The army melted into the night as swiftly as it had come, leaving behind nothing but fire, ash, and silence.
After half an hour of rapid withdrawal, Colin ordered a halt.
The chosen ground was a narrow valley—one side pressed against a sheer cliff, the others wrapped in dense forest. A perfect place to disappear.
No tents were raised.
No fires beyond a single, tightly controlled flame.
Nearly five hundred soldiers dispersed into the darkness, each unit settling where they stood. No chatter. No laughter. Only the faint rustle of armor and the occasional glint of eyes—human and wolf alike—watching the night.
They had become part of it.
At the center, a small fire flickered.
Colin crouched beside it, snapping a dry branch and dragging its tip through the dirt. A crude map took shape—stones for hills, lines for rivers, a circle marking the village they had erased.
"The victory at Greywood Village means nothing."
His voice was calm, cutting through the silence.
"It wasn't a battle. It was a crush."
No one spoke.
"But it proved something."
The branch struck the map.
"We are faster. Better equipped. More flexible."
He looked up, eyes cold.
"They are slow. Bloated. Like grazing beasts."
A pause.
"And we are wolves."
The words settled into the air like iron.
"Our targets are clear—granaries, armories, noble estates. We do not hold ground. We destroy it."
The branch traced eastward.
"No engagements with forces above three hundred. We do not fight their strength—we break their structure."
His gaze swept the circle.
"We strike. We vanish. We return before they can even understand what they're chasing."
Silence followed.
Then—
"Rest."
Colin rose.
"Tomorrow, the western border learns to fear the dark."
He walked away, his figure swallowed by shadow.
Around the fire, no one moved for a long time.
But something had changed.
The heaviness from earlier… was gone.
What remained was sharper.
Colder.
Purpose.
Before dawn, the camp was already gone.
No horns.
No commands shouted aloud.
Only movement.
Weapons checked in silence. Armor tightened. Faces smeared with mud.
The Wolf Fang warriors blended into shadow.
The Bearmen steadied their breathing.
The Boar-folk checked every plate and strap.
Then—
"Move."
The army flowed forward like a living thing.
Ahead of them, Anna and her trackers had already vanished.
They were not seen.
Only felt.
Guiding.
Clearing.
Watching.
The march was swift.
Hidden routes. Broken terrain. Forest paths no army should have been able to cross.
But this was no ordinary army.
Two miles from the target, they stopped.
A manor by the river.
Small—but vital.
A grain hub.
Lightly defended.
Perfect.
Colin sat atop Mo, eyes closed.
Waiting.
Beside him, Hask, Boulder, and the others stood in silence.
Then—
A shadow returned.
Anna.
"Leader," she said softly, "outer sentries cleared. No alarm."
She continued without pause.
"Twenty-four on the walls. Four groups. Northeast corner—weak. Commander drunk."
Colin opened his eyes.
No hesitation.
"Wolf Guards."
A single breath.
"First wave."
They moved like ghosts.
Fourteen white shapes slipping through mist and shadow, gone in moments.
Time stretched.
The forest held its breath.
Then—
A faint sound.
Metal.
Then nothing.
Colin's lips curved slightly.
"Now."
On the slope below the walls, the Wolf Guards rose as one.
Crossbows lifted.
A low mechanical hum cut through the dawn.
Then—
Death fell.
A storm of bolts tore through the air, dense and merciless.
The wall erupted in screams—
Then silence.
Bodies dropped where they stood, riddled through before they could even react.
The drunk captain fell last, his flask slipping from his hand as bolts pinned him in place.
One volley.
One corner erased.
"Bedrock Squad."
Colin's voice followed immediately.
"Break the gate."
Barton roared.
Seven armored giants surged forward, carrying a crude ram between them.
Inside the manor, panic spread.
"Close the gate! Close—!"
Too late.
"OPEN!"
The ram struck.
The gate shattered inward, splinters flying like shrapnel.
Those behind it were crushed instantly.
The flood began.
Seven Boar-folk stormed through the breach, axes rising and falling in brutal rhythm.
No resistance held.
No formation survived.
Steel met flesh.
And won.
"Advance."
Now the rest surged in.
Wolf Fang warriors.
Bearmen.
A tide of controlled violence.
Within minutes, it was over.
When Colin entered, the manor was already broken.
Scattered resistance.
Fading screams.
Smoke rising.
Efficiency.
Everything as planned.
Barton was already breaking open the storehouse.
Inside—
Grain.
Meat.
Supplies.
"Take what we need," Anna ordered calmly. "Burn the rest."
The Deer-folk moved instantly.
Disciplined.
Precise.
In the courtyard, the survivors were gathered.
Servants.
Serfs.
A hundred or so.
Trembling.
Waiting.
Colin looked at them.
No anger.
No hesitation.
"Tie them."
They were bound.
Lined up.
Then—
He stepped forward.
The blade moved.
Clean.
Fast.
Final.
One after another.
No pain.
No noise.
Just the quiet end of lives.
When it was done, he turned away.
No one spoke.
"Burn everything."
Torches were thrown.
Flames climbed quickly, devouring wood, wealth, memory.
The manor became an inferno.
Colin stood at the edge, watching.
Not the fire.
The result.
This—
This was control.
This was power.
He mounted Mo again, glancing once at the rising smoke.
Then at the map in his hand.
Numbers ticked upward in silence.
He closed the panel.
Meaningless.
What mattered was this—
Execution.
Precision.
Obedience.
A machine that worked exactly as intended.
"Next target?"
Anna stepped forward, pointing to a new mark.
"A larger settlement."
Colin's gaze lifted beyond the flames, into the distance.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Good."
His voice was soft.
Cold.
"Let the nightmare spread."