The night pressed close around the camp, but inside its circle of firelight, life surged with restless energy. The news of the scavengers had set every elf, every child and elder, into motion. There was no stillness now, only the rhythm of preparation.
Leon took charge of the warriors. Four spearmen and nine archers as they were the strongest they had, the rest of the hunting squad was released since Alaric told Leon his absolute requirement when it took to their army, and that was 'Quality'. Leon walked among them like a storm wrapped in human skin, his voice a whip that cracked against hesitation.
"Spears lower!" he barked, slamming the butt of his own weapon into the ground to show them. "You hold this line, you don't move. Wolves or men—it doesn't matter. Your spear is the wall between your kin and death. You break, they die. Do you want their blood on your hands?"
One elf, sweat already dripping down his temple, nodded furiously. Leon shoved his shoulder until the stance was corrected.
"Better," Leon muttered. "But still weak. Again."
He turned to the archers. "You don't just shoot. You choose. Every arrow you waste is one less breath in your brother's lungs. Aim not for flesh—aim for fear. Eyes, throats, the hand holding a weapon. One well-placed arrow is worth ten scattered."
He grabbed a bow from one of them, drew it, and fired into the wooden target they had hastily set up. The shaft split the center with a hollow thunk. His eyes swept over the wide-eyed archers. "You will do the same."
Their breaths grew heavier, but something had shifted. Under his merciless instruction, the fear that weighed their chests began to twist into something harder. Resolve.
The camp itself was alive with hands too small or too old for battle, yet unwilling to sit idle. Women stripped bark and wove ropes for makeshift barricades. Children carried water in clumsy buckets, faces pinched with determination. Elders mended cloaks into bandages, whispered blessings over the weapons, or sharpened crude blades on stones.
And at the center of it all, Alaric moved. He didn't retreat into solitude, didn't sit apart like a lord on high. He wove among his people like one of them, his presence a steady anchor amid the storm.
He helped an old woman secure her tent with rope against a wind that wasn't blowing. When she thanked him with trembling hands, he only smiled faintly and moved on. He paused at a hunter's side, listening to the man's worry about damp air weakening his bowstring. Alaric crouched, tested the string, and murmured, "Dry it near the fire tonight. Not too close—it'll snap. Just enough to warm." The hunter's eyes lit with relief.
To a child peeking from behind her mother's skirts, Alaric knelt and whispered, "You'll be braver than me one day." The girl giggled, her fear softened by the warmth in his tone.
Leon's looming shadow was never far behind him, the embodiment of steel and threat. Where Alaric offered calm, Leon offered terror—a reminder that their lord was guarded by something unstoppable. Together, they balanced each other: hope and dread, anchor and sword.
Hours bled away. The moon climbed higher, twin pale slivers that turned the forest silver. Six hours had passed since Lirael and Dain had vanished into the night. Unease coiled in the bellies of those left behind.
Every snapping twig, every whisper of leaves stirred tense glances. The archers at the perimeter gripped their bows so tightly that their knuckles whitened. Mothers hushed children with trembling fingers. The air itself seemed to wait.
Then it came. A birdcall. Soft, deliberate, drifting from the treeline. Not the voice of nature, but the pre-arranged signal.
Every head turned.
Two shadows detached themselves from the dark forest, staggering into view. The guards raised weapons, but lowered them when familiar faces emerged into the firelight.
Lirael and Dain stumbled forward, clothes torn, faces streaked with dirt and sweat. They collapsed to their knees near the fire, gulping the water Priestess Lyra thrust into their hands. They took the journey on foot, since horses will make their movements known by whoever was in the forest. Their chests heaved, but their eyes—oh, their eyes burned with something fierce.
"Lord Alaric…" Lirael panted, voice hoarse. "We found them. Three kilometers southeast, in a gully thick with briars. They call themselves the Iron Fist. Twenty-two of them—mostly humans. Rough. Armed with scraps, stolen armor, a few swords. Their leader—big brute, scar across his face."
Dain picked up, voice trembling with both exhaustion and adrenaline. "They're not soldiers, my lord. They drink themselves senseless, their watches lazy. But they're cruel. They keep prisoners. We saw at least eight—humans, maybe others. Tied near the center of the camp like animals."
A hush fell. The fire crackled loud in the silence, as if mocking the weight of the words.
Alaric let the quiet stretch, giving the elves time to feel the gravity of the news. He didn't rush to speak. He wanted them to taste the truth of it: not shadows, not whispers—an enemy, flesh and blood, just a few hours' march away.
Finally, he rose. His voice carried, not with volume, but with clarity. "We have two choices. We flee. Abandon all we've gathered. Or…" His gaze swept across the circle of faces, catching each pair of eyes, one by one. "We strike. We strike before they strike us. We free those prisoners. We shatter their claws. We claim this land not as frightened wanderers, but as builders of a future."
The silence that followed was heavier still. Fear was etched in the wide eyes of few, in the drawn brows of the hunters, in the faint trembling of the elders' hands. They weren't warriors. They were survivors. But in Alaric's face, they saw something unbending.
He turned to Leon. "Your assessment?"
Leon's eyes gleamed like steel catching firelight. His voice was blunt, sharp as a blade. "Twenty-two thugs, overconfident and drunk. They think they hunt the weak, which makes them careless. My lord, we can break them. But it must be quick. Hit hard, hit fast. Break their spirit before their blades find courage. Once they know we are not prey, they will scatter."
His words cut through the fear like an axe. The elves shifted, some straightening their backs, some gripping weapons tighter.
Alaric took a deep breath, looked at the change happened to them and said in calm and confident tone "then today we'll play the role of the hunter and strike them down"
The rest of the night passed in a blur of preparation. Arrows were checked and rechecked until fletching frayed. Spears were polished with trembling hands. Every soul found something to do, even if it was only whispering prayers into the smoke.
Leon prowled from fighter to fighter, correcting posture, snapping out orders, barking approval when earned. To the youngest archer, he growled, "You shoot like a child swatting flies. Again." When the boy hit close to the mark, Leon grunted, "Better. Do it ten more times." Harsh, but the boy's chest swelled at the rare praise.
Alaric, meanwhile, walked one last circuit of the camp. He paused with the elders, listening to their whispered fears and answering with quiet steadiness. He knelt by Agis, who sat clutching a wooden sword. "You're not coming," Alaric said softly. "But train. Watch Leon. Learn." The boy's eyes shone with stubborn determination, and Alaric ruffled his hair.
The fire burned low, embers glowing like watchful eyes. The camp didn't sleep. Fear kept them awake, but so did something new: the faint spark of purpose.
When 3 hours before the blush of dawn touched the horizon, Lirael and Dain stood ready to lead. Alaric gathered the chosen: Leon at his side, the four spearmen, nine archers, the Protection squad. Thirteen elves, hardened not by long wars but by resolve, now named the Protection Squad by Alaric.
Alaric turned back to the settlement. His eyes sought Kaelen, who stood tall among the others. "While I am gone, you lead in my stead. Protect them. Decide as if every life depends on it—because it does."
Kaelen bowed his head. "I will not fail, my lord."
With that, the company moved, slipping into the forest's embrace. Each step carried them closer to danger. Closer to their first true test as a people.