The second toll of the bell rolled through Verdant Hollow like thunder.
Parents pulled their children close. Stalls were abandoned mid-sale. Farmers dropped the reins of their carts. In an instant, the cheerful bustle of the square twisted into something sharp and urgent — the whole village preparing for danger.
Rowan froze, caught between shock and disbelief. The warmth of the day had vanished; the air now carried the weight of alarm.
"Don't just stand there!"
A heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder. Rowan spun to see Brennar, no grin on his face this time, only steel in his eyes.
"Move," Brennar said firmly, dragging him toward the armory hut. "You're with me."
The hut was little more than rough planks nailed together, but inside it boiled with life. Villagers pushed past each other, seizing spears, axes, hunting bows, anything that could cut or crush. Some handled weapons with practiced ease, muscles moving from memory. Others fumbled, fear shaking their fingers as they tried to arm themselves.
Brennar shouldered his way through the crowd and pulled a blade from a rack. He shoved it into Rowan's hands — a short iron sword, plain and battered but solid enough.
Rowan stared at it, holding it awkwardly. "I… I've never used one of these."
Brennar's laugh was short. "Then today's your first lesson. Keep it pointed out and don't let it go. That's step one."
Rowan tried to nod, though his heart hammered so hard it hurt. The blade felt heavy and clumsy in his grip, his palms already slick.
Brennar hefted his own axe in one hand, resting it against his shoulder. "Stick to my side. You'll live."
The villagers gathered into a rough line before the timber gates of Verdant Hollow. Torches hissed along the palisade, smoke drifting upward, shadows jerking across the road.
Rowan heard it then — a low rumble beyond the wall, the sound of growls blending into one another until it vibrated in his chest.
The gates creaked open.
Eyes gleamed in the gloom, dozens of them, cold and watchful. Then the wolves came forward.
These were no farmyard strays. They were monstrous — shoulders nearly at a man's chest, fangs glinting long as knives. Their dark coats bristled like thorns as they padded closer, hunger in every step.
But it wasn't only the wolves.
Behind them stood four figures, half-shadowed by the trees. They wore dark armor that reflected no light, faces hidden behind helms. They did not move, did not speak. They simply watched, silent and waiting, while the beasts advanced first.
Rowan's grip tightened on the sword until his knuckles ached. His stomach turned cold.
---
"Hold the line!" a villager shouted.
The wolves charged.
The first clash was chaos: snarls and screams, steel striking against muscle and hide. Spears jabbed, teeth snapped, villagers cried out as the pack slammed into them.
Brennar surged forward with a roar, his axe cutting in savage arcs. He met a wolf head-on, driving it back with a blow so fierce it split fur and skin. "Rowan!" he bellowed. "With me!"
Rowan hesitated. The sight, the smell of blood, the noise — it pressed down on him like a storm. His chest locked up. For a moment he thought his knees would buckle.
Then one of the wolves broke through the line. Its glowing eyes fixed on him, and it leapt.
Rowan raised the sword clumsily. Steel met teeth with a jarring shock. The force knocked him backward, stumbling into the dirt.
The wolf pressed forward, pinning him down. Its breath was hot, its weight crushing. Rowan shoved with all he had, arms shaking, but the beast was stronger.
He thought: This is it. I'm going to die.
The wolf drove him back until his shoulders hit the shallow runoff that trickled past the gate. His sword slipped, half-submerged. His hand slapped into the cold water—
And the water stirred.
Not like normal ripples. It swirled toward him, wrapping faintly around his wrist as though reaching back.
Rowan gasped.
The wolf lunged again. Instinct took over. He thrust his arm forward—
The river answered.
Water surged upward in a sudden wave, smashing into the beast's chest. The wolf yelped, tumbling back into the mud, claws scrabbling to find footing. Its glowing eyes burned with confusion now, not certainty.
Rowan sat up, chest heaving, staring at his dripping hand. The water still curled faintly around his fingers before sliding away.
Brennar was suddenly there, axe rising high. With a bellow he brought it down, slamming the wolf into the dirt. He grinned through the spray of blood.
"Not bad for your first fight!" he shouted. "Knew there was something in you!"
Rowan took his hand when it was offered, still trembling, his mind spinning. He didn't understand what had just happened. But deep inside, he knew: the river had saved him.
---
"Not bad," Brennar said again, wiping his axe on his sleeve. "But don't get too proud."
Rowan blinked, frowning—until he saw the treeline.
More wolves padded out, their growls rolling like thunder. Their eyes glowed brighter, fangs flashing. And behind them, the armored soldiers moved at last, their weapons scraping as they raised them.
The Elder's voice rang from the wall above, sharp as steel. "Hold fast! The true battle begins now!"
Rowan lifted his sword again, his breath quick, his heart hammering. The first wave had only been a warning.