The warmth of midsummer still lingered in the depths of Blackwood Forest, yet the wind had begun to carry a faint dryness—a quiet signal that the season was turning. Growth had not ceased, but everything now seemed to be gathering strength, bracing for the coming harvest.
For Blackwood Fortress, this late summer was anything but ordinary.
Exactly one month after their last exchange, the people of the Brown Bear Tribe returned—right on time. Their approach was heralded not by tension, but by the steady rhythm of marching feet rolling across the earth like distant thunder.
This time, no alarms were raised.
The fortress gates stood wide open in welcome. Along the main road, a disciplined honor guard of werewolf warriors lined both sides, led by Goff. Their stances were rigid, their armor gleaming under the late summer sun, their spears catching the light with cold precision. Compared to a month ago, they were no longer merely fighters—they looked like a true army.
At the head of the returning force, Elder Shield-Bearer took in the scene. A flicker of approval passed through his deep-set eyes. Change—real, undeniable change—had taken root here.
The exchange unfolded with remarkable efficiency.
Lena led the logistics team forward the moment the procession halted. Clipboards in hand, charcoal pencils ready, they began tallying goods alongside their Bearman counterparts. There was no shouting, no confusion—only smooth coordination.
Cart after cart was unloaded.
Salt blocks gleamed white in the sunlight. Bundles of dried meat were stacked high. Animal hides were carried off in neat bundles. Boar-folk shouldered immense loads with ease, while werewolves maintained order and security. Every movement had purpose. Every role was clear.
Order. Discipline. Momentum.
Elder Shield-Bearer watched in silence, a quiet awe settling in his chest. In just one month, this place had transformed into something far greater than a mere refuge—it had become a machine.
A living, breathing force.
On the opposite side, Blackwood Fortress fulfilled its end of the covenant.
Berg stood before the weapon racks like a king before his treasures, chest puffed, beard bristling with pride.
Two hundred iron spears stood in perfect rows, their tips gleaming. Beside them, fifty massive two-handed axes radiated raw, brutal craftsmanship.
With a grunt, Berg lifted one axe and swung it through the air. The blade hummed with power.
"Hmph. Take it," he said, thrusting it toward a Bearman inspector. "Every piece here passed my hands. If even one dulls too fast—I'll eat my hammer."
The Bearman took it, testing the weight. His eyes lit up instantly. No further words were needed—only a firm, respectful nod.
The trade was complete.
Trust had deepened.
That night, however, the tone shifted.
Inside a private tent prepared for the honored guests, the atmosphere was tense—not hostile, but charged. Urgent.
Elder Shield-Bearer wasted no time.
After ensuring privacy, he pulled a tightly wrapped parchment from his cloak and slammed it onto the table.
"Leader Colin," he said, voice low but burning with intensity, "look at this."
The parchment unfurled.
Colin's eyes sharpened instantly.
A map.
Rough, but precise. Human markings. Strategic points. And most importantly—several locations circled in red.
Granaries.
Not just marked—but annotated.
Garrison numbers. Patrol routes. Shift timings.
Goff leaned in, his voice tightening. "This… this is everything."
Boulder grinned, savage satisfaction in his tone. "Humans never think beasts can think. Their arrogance handed this to us."
Elder Shield-Bearer's finger pressed hard onto the map.
"This is his lifeline," he said. "And we now hold the knife."
The plan came swiftly, decisively.
Count Raymond's main forces were tied down elsewhere. His southern defenses—thin. Vulnerable.
"And in just over a month," the Elder continued, "his harvest will be complete. His granaries full."
His gaze locked onto Colin.
"We strike then."
The air in the tent seemed to ignite.
"This is not revenge," he said. "This is opportunity."
Then came the proposal.
The Brown Bear Tribe would lead the main assault from the south—crushing the granaries, drawing all attention.
At the same time—
"You strike from the west," he said, tracing the route. "Divide him. Break him."
And then, reinforcement.
"Boulder will lead one hundred elite Bearmen."
A pause.
"And three hundred Deer-folk warriors will join him."
Four hundred troops.
A joint strike force.
But then, the hesitation.
A rare one.
"We cannot equip them," Elder Shield-Bearer admitted quietly. "All resources must go to the main assault."
Silence lingered.
Then—
Colin raised his hand.
"Elder," he said simply.
"Rest assured."
The weight of those words settled instantly.
"We fight as allies," he continued. "And allies do not send each other into battle unarmed."
He stepped forward, placing his hand firmly over the Elder's.
"When they arrive," he said, voice steady as steel, "they will receive full Blackwood Fortress equipment."
Four hundred sets.
Complete.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
Elder Shield-Bearer studied him—and then smiled.
"Good," he said quietly. "Then we gamble everything on this autumn."
Plans were finalized deep into the night. Timings. Signals. Coordination. Nothing was left to chance.
At dawn, the Brown Bear Tribe departed once more.
Colin stood watching them fade into the mist—then turned.
Behind him stood the core of Blackwood Fortress.
Goff. Hask. Barton. Lena. Berg. Anna. Sur.
Every one of them waiting.
Every one ready.
Colin's gaze swept across them—measured, sharp, resolute.
Then he spoke.
"War is coming."
A pause.
"We have one month."
His voice rose like thunder.
"We will use it to make ourselves—"
"IMPECCABLE."
The orders came like a storm.
Training doubled.
Defenses fortified.
Production intensified.
Supplies stockpiled.
Every cog accelerated.
Blackwood Fortress shifted—fully, completely—into a war machine.
And as the late summer wind carried the first fallen leaves across the ground, it felt less like the end of a season—
and more like the opening note of something far greater.
The hunt had begun.