspended in the sky, pouring heat down upon Blackwood Forest without restraint. The trees drooped beneath its weight, and even the cicadas—once shrill heralds of summer—chirped weakly, their voices dry and strained.
The air itself carried the fortress's living breath: dust from sun-cracked soil, resin from heated pines, and the ever-present scent of fire and iron drifting from the northern forges. It was a smell of labor, survival, and quiet resilience.
On the surface, it was an ordinary afternoon.
Beneath it, tension coiled tightly.
The previous evening, Linna had slipped into Colin's council chamber like a shadow, bringing news that shattered the calm.
A group—thirty strong—was advancing from the southern mountains.
Not human.
Bearmen.
And at their head—Boulder.
Colin had tapped the map thoughtfully, a faint smile forming.
"They've chosen to come openly," he said. "Not as spies, but as envoys. That tells us everything."
It was a test.
And an opportunity.
"Prepare," he ordered. "Tomorrow, we welcome them properly."
By the following afternoon, the stage was set.
A deep horn call echoed from the southern watchtower—two long notes signaling honored guests.
Blackwood Fortress responded with precision.
Farmers withdrew in orderly lines. Workshops continued their work deliberately—smoke rising as a silent declaration of strength. Along the central avenue, Hask assembled an honor guard of thirty elite Werewolves, clad in newly forged armor, their blades gleaming like a wall of steel.
"Stand straight," Hask growled. "Today, we show them who we are."
From atop the wall, Colin watched.
Through the shimmering heat, the delegation emerged.
Thirty Bearmen—massive, powerful, moving like living siege engines. At their center walked an elder with snow-white fur and a bone staff. And at the front—
Boulder.
No longer broken. No longer desperate.
He walked like a warrior reborn.
Spotting Colin, he grinned and slammed his chest with a thunderous roar—deep, powerful, and filled with respect.
Colin answered not with noise, but with a simple gesture.
The gates opened.
The Bearmen entered.
Steel and silence greeted them.
The honor guard stood unmoving, their discipline unmistakable. Beyond them, the fortress breathed—fields stretching outward, forges roaring in the distance, people working in harmony without chaos or fear.
Elder Shield-Bearer saw everything.
The soldiers—disciplined.
The industry—relentless.
The people—united.
This was no ordinary tribe.
This was something… new.
At the center of it all stood Colin.
Calm. Still. Watching.
The elder stopped before him and gave a solemn salute, fist pressed to chest.
"I am Shield-Bearer of the Brown Bear Tribal Alliance," he said, his voice like distant thunder.
He gestured to Boulder.
"This one spoke of you. Of what you did."
His gaze sharpened.
"You possess not only strength—but character. That is rarer."
He paused.
"We did not come only to thank you."
Inside the council chamber, the Bearmen filled the space like a gathering storm.
No one fidgeted. No one spoke out of turn.
Discipline answered discipline.
Shield-Bearer stood tall.
"First," he declared, raising a finger, "we seek an alliance."
His voice rang through the hall.
"From this day forward—your enemies are ours. Ours are yours. We stand together in war and in death."
Then—
"Second… trade."
His tone shifted—but its weight remained.
"We bring meat. Furs. And…"
He paused.
"Salt."
That single word struck harder than any war drum.
Behind Colin, Lena stiffened.
Salt—life itself.
Preservation. Endurance. Stability.
Not just trade.
Transformation.
There was no deception here. No games.
Only clarity.
Alliance.
War.
Survival.
Colin understood immediately.
These were not pawns seeking advantage.
They were warriors seeking equals.
A slow smile spread across his face.
He extended a hand.
"Elder Shield-Bearer," he said calmly, "please—sit."
His eyes gleamed with quiet anticipation.
"I believe… this summer is about to become very interesting."