Blackwood Fortress did not celebrate for long.
The embers of the bonfire had not yet fully died when the entire fortress shifted—like a beast shaking off warmth, returning to hunger.
Colin's will had already taken hold.
And now, the machine moved.
"Move! MOVE, you sluggish curs!"
Berg's roar tore through the morning air like a hammer striking iron.
He stood at the mouth of the weapon warehouse, bare-chested despite the chill, his thick, scar-crossed torso glistening with sweat and soot. His beard was matted, his eyes bloodshot—but they burned with a vicious clarity.
Around him, Wolf-folk warriors strained under the weight of weapon bundles, hauling them out in disciplined lines.
Steel gleamed.
Cold.
Merciless.
Berg didn't trust them.
He trusted only the blade.
"Stop!"
A warrior froze mid-step.
Berg snatched the sword from his hands, holding it up to the light. His thumb ran along the blood groove, slow… deliberate.
Then—
A snarl.
"This?" he spat. "This is a groove? This is a joke!"
He hurled the blade back with enough force to stagger the warrior.
"Take it back! Grind it again! If I see this filth on my field, I'll melt it down—and your hands with it!"
No one spoke.
No one dared.
He moved again, faster this time, like a storm looking for something to break.
A bundle of spears.
He kicked it apart.
The shafts scattered across the ground.
"Loose bindings," he growled. "Loose discipline."
He crouched, grabbed one spear, and twisted the head with brutal force. It shifted—just slightly.
Enough.
"On the battlefield, that shift is a corpse," he said coldly. "Yours."
He stood.
"Rebind them. Oil-soaked sinew. Tight enough that even death can't pry them loose."
The warriors scrambled.
Fear was efficient.
"Count it again!" Berg barked, turning toward the scribes.
"Three hundred 'Black Tooth' blades! I want every one sharp enough to open a man from collarbone to spine!"
"Five hundred spears! Three meters each! Armor-piercing—if they don't punch through, they're scrap!"
"And the axes—" his voice dropped, darker, heavier.
He walked to the final crate and placed a hand on it, almost reverently.
"Two hundred 'Bonebreakers.'"
A pause.
"Mine."
Across the square, the chaos found its counterpoint.
Lena stood amid it all, untouched.
Calm.
Precise.
Cold in a different way.
"Ten carts," she said, not raising her voice—yet somehow heard above everything. "Reinforced. Inspected. No defects."
The Boar-folk moved immediately.
They dragged the carts forward, their massive frames straining, wheels grinding against packed earth. Iron fittings clanked. Wood creaked.
But nothing broke.
Nothing dared.
Anna worked beside Lena, her presence quieter, but no less commanding.
The Fox-folk moved like shadows under her direction.
Weapons were not thrown.
They were handled.
Wrapped in thick tarps, layered carefully, bound tight with rope.
Each bundle secured with a precision that bordered on ritual.
Not because the weapons were delicate.
But because mistakes were fatal.
"Six carts for weapons," Lena continued, eyes flicking across her board as charcoal scratched against wood. "Balance the load. No axle failures on rough terrain."
She didn't look up.
"For the remaining four—provisions."
A brief pause.
"One hundred sacks of rye. Thirty of dried meat. One of salt."
Her tone did not change.
"Enough to keep five hundred alive."
A beat.
"Barely."
The Brown Bear warriors watched.
At first, silently.
Then—
A low rumble.
It spread among them like distant thunder.
Not anger.
Not quite.
Something closer to anticipation.
One of them stepped forward.
Larger than the rest.
Scarred.
Heavy.
He looked at Berg.
Berg didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
Permission was taken, not given.
The bear reached into the crate and lifted a Bonebreaker.
The axe was massive—too heavy for most men to even wield.
In his hands, it looked… right.
He swung.
Once.
Twice.
The air screamed.
A sharp, violent whistle that cut through the noise of the square.
He stopped.
Looked at the blade.
The edge gleamed, thin as a promise.
His lips pulled back.
Not into a smile.
Into something worse.
Recognition.
He understood.
This was not a tool.
Not truly.
It was time.
Borrowed.
Stolen.
Measured in heartbeats and blood.
Around him, others stepped closer.
Their eyes followed the weapons being loaded.
Tracked every blade.
Every spear.
Every edge that might decide whether they would return…
Or be left behind in mud and silence.
The fortress moved without pause.
No wasted motion.
No idle hands.
Only preparation.
Only inevitability.
Because everyone understood—
This departure was not a journey.
It was a descent.
And every weapon loaded onto those carts…
Was one more answer to the question waiting for them in the south.
A question written in steel.
And answered in death.