The caravan moved in a brisk but wary pace across the packed dirt road, wheels grinding through the heat-thick air. Jackal and Lobo rode up front—Jackal scanning the distant tree line with a soldier's suspicion, Lobo hunched low in the saddle, his eyes constantly sweeping the brush for movement.
Around them, the jungles of the central region breathed. A hot wind carried the scent of mud, sweat, and other less pleasant odors. The twin moons had risen—one pale, one tinged with crimson—casting a strange silver-red shimmer across the jungle canopy. That blood-colored moon, ever-burning even in the dark, was what the warband took its name from: The Midnight Sun.
Far beyond where anyone from the caravan could see, deep in the veil of trees, a howl echoed out—low, guttural, and long. It reverberated through the dirt beneath the warriors' mounts' hooves, the kind of sound that bent the air and made even seasoned killers' hair stand up on their necks.
Jackal and Lobo looked at each other.
Lobo's brow furrowed. "Wolf?" Jackal said, chewing the edge of one of his braids.
"No," Lobo's brow furrowed. "Not a Natuwild"
"Maybe a bone-back boar. Or one of those two-headed shriekers from the salt marsh?"
Lobo didn't even glance at him. "Shriekers don't howl. That wasn't an Umbrawild either."
Jackal let the silence hang a moment, then leaned forward in his saddle.
"Dreadwild then?"
"Could be," Lobo replied grimly.
Jackal grinned. "Wanna go pet it? I'll hold your spear. Just scream if you need me."
The soldiers around them laughed—nervously. The kind of laugh men use when they don't want to admit they're afraid.
Lobo didn't smile. "If it comes for the caravan, I'll be the one standing. You'll be the one screaming."
Jackal chuckled and gave his mount a gentle tap with his heel. "Spoken like a man who's still bitter about that spider-cat in the Hollow Glade."
"That thing almost took your face off," Lobo muttered.
Jackal grinned, the gesture tugging the scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to just beneath his ear on the right side—an old wound that only added character to an already handsome face. His skin was a deep brown, sun-worn and sweat-slick under the weight of the jungle heat, and his black hair was tied back in tight, braided rows that shifted with each movement.
"And I still looked better than you afterward," he said, smirking.
Lobo turned his head just enough for the moonlight to catch the scar that carved down the left side of his face—from his shaved scalp, across one pale, storm-colored eye, and down to his squared jaw. He was a mountain of a man, easily two and a half meters tall, with muscle that looked carved from stone and skin like bleached ash. Where Jackal was quicksilver, Lobo was cold iron.
He didn't dignify the jab with a reply. He never did.
Behind them, far at the rear of the column, a muffled cry stirred from beneath Nocte's cloak.
Crow spared a glance at the man beside him. The bundle in Nocte's cloak squirmed again, earning a soft grunt as the war chief shifted his arm, trying—failing—to keep it still.
"You're not winning that battle," Crow murmured, voice light with amusement.
Nocte didn't answer, only adjusted his weight and kept riding his mount.
Crow's eyes flicked to the massive figure's profile, his smile lingering.
Broad as any mountain and just as unyielding, Nocte moved with the grounded patience of something older than the trees—something shaped by war, loss, and the silence of exile. His skin was the color of midnight, the sort of deep, endless black that seemed to drink in the moonlight. His hair, short and curled tight to his skull, carried just the first signs of silver near the temple.
"They used to call him Bear," Crow thought to himself, lips twitching. "Fitting then. Fitting now."
But he wasn't just Bear anymore. Not since the War of Broken Vows. Not since the day he challenged the Kael'Morrak tyrant and walked away with the head still in hand. They'd called him Grovenbear after that— an Umbrawild, a title earned in blood.
And when the Noctvorn took him in, when he laid his loyalty at the feet of their daughter and she returned it with her heart… another name was given.
Nocte.
Not a title. A name. A binding. A place carved into the heart of a great tribe.
Crow watched the man cradle the fussing bundle in silence, eyes softening.
"A noble bear," he whispered to himself, not for the first time.
"In the old tongue... they'd call him Korrv'Rakka."
He chuckled under his breath. "And damn if it doesn't still suit him."
"Crow, please. You know I hate when men stare at me—it gives me the creeps. Only ladies may behold my majesty."
Nocte said in a tone deliberately mimicking Jackal's dramatics.
"Oh, stop. The only lady who could handle your 'majesty' is someone like a Nyxari." Crow chuckled.
"Watch how you speak about my wife," Nocte shot back, half-joking, half-serious.
He looked up at the twin moons above and sighed.
"She is also my rock."
Crow raised an eyebrow, smirking. Turning his head aside, he muttered just loud enough to be heard:
"More like your mountain."
Nocte gave him a hard look.
"WAAAH!"
Before the infant's cries drew attention from the rest of the caravan, Nocte turned his focus back to the bundle in his arms. Crow was off the hook—for now.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Do you honestly believe you can keep that quiet for much longer?"
Nocte glanced wearily at Crow but chose silence.
Once they rounded the hill, their home came into view.
Noctvalis village was situated between the majestic trees of the central region jungle, a waterfall nearby provided water and flocks of Natuwild class beast grouped nearby so meat was never scarce.
With a cheerful whistle, Crow exclaimed, "What a stunning view! You truly are a sight for sore eyes!"
Down in the village, the stepping out from the largest dwelling was Nyxari—towering and commanding, at least as tall as Lobo, if not taller. The Matriarch's presence was dominating, like it was bending the air around her.
This created a very striking contrast with her equally imposing, yet more grounded husband.
Her skin was a warm, rich tan, smooth. She possessed not a single blemish, and the light cast from the two moons made her glow. Her eyes, unmistakably Varnari, bore the signature black sclera. Still, it was her irises that held all who looked captive—a rare and haunting shade of deep purple, as if the night sky itself had been captured within them.
Her hair was the same enchanting tone as her irises, and the long curls fell all the way down past her waist. She moved with purpose, gliding through the villagers like a moonlit blade through silk—graceful, silent, and unmistakably dangerous. Nyxari was the living embodiment of the Noctvorn tribe's strengths: Physical and Mystical force, both revered and feared.
Beside her, a small figure tugged at her cloak—a child with black eyes and wild purple curls. Noctari, Nocte's daughter, barely three years old but tall as a six-year-old, inherited from the mother's side of the family.
As the caravan rolled into the outskirts of Noctvalis, the quiet village seemed almost to come to life. Villagers creeping out from their dwellings, eyes full of curiosity and wonder. Children, ever the impatient, darted between legs trying to get a closer look.
Weary warriors were greeted by their wives and children, as well as their mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters.
All eyes then turned to the carts.
Jackal was first to move, hopping off his mount with dramatic flair. "Back up, back up! We brought supplies, not souvenirs!" he barked, grinning as he clapped hands and playfully shoved at the crowd.
Nyxari stood still among the chaos, her sharp Varnari eyes scanning the scene as Jackal and Lobo drew the crowd's attention with their usual flare. Most villagers were too distracted by their return to notice anything else—but Nyxari wasn't most villagers.
She was the tallest person in the village—taller even than Lobo—and from her vantage point, she could see through the ruse. Her eyes narrowed. Past the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Nocte and Crow slipping away down the shaded path toward their home.
Something's off.
She moved with purpose, weaving through the villagers like a blade through silk. By the time Nocte reached the threshold of their house, Nyxari was already standing in the street behind him, arms crossed.
"Nocte," she called, voice low and sharp. "What in the Two Moons is going on?"
He froze mid-step, groaning under his breath.
"Dead man walking," Crow whispered, offering his condolences, but kept walking, pretending not to have heard.
Nocte's bloodshot eyes widened at his friend's betrayal, 'Traitor'
"Uncle!"
Noctari's voice rang out as the girl sprinted and leaped at Crow, who himself was amid an attempted escape.
Crow turned, grinning, just in time to catch her as she leapt into his arms. He spun her once with ease, drawing a joyful squeal from her, before settling her on his hip.
Nocte smiled back at him.
They smiled not out of joy, but out of solace.
'I won't walk to the gallows alone.'
Nocte turned now and looked up at his wife, "My dear, my midnight sun, how I yearned to see you."
Nyxari raised an eyebrow, clearly not fooled by the poor attempt at flattery, "I can tell my dear, with how fast you and the baby chick Crow were moved, you were very eager indeed. But can I ask you something?"
Sweat began to form on both Nocte and Crow's brow.
Nocte clutched the bundle in his cloak tightly, praying it didn't cry out no. Crow was making similar prayers.
"Yes, of course you can, my dear Pale Moon."
"Do you know what time of day I was born?"
The two warriors exchange confused glances at each other.
"At night?"
"Correct! And that means you must know I wasnt born last night either."
Though she spoke the words with a smile, Nyxari was by no means amused.
Nocte looked at his vice-captain for help, but he could not find any words to speak.
Crow could see the pleading in his captain's eyes; years spent on the battlefield together allowed them almost a level of telepathy when they met eyes like this.
The message was clear.
'Help me!'
And in that moment Crow did what any loyal person would do when his blood brother had a marital dispute; he turned away.
Jackal's words came to mind,' It's going to cost you, maybe all of us.'
Nocte, out of options, looked up again at his wife.
He opened his cloak, and in his left arm, swaddled in a bundle, lay the baby, now beginning to stir.
Nervous smile playing on his lips and mustering up all his courage,
"We're having a baby!"
Nyxari's eyes widened, the blacks of her eyes becoming black holes.
Then she fainted.