The new division of labor creaked into motion like a freshly assembled machine, unsteady at first but driven forward by Colin's relentless will.
There were no longer any idlers in the outpost.
Before dawn each day, Goff set out with two of the stronger women, pushing their reach outward to a five-kilometer radius. Like a patient spider, he stretched an invisible web through the forest, laying traps and snares exactly as Colin had taught.
Back in camp, the remaining women worked in tight circles around a small fire. Some stitched crude leather garments with bone needles and sinew stripped from wolves. Others crushed gathered roots and tubers with stone grinders, preparing what little food they could.
Lena spent her days beside Colin, learning numbers. With charcoal and a flat slab of stone, she carefully tracked every scrap of supply, recording what came in and what went out, then dividing food according to Colin's strict rules.
And at the center of it all—
Colin.
He was the engine that kept everything running.
Each time he ventured out, it was a gamble with death. He hunted hyenas more cunning than wolves, and once even stole honey and half a deer carcass from the rage of a cave bear. Every return left him bloodied, his body marked with fresh wounds—but he always brought back enough to keep everyone alive for a little longer.
The food crisis eased, if only slightly. A fragile order began to take shape.
For a moment, it almost felt sustainable.
Until Goff returned with news.
That afternoon, he came back early. His face was dark, heavy with something unspoken. Instead of reporting to Lena, he went straight to Colin, who was sharpening a dagger.
"Something's wrong," Goff said, his voice rough.
Colin didn't look up. "Talk."
Goff crouched and traced lines in the dirt. "By the eastern creek. Fresh tracks. Not animals—humans."
He hesitated, then added, "And horses."
The words hit like a sudden frost.
In the Blackwood Forest, there was only one kind of people who rode horses.
The Earl's army.
Panic erupted instantly.
"They found us—didn't they?"
"We're going to die!"
"Run! We have to run now!"
Fear spread like wildfire, tearing apart the fragile order they had built. Voices overlapped, rising into chaos.
Then—
"Enough!"
Colin's roar cut through everything.
He stood, eyes cold and sharp, sweeping across the crowd.
"Run?" he said, voice laced with scorn. "Run where? Back to a cave where you can't even make fire? Or deeper into the forest, only to be hunted down one by one?"
The panic faltered.
Silence crept back in.
"From now on," he said, each word firm, "no one leaves the outpost. Put out every unnecessary fire. We cook once at night—no smoke, no light."
He turned to Goff. "Retrieve the outer traps. Erase every trace."
Then he picked up his dagger, slung a small pot and a few pieces of dried meat over his shoulder.
Goff frowned. "You're going out?"
"I'll take a look," Colin replied calmly. "We won't rest until we know what we're dealing with."
Before anyone could object, he slipped over the wall and vanished into the forest like a shadow.
The outpost fell silent.
No one moved. No one spoke. Fear still lingered—but now it was contained, held tight as they waited for his return.
Colin moved through the forest with absolute caution.
Every sense was sharpened. He didn't need to rely on sight alone—the wind carried scents, birds betrayed disturbances, the forest itself whispered clues.
He found the creek quickly.
Tracks covered the muddy bank—footprints, hoofprints, overlapping and fresh.
He crouched, studying them.
"Ten men," he murmured. "Two mounted. Officers. Worn boots… inexperienced. Rested here fifteen minutes. Heading toward the Black Swamp."
The picture formed instantly in his mind.
He didn't follow them directly. Instead, he cut ahead using a concealed path, circling around to intercept.
By dusk, he was already in position.
From atop a ridge, he lay still as stone, watching the clearing below.
The patrol appeared exactly as expected.
Ten men.
Two officers on horseback, relaxed and arrogant. Eight infantrymen trailing behind, careless and unfocused. They made camp in the open, lit a fire, laughed loudly—utterly unguarded.
"Not a soul out here," one soldier complained. "Why are we even patrolling?"
"Orders," one of the officers muttered. "The Earl wants every last demi-human wiped out. Two more days, then we report back."
They spoke as if the forest belonged to them.
As if nothing could threaten them.
Colin listened, unmoving.
To him, they were already marked.
He stayed through the night.
The next day, he tracked them again, mapping their route—a loose circle, about five kilometers east of the outpost. He noted everything: their habits, their rest times, even which guard nodded off first.
Only at dusk did he return.
When he climbed back over the wall, a collective breath released from the outpost. Relief spread like a wave.
Colin dropped down, calm as ever.
He gathered everyone in the courtyard.
"They're ten," he said. "Two mounted officers. Eight infantry."
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"They're equipped well," he continued, "but they're inexperienced. They think they're the hunters."
His gaze hardened.
"They don't realize… they've already become prey."
A chill swept through the crowd.
The fear of the unknown was gone.
In its place—
Something far more dangerous.
Everyone stared at Colin, waiting.
Fight?
Or flee?
The wind whispered through the outpost, but no one spoke. Only the sound of pounding hearts filled the silence.