Lycan Manor had never felt so cold. The great hall, once a place of laughter and the warmth of fire, was heavy with silence as Lev and Brasco trudged through the doors, mud clinging to their boots and the stench of the catacombs still in their clothes. But in the center of the hall, waiting by the long oak table, was Lance. Lev froze. His brother sat there, arms folded, alive and whole, though pale and shaken. "Lance?" Lev's voice broke between disbelief and relief. "How—how in the name of the Fables are you here?" Lance rose slowly, his eyes dark with something unspoken. "I don't know," he said. "The Huntsman had me in his lair, guarded by that damned beast. Then… he came. Looked me straight in the eye, and told the Night Terror to let me go. Just like that." Brasco frowned, his jaw tight. "He doesn't make mistakes. If he let you go, there's a reason." "Yeah," Lance muttered. "And that's what scares me." The brothers gathered around the oak kitchen table, the firelight painting their faces in shades of gold and shadow. Lev spread out maps of Fableville, stabbing a finger down. "We know what he wants," Lev said. "The witches working for him gave it away. He's building a rebellion, not just with beasts and shadows, but with Fables tired of hiding. He wants to overthrow the Authority, control the potion, and crown himself ruler of Fableville." Brasco grunted. "Not while we're breathing" "And yet he's already stronger than any of us guessed," Lev pressed. "We can't just react anymore. We need to strike first. A plan—something big, something that cuts him off before he grows too powerful." As they argued over strategies, a knock echoed through the manor's great oak doors. Lev rose and swung them open. On the threshold stood Hellen Walsh, her haired braided into two braids on each side, sharp-eyed, clad in traveling leathers, her bow slung across her back with her magic twin short swords at her sides. Lev's heart stuttered in his chest at the sight of her, though he masked it with a half-smile. "Hellen?" he asked. "What are you doing here?" She smirked faintly. "Same thing you're doing, I imagine—trying not to get eaten alive by that overgrown bat." But she wasn't alone. Behind her stood two towering figures: Rowdy and Razor Spade, known throughout Fableville as the Spade brothers—mercenaries, brawlers, and fiercely loyal friends to the Lycans since their youth. "Hope you kept a seat at that table for us," Rowdy said with a grin. "Because we're tired of watching from the sidelines," Razor added, his voice gravelly. "If the Huntsman wants war, he'll get a fist in the teeth first." Lev stepped aside, smiling despite himself. "Then welcome back to the fight." The six of them gathered at the oak table until the plan was settled: they needed wisdom greater than their own. Lev suggested the one name none of them had spoken in years—Eryndor, the old wizard elf who had once trained him in magic as a boy. The journey to Eryndor's tower took half a day. The ancient elf was small in stature but sharp in presence, his white beard trailing to his chest, his green robes shimmering faintly with enchantments. His bright eyes studied them as if peeling back every layer of their souls. "You stand against the Huntsman," Eryndor said before they even spoke. "A wolf pack against a man who has made himself into legend. You cannot kill him—not as he is now." "Then how?" Lev demanded. The wizard lifted a crooked staff, its top gleaming with faint blue runes. "His axe—the weapon that slew the first wolf. It was broken long ago, but its shards still hold power. Only by reforging the axe can you strike him down." "And where do we find these shards?" Brasco asked, his tone sharp.
"Scattered," Eryndor said. "Four shards, hidden across Fableville. Each protected by trials and generals of the Huntsman's making. Dangerous paths, deadly guardians." The elf placed a glowing map before them. The first shard burned faintly in the Dark Forest.
"Go," Eryndor said, his voice grave. "Begin your hunt. But know this—the Huntsman will not wait idly while you gather the pieces." The Dark Forest was older than the town itself, its trees towering high and twisted, their branches clawing the sky. Fog clung to the ground, and the sound of distant howls echoed through the night. Halfway through, the Lycans and their allies were ambushed. Windigos—twisted, skeletal Fables with hollow eyes and jaws that stretched too wide—poured from the trees, screeching. Their bodies were gaunt, their claws dripping with black frost. "Windigos!" Brasco roared, swinging his axe. The battle was chaos—Rowdy's fists breaking skulls, Razor's blade cutting through limbs, Hellen loosing arrow after arrow into the creatures' hollow chests. Lev and Brasco fought back-to-back, claws flashing, teeth bared, holding the line as Lance drove his dagger into one's throat. At last, the final Windigo collapsed into the mud, its blackened breath fading into smoke. The forest was silent again, save for the pack's heavy breathing. They pushed on until the fortress rose before them—an ancient ruin cloaked in ivy, its gates barred with black iron. They made camp a short distance away. That night, as the others slept, Lev and Hellen shared a tent. For a long while, they said nothing—just the crackle of fire outside, the hush of wind through the trees. Then Lev turned to her, his voice low. "I thought I'd lost Lance forever. When I saw him gone…" He swallowed hard. "It reminded me how much I stand to lose." Hellen's hand brushed his. "Lev… you don't always have to carry it all alone." Their eyes met, and the unspoken feelings that had lingered for years finally broke free. Their lips met, and for the first time in too long, Lev felt something other than rage and fear. By morning, they emerged from the tent hand-in-hand. Brasco, Lance, Rowdy, and Razor all offered congratulations with genuine smiles, even Brasco managing a rare chuckle. "About damn time," Lance teased, clapping his brother on the back. Their plan was simple: Brasco, Lance, and the Spade brothers would draw out the fortress guards, while Lev and Hellen pressed inward to face the general. The battle erupted at dawn. The Huntsman's small army swarmed from the gates—ogre-blooded brutes, snarling goblins, twisted beast-men. Steel clashed, arrows flew, and the forest rang with war cries. Brasco fought like a storm, his axe cleaving through foes two at a time. Lance darted and struck like lightning, while Rowdy and Razor smashed through the ranks with brutal efficiency. Meanwhile, Lev and Hellen pushed through the chaos, entering the fortress halls. At its heart awaited the Boss General—a towering horned beast with skin like stone and eyes burning with fire. It swung a mace the size of a wagon wheel, shattering walls with every blow. Lev and Hellen fought as one—her arrows striking its eyes, his blade slashing its knees. Finally, together, they drove steel and arrow into its heart. The monster roared and collapsed, shaking the fortress to its foundations. At its feet lay a gleaming shard of black steel—the first piece of the Huntsman's axe. Beside it was a scroll, sealed with crimson wax. Lev broke it open. Inside was a map—inked with the location of the second shard. He raised it to the light, his voice grim. "The hunt has only just begun."