Dawn painted the ridge in blood.
Ethan pressed Nyxara's spyglass to his eye and counted. Three hundred. Maybe more. Beastkin warriors in mismatched armor, carrying axes, spears, and clubs made from bone. Behind them, in neat formation, fifty Imperial soldiers in polished steel. The Empire's "advisors." Professional killers babysitting a warlord.
Mixed totems and Imperial banners flew side by side. It looked wrong. Like watching a wolf on a leash pretending it was free.
"Three hundred on the ridge," he said. "Fifty Imperials in the rear. Supply wagons, two siege ladders, and something big under a canvas that I really don't want to know about."
Nyxara stood beside him on the watchtower. Her eyes didn't need the spyglass. Dark Elf vision was better than any optics Ethan had ever used. "The large object is a battering ram. Ironwood core, reinforced with Imperial steel bands. They mean to come through the gate."
"Wonderful."
Below them, Ashenmere was awake and terrified. Refugees who'd barely stopped shaking from their last battle were watching the ridge with hollow eyes. Children pressed against their mothers. The Beastkin newcomers huddled in groups, some whimpering, some growling low in their throats. One hundred and thirty-two people who'd come here because they had nowhere else to go.
Rowan climbed the ladder and stuck his head over the parapet. His gaze swept from the army to Ethan. "So. That's a lot of angry dog people."
"Wolf people."
"Right. Sorry. A lot of angry wolf people. With Imperial backup. And a battering ram." He paused. "Boss, I don't mean to be negative, but we can't flood a canyon at every army that shows up."
"No." Ethan collapsed the spyglass. "Different enemy. Different solution."
A horn blew from the ridge. Deep. Rattling. The kind of sound you felt in your chest more than heard. Every Beastkin in Ashenmere flinched. Some of the refugee children started crying.
Greta didn't flinch.
She stood at the base of the watchtower, arms crossed, her father's war banner tied around her left bicep. Her amber eyes locked on the ridge. Her tail was dead still. No wagging. No movement at all.
That was worse than growling.
Ethan climbed down. "Greta."
"I see them."
"You okay?"
She didn't answer for a long time. Then: "He's wearing my father's jawbone. Around his neck. Like jewelry." Her voice was flat. Empty. The kind of empty that came right before something exploded.
A rider broke from the enemy line. Single Beastkin. Scarred face, one ear torn half off. He rode a gray war-beast the size of a draft horse and carried a white flag that looked like it had been torn from someone's tent.
The emissary.
He stopped fifty meters from the gate. His voice boomed across the field.
"Bloodfang Kral, Alpha of the Plains, Conqueror of the Iron Fang, Lord of the Southern Herds, sends his terms." The scarred Beastkin paused for dramatic effect. "Surrender all escaped slaves. The branded ones. The collared ones. All of them. Do this, and Bloodfang is merciful. He only wants his property back."
Property.
Ethan felt Greta's claws pop out. Heard the small sound of keratin against leather as her hands curled into fists.
"One more thing," the emissary continued. "The one called Ironfang's daughter. Bloodfang will accept her as a gift. Alive. He has... unfinished business."
The silence that followed was physical. Heavy. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
Ethan stepped forward. Past Greta. Past Rowan. He walked to the gate, opened the viewing slot, and looked the emissary dead in the eye.
"Ashenmere doesn't have slaves," he said. "We have citizens. Citizens don't get handed over."
The emissary's lip curled, showing broken fangs. "You'll die for animals, human?"
Rowan appeared at Ethan's shoulder. "Buddy, I deserted the Imperial army because I wouldn't burn a Beastkin village. You think a death threat is going to change his mind?"
The emissary snorted. "Then Bloodfang will take what he wants. By morning, this place will be ash." He turned his war-beast and galloped back toward the ridge.
Ethan closed the viewing slot.
Inside, the camp was holding its breath. Every eye on him. Refugees. Militia. Beastkin warriors who'd barely joined. Lena, standing at the clinic entrance with bandages already in her hands. Nyxara, shadow energy flickering at her fingertips.
He'd been in this spot before. The Baron's army. Two hundred men. He'd solved that with water and gravity.
This was different. Three hundred warriors who knew the terrain. Beastkin who could smell a trap from half a mile away. And Imperial soldiers who wouldn't fall for the same trick twice.
He couldn't out-fight them. Couldn't out-trap them. Not three hundred.
But he didn't have to.
"Greta." He turned. "Beastkin law. If the Alpha falls in single combat, what happens to his pack?"
Her ears perked. "The challenger takes the pack. All of it. Warriors, territory, mates. Everything."
"So if someone killed Kral in a fair fight..."
"Three hundred warriors kneel to whoever put him down." Her eyes narrowed. "But YOU can't fight Kral. He's a Fenrir warlord. Full War Beast blood. He'd snap you in half before you could blink."
"I'm not fighting him." Ethan looked at her. "You are."
The camp went quiet again. Different kind of quiet this time. Not fear. Shock.
Greta stared at him. Her tail twitched once.
"I'm not strong enough," she said. Low. Like admitting it cost her something.
"Not alone," Ethan said. "But you won't be alone."
[TACTICAL ANALYSIS]
Direct confrontation: Bloodfang Kral
Greta solo probability: 31%
With Contractor tactical support: 64%
With full Bond activation: 89%
[Note: Fenrir duels traditionally
allow bonded partners to provide
support from the circle edge.
This is... technically legal.]
He showed her the numbers. She couldn't read System panels, but he translated: "With my help, your odds are better than a coin flip. With a Bond, it's almost certain."
He paused.
"But I'm not asking for a Bond. I'm asking if you trust me."
"Trust." She rolled the word like it tasted strange. "My father trusted his allies. They put a sword in his back."
"I'm not your father's allies. I'm the idiot who fights armies with plumbing."
Her lip twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
Ethan laid out the plan for the inner circle. Nyxara, Rowan, Lena, Greta, and three of the Beastkin elders.
"Beastkin custom says the challenge has to happen on neutral ground between the two forces. The challenger picks the time. The challenged picks the weapon. I can't control what Kral picks, but I can control the ground."
"How?" Rowan asked.
"I've been surveying the field between us and the ridge for three days. There's a drainage channel on the west side, natural gravel bed, and at this hour the sun hits from the east at about a thirty-degree angle." He drew in the dirt. "Heavy fighters lose traction on gravel. The drainage dip is invisible unless you're looking for it. And anyone facing east gets the sun right in their eyes."
Nyxara studied the crude map. "You want Greta to fight where the terrain is an enemy to size and a friend to speed."
"Exactly."
Greta looked at the drawing. Then at Ethan. "You can't engineer a fistfight."
"Watch me."
---
Night fell. The camp settled into a nervous sleep. Fires burned low. Sentries walked the walls with tight grips on their spears.
Ethan couldn't sleep.
He sat against the watchtower wall, journal open on his knees. Two emotional channels buzzed in the back of his skull — Nyxara's cold vigilance and Lena's soft, rolling anxiety. Two people's feelings layered on top of his own. Like having the TV on in two other rooms while trying to think.
He wrote by firelight. Small things. The color of his apartment ceiling in Chicago. Off-white, with a water stain shaped like Florida. The sound of the L train at 6 AM, metal screaming against metal. The way the coffee from the bodega on Clark Street tasted — burnt, bitter, perfect.
Things from a life that felt further away every day.
A shadow fell across his page.
"You write every night," Nyxara said. She sat beside him without asking. After weeks of proximity, she'd stopped asking permission for small things. "What are those words?"
"Memories." He closed the journal. "Things I don't want to forget."
She didn't push. That was new too. The Nyxara from the Abyss would have pressed. This version of her understood that some doors stayed closed until they were ready.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Tomorrow."
"If the wolf girl falls, we fight three hundred."
"She won't fall."
Nyxara studied him. Those violet eyes that could see in total darkness but somehow always seemed to be searching for something just out of reach. "You are certain."
"I'm an engineer. I deal in probabilities, not certainties." He paused. "But yeah. I'm certain."
She almost smiled. "Someday you will learn to simply say 'I believe in her' without turning it into a math problem."
"Probably not."
"No," she agreed. "Probably not."
---
Dawn again. The sky bleeding orange.
Greta stood at the gate. Her father's banner on her arm. Scars catching the early light. She'd braided her silver-gray hair tight against her skull, fighter's style. No loose strands for an enemy to grab.
Ethan approached. She didn't turn, but her ears tracked him.
"I'll fight him," she said. Flat. Decided. "But I need you to promise me something."
"Name it."
"If I die, you take care of my pack. The refugees. The elders. The cubs." She turned. Her amber eyes burned. "They came here because of ME. Because I told them Ashenmere was safe. If I'm gone, you make sure that's still true."
"You're not going to die."
"Promise me."
He met her eyes. Held them. "I promise. But you're going to make me break that promise by staying alive."
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded. Once. Hard.
She turned toward the gate.
Behind her, from the ridge, the war drums started. Deep, rolling thunder that made the ground pulse. Three hundred voices rose in a howl that split the morning in half.
Greta's own howl answered. Alone. One wolf against three hundred.
But it didn't sound small.
It sounded like the beginning of something.
Rowan gripped his spear and looked at Ethan. "Boss. What if she loses?"
Ethan watched Greta walk through the gate, her father's banner catching the wind.
"Then we fight three hundred. And we win anyway."
Rowan blinked. "You know, one of these days, your confidence is going to get us killed."
"Not today."
The war drums grew louder.