The lingering warmth of early autumn had yet to fade when war finally bared its fangs.
At dawn, as the first golden light broke through the clouds and spilled across the vast Tranlo Continent, the western lands were plunged into chaos.
The Southern Storm
Three days earlier, the southern border of the Western Earldom had been torn open by a sudden, violent assault.
A roar—deep, savage, and overwhelming—rolled across the land like thunder.
"Kill—!"
From the forests and mountains surged thousands of warriors from the Brown Bear Tribe and its allies. They came like a flood long restrained, now bursting its banks.
At their front were the Bearmen.
Massive. Unstoppable.
And this time—armed.
Gone were the crude bone clubs and stone tools. In their place gleamed iron axes and spears, uniform and deadly, catching the sunlight like a field of cold fire.
A human centurion, barely awake, stumbled from his tent—only to freeze in horror.
A Bearman charged.
The heavy double-edged axe in its grip screamed through the air.
The centurion's prized shield shattered like brittle glass.
Steel split.
Bone followed.
Blood erupted.
The line broke.
"Enemy attack! Bearmen! Hold the line!" he screamed, voice cracking as he drew his sword. "Archers! Fire!"
But discipline crumbled beneath fury.
More Bearmen crashed into the formation, smashing, tearing, overwhelming.
Behind them, Deer-folk and Leopard-folk slipped through the chaos—precise, silent killers. Their spears found throats, hearts, and gaps in armor with ruthless efficiency.
This was not strategy.
This was annihilation.
The Earl's southern defenses, unprepared for such madness, collapsed in waves. Outposts fell one after another, flames rising to stain the sky.
The entire southern front ignited into a brutal meat grinder.
And just as planned—
Every ounce of the Earl's attention was dragged there.
He did not see the knife.
The Silent Blade
Three days later.
Far to the west, at the edge where Blackwood Forest met the mountains, another force moved.
Quietly.
No drums.
No war cries.
Only wind through grass.
And breath—heavy, controlled, restrained.
At the front rode Colin, mounted on his Snow Giant Wolf, Mo. His gaze swept forward, cold and sharp, scanning the unfamiliar enemy lands.
Behind him, Hask led the Wolf Guards—thirteen riders, silent as specters. Their wolves moved without sound, padded paws barely disturbing the earth. Breath misted and vanished in the cool air, leaving them ghostlike in motion.
Further back came Goff and the Wolf Fang infantry—thirty hardened warriors, armored and armed, their steps steady, muscles coiled with restrained violence.
Scattered ahead and along the flanks—
Anna's Forest Tracker Squadron.
Invisible.
They flowed through brush and shadow, eyes of the army, hunting any sign of danger before it could speak.
Discipline Over Instinct
Then came Boulder.
And his Bearmen.
One hundred giants, wrapped in silence.
Their feet bound in thick hide to muffle their steps. Their axes carried, not swung. Their breaths controlled.
For creatures born to roar and charge—
This was agony.
One young Bearman stumbled, a dull sound escaping.
A glare from Boulder froze him in place.
No words were needed.
From that moment on, he stepped as carefully as a fox.
Boulder himself felt something unfamiliar stir within him.
This… this was war?
Not chaos.
Not rage.
But patience.
Precision.
A hunt.
And he found it thrilling.
The Hidden Army
Behind them, three hundred Deer-folk warriors moved like drifting shadows. Their natural grace turned deadly in silence; an entire force erased from sound itself.
Together, they formed something unprecedented—
A coalition.
Five hundred strong.
Wolf-folk. Bearmen. Deer-folk. Fox-folk.
Different blood.
Different instincts.
Now forged into one blade.
A dagger.
Poisoned.
Aimed straight at the soft underbelly of Earl Raymond's domain.
The First Target
Greywood Village.
A border settlement of five hundred souls.
Defended—but complacent.
Safe—or so they believed.
Five miles away, in a hollow hidden by hills, the army halted.
Anna appeared moments later, silent as ever.
"Two watchtowers. Two sentries each," she reported. "Ten-man patrol at the gate. Thirty soldiers inside. Most villagers are in the fields."
Colin nodded.
The plan unfolded swiftly.
"Anna—eliminate the towers. Quietly. Then fire the west side."
"Barton—once the fields empty, lead the charge. Fast. Kill all armed resistance."
"Boulder—follow through. Break everything that stands."
Boulder grinned, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
"Goff, Hask—seal the exits. No one escapes."
Colin's voice hardened.
"Not one."
Silence followed.
Then—
"Understood."
The Descent
They moved.
Through forest.
Through shadow.
Until Greywood lay below them, calm and unaware.
Villagers worked.
Children laughed.
Smoke drifted gently from cooking fires.
Life—
Unknowing.
Colin lay atop a ridge, watching.
Waiting.
Then—
Movement.
Two watchtowers.
Two flickers.
Two bodies stiffened—
—and fell.
Black arrows in their throats.
A heartbeat later—
Fire.
Flaming arrows arced through the sky.
They struck.
Dry hay ignited instantly.
Flames roared upward, devouring rooftops, spreading with the wind.
"Fire! Fire!"
Panic erupted.
Villagers ran.
Farmers rushed back.
All eyes turned inward—
toward the flames.
No one looked outward.
No one saw death descending.
The Signal
On the ridge, Colin slowly raised his hand.
Below, Barton bared his teeth in a savage grin.
Then—
The hand fell.
"Kill—!"
The silence shattered.
The earth roared.
And the hidden blade struck.