Dawn came pale and lifeless.
A thin wash of gray light bled into the eastern sky, like something drained of blood. The camp was already gone. Only a few shallow pits, their embers buried under cold earth, hinted that an army had ever rested there.
They left nothing behind.
What could be carried was taken. What could not was hidden or destroyed.
Then they moved.
The column advanced in silence along the broken mountain paths. No chatter. No wasted motion. Only the steady rhythm of boots, claws, and hooves grinding against stone.
They were no longer the same force that had entered Dry Bone Valley.
Armor taken from corpses now covered their bodies—steel still bearing dents, dried blood, and the memory of its former owners. Weapons, newly claimed, rested in their hands with unfamiliar weight. As they marched, metal brushed against metal, producing a low, constant murmur—a cold, grinding hymn of war.
Among them, something new had taken shape.
Cavalry.
Thirty Wolf Fang warriors rode in uneven formation, their presence jarring against the otherwise disciplined march. They sat stiffly atop their mounts, bodies tense, movements unrefined. Some gripped the reins like drowning men clutching rope. Others swayed with each step, barely maintaining balance, their muscles straining to keep them from being thrown.
The horses tolerated them—for now.
"Steady," Hask growled from ahead, glancing back from atop Bonebreaker. "You look like corpses tied to saddles."
A young warrior flushed dark beneath his fur. His mount stumbled over loose stone and snorted sharply. He froze, fumbling to calm it, hands clumsy and uncertain.
On the opposite flank, the contrast was stark.
Anna led the Forest Trackers with quiet precision.
Fox-folk and Deer-folk riders moved low over their mounts, bodies aligned with each step, breathing in rhythm with the animals beneath them. They made almost no sound. Short bows rested in their hands, eyes scanning the forest with measured calm.
They did not fight the horse.
They became part of it.
Colin watched all of it.
Seated atop Mo, he towered over the formation. The massive white wolf moved with silent authority, each step deliberate, controlled.
The armor he wore—taken from Alfred—caught the weak sunlight, reflecting a cold, merciless gleam.
Human steel.
Human craftsmanship.
Now worn by something those humans would have called a monster.
The sight left an impression on every warrior who looked at him.
Not comfort.
Not pride.
Something heavier.
Something closer to reverence… or fear.
Colin did not acknowledge it.
His gaze shifted back once—toward the distant mountains.
Dry Bone Valley was gone from sight.
But not from memory.
A thousand dead.
A noble heir buried in blood.
That valley had not been a battlefield.
It had been a crucible.
What walked away from it was no longer a raiding band.
It was something sharper.
Something learning.
Something hungry.
He turned north.
Beyond the ridges lay the lands that had not yet burned.
Three days later, they crossed into the northern territories.
Anna approached, guiding Moonlight beside Mo.
"My Lord. Ten miles ahead—Mita Village."
"Report."
"Sixty households. Less than thirty militia. Poorly armed—wooden spears, hunting bows. No iron to speak of. One central stone storehouse. Perimeter is a simple wooden fence."
She paused.
"Most will still be inside. Preparing for the day."
Colin nodded once.
"Enough."
He raised a hand.
The column halted.
Orders followed without hesitation.
"Hask. Take the cavalry. Split and circle. Rear and flanks. No one leaves."
A pause.
"Do not charge blindly. You are not hunters chasing prey. You are the wall that closes."
Hask's lips pulled back slightly.
"Yes, Chief."
"Anna. High ground opposite the entrance. Anyone who runs—kill them."
"Understood."
"Boulder. Barton. Front assault. Break everything. Storehouses. Homes. Wells."
No hesitation.
Only a low, eager rumble in response.
Colin's gaze swept over them once.
Then—
"Move."
Mita Village woke to ruin.
Smoke rose from cooking fires. Dogs lay in the dirt. Farmers stepped out with tools in hand, stretching, yawning—
Then one stopped.
"…Do you hear that?"
The others frowned.
At first, it was nothing.
Then the ground trembled.
A distant rumble.
Growing.
Closer.
Dust rose beyond the trees.
"Enemy—!"
The cry from the watchtower broke halfway into a scream.
Too late.
They came from three sides.
The cavalry struck first—not with skill, but with speed.
Hooves thundered into the rear and flanks of the village, tearing through the illusion of safety. Formation broke almost immediately, but it did not matter.
They had already sealed the exits.
"Dismount!" Hask barked. "Kill!"
The werewolves hit the ground running.
They did not need the horses to fight.
The horses had already done their part.
Panic spread faster than fire.
A villager charged with a pitchfork, shouting—
A werewolf met him mid-stride.
No weapon.
Just impact.
The man's body folded, lifted, and broke as he was thrown aside.
Others tried to resist.
They died just as quickly.
Blades flashed.
Bodies fell.
The militia collapsed within moments, their formation never truly forming. Discipline met desperation—and erased it.
At the front, Boulder crashed through the wooden fence.
It shattered on impact.
Inside, he tore open the stone warehouse and hurled fire into its heart.
Grain ignited.
Flames roared upward.
The village began to burn.
Those who tried to flee forward found arrows waiting.
Anna's archers did not waste movement.
They did not rush.
They simply killed.
Every arrow found something vital.
Every shot removed another chance of resistance.
Anna moved among them, her gaze cold, selecting targets—leaders, runners, anyone thinking instead of panicking.
She removed them one by one.
Within minutes, the outcome was decided.
Within fifteen—
It was over.
Colin watched from above.
He did not interfere.
This was not battle.
This was assessment.
He noted everything.
The gaps in Hask's encirclement.
The hesitation in inexperienced riders.
The need for archers to slow before firing.
Flaws.
All of them.
Useful.
When the last screams faded, only fire remained.
"Take what can be eaten," Colin said.
"Destroy the rest."
They obeyed.
Wells were choked with stone and corpses.
Homes burned to ash.
Nothing was left that could sustain life.
They regrouped miles away.
The cavalry was called forward.
Colin's gaze fell on one of them.
"You," he said. "Why did you slow down?"
The young warrior stiffened.
"I… was afraid of falling."
Silence.
Then—
A quiet, cold voice:
"And when the enemy escapes through the gap you leave… will you still be afraid of falling?"
The warrior trembled.
"No."
"You will be dead."
Colin's eyes did not soften.
"Remember that."
His gaze shifted to another.
"You. Why were you looking down while charging?"
The question hung in the air.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
The lesson had only begun.