For days the Fossa bent their backs to village work.
Not warriors, not mercenaries—just men and women in black shirts, their crimson eyes downcast as they pushed plows, hauled water, stacked wood.
It wasn't perfect.
Burnt bread, broken tools, awkward hands fumbling at farmwork.
But little by little, the rhythm came. And little by little, the villagers' glares softened—never gone, but dulled.
One afternoon, dust and smoke clung heavy over the fields.
The sun slanted low, and the sound of shovels striking dirt had become the backdrop of the day.
That was when the scouts came running—boots biting into the earth, breath tight and fast.
One of them found Arthur at the edge of the fields.
The man's chest rose and fell hard as he bent close, voice low but urgent.
"People moving near the treeline. Not our own. Three… maybe four. Watching the village."
The words spread quicker than fire through dry grass.
By the time Arthur reached the square, villagers had already gathered, whispering sharp and nervous—soldiers, raiders, debt collectors.
Arthur set down the bundle of wood in his arms, wiping his palms slow against his black shirt. His crimson eyes narrowed toward the distant trees.
"Armed?" His tone was even, but the edge in it left no room for doubt.
The scout nodded once. "Couldn't tell what, but they weren't farmers."
Arthur's jaw flexed. He let the silence drag just long enough to steady the crowd. "Keep your eyes on them. No contact unless I say. If they push closer, I want to know before they take a breath."
The scout hesitated, leaned in. "You think it's Capital men?"
Arthur didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the treeline, unreadable as stone.
From behind, Darven's voice carried—flat, gravelly. "Could be scavengers. Could be patrol. Either way, they don't walk this close by accident."
Abigail came up with a water pail in her hands, catching only enough of the words to see the tension ripple across the men's faces.
Her eyes flicked sharp between Arthur and the scout.
"What is it?"
Arthur didn't look at her. "Eyes in the forest. That's all."
Her lips pressed thin. "That's never all."
Arthur finally turned, meeting her stare. He said nothing more, but the set of his jaw told her enough.
He gathered his core around the well—Darven, Abigail, two of the older Fossa, and the scout.
Villagers hovered at the edge, uneasy, ears straining. Arthur's voice carried low, firm.
"We don't panic. We don't show weakness. Darven—you and I take a look tonight. Quiet. If it's nothing, good. If it's something, better we see them before they see us."
Abigail's arms crossed tight over her chest. "And if they are Capital soldiers?"
Arthur's jaw worked. He didn't flinch. "Then we decide if we fight… or if we run."
The word run scraped across the square like stone.
The Fossa had run their whole lives.
The villagers felt it too; you could see it in their shoulders, in the way they shifted their feet.
From just outside the circle, Fazer stood with his fists shoved deep in his pockets.
His eyes locked on his father, chest tight, words burning up his throat.
Brad leaned against the well, posture loose, grin sharp as a knife that didn't belong here.
"Run or fight," Fazer muttered just loud enough for a few to hear. "Funny how no one ever says attack first."
Darven's head snapped around, eyes narrowing. "Because that's suicide, boy."
Brad shrugged, smirk growing. "Better than sitting here with our thumbs up our asses."
The villagers murmured, some nodding, others scowling.
Fazer stepped forward before the hesitation could choke him out.
His voice cut sharp into the circle. "We should scout with you. We're fast. We're careful. Let us prove it."
Arthur's crimson eyes landed on him, steady and heavy. "No."
That was all. No explanation, no soft edge.
Fazer's jaw tightened. His voice grew sharper. "Father—let me scout with Darven. I can handle it."
Abigail's voice cut through fast, sharp as a blade. "No. You stay."
Fazer snapped toward her, anger raw. "You never even think I'm ready. I'm not a kid, I can—"
"No," Arthur said again, louder this time, slicing his words clean through the air. His tone wasn't anger—it was finality.
Silence fell like a stone. The villagers felt it, shifting uneasily.
Fazer's nails dug into his palms.
He forced his eyes away before anyone saw the burn in them.
His chest felt too tight, his throat raw.
Crimson eyes fixed hard on the treeline, as if he could burn through the leaves himself.
From the edge of the crowd, a villager muttered under his breath, "Cursed blood can't keep their mouths shut."
Another hissed back, "At least the boy's got more balls than some."
The whispers only stoked the fire in Fazer's chest.
Brad broke from the wall and caught up to him by the fence, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.
"Fuck waiting, Fazer. They treat us like we're weak. You know we're not. At least you're not. Fuck this standing around while they argue like old hens."
Fazer didn't look at him, jaw set. "Try telling that to my parents."
Brad's smirk slid sideways. "Parents don't own us. Tonight—we slip out. Just us. We'll take a look before the old men even lace their boots."
Fazer's breath caught in his chest. His heart pounded, split between his parent's command and the fire in his own blood.
He stared at the treeline, wind stirring the leaves like whispers meant for him alone.
Brad leaned in closer, voice harder now, smirk fading. "Unless you'd rather keep being the cursed boy who waits around for permission."
Fazer's eyes narrowed, a spark catching in them. He didn't say yes. He didn't say no. But Brad's challenge dug in like a thorn, and he knew sleep wouldn't come easy tonight.
Behind them, the murmurs of the village council still carried—Abigail's worry cutting through, Darven's gravel steady, Arthur's calm iron.
But for Fazer, the real choice was already clawing at him.