Finney's arrival had stirred the surface—but the storm did not come.
In the days that followed, the forest remained unnaturally calm.
No army.
No scouts.
Nothing but wind and birdsong.
That silence became a weight—an invisible rope tightening around every throat. It was worse than battle, worse than bloodshed. At least in war, you knew when death was coming.
Here… it could come at any moment.
The outpost was ready.
Trenches dug deep and lined with spikes.Traps hidden in every approach.Walls reinforced, battlements stacked with logs and stones.
Nothing more could be built.
So they waited.
Training replaced construction.
Every day, Colin drove them harder.
Thrust. Slash. Block.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until their arms trembled and their muscles remembered what their minds could not.
Goff trained the archers—if they could even be called that. A handful of fighters, burning through precious arrows, learning to hit moving targets within fifty paces.
It was crude.
But it was something.
At night—
The pressure became unbearable.
No one slept deeply. Every sound snapped eyes open. Hands instinctively reached for weapons.
Hope began to erode.
Fear spread quietly, like mold in damp stone.
What if they're not coming?
The thought crept in.
Maybe the patrol didn't matter.
Maybe the Earl had already forgotten.
Even Linna, who had stood firm through everything, finally asked:
"Colin… do you think they'll come?"
Colin didn't look up as he wiped his blade.
"Yes."
One word.
Certain.
Calm.
"Predators don't forget," he continued. "They watch. They wait. The quieter it is, the more dangerous it becomes."
He understood.
Ten soldiers vanishing inside a noble's territory was not something that could be ignored.
It was an insult.
And insults demanded blood.
He kept one truth to himself.
No distractions.
No false hope.
Only preparation.
So he sent out eyes.
Finney.
The fox-man had proven himself—working harder than anyone, never complaining, surviving on scraps.
And more importantly—
He was perfect for it.
Light. Silent. Sharp-sensed.
A creature built for the forest.
Colin handed him a dagger, food, and water.
"I don't need you to fight," he said coldly. "Just watch. Count. Listen."
Then, quieter—
"Come back alive. That matters more than anything you learn."
Finney paused.
For a moment, he saw something in Colin's eyes—
Not warmth.
But something close.
He nodded and vanished into the mist.
That day dragged endlessly.
The sun rose.
Then fell.
Finney did not return.
Night came again.
And with it—
Tension.
"Did he run?" someone whispered.
"Or… get caught?"
Both answers were equally fatal.
Colin and Goff stood on the wall.
Silent.
Waiting.
Time stretched.
Then—
Goff moved.
"They're here."
Every heart stopped.
But no army came.
Instead—
A figure burst from the trees.
Stumbling. Crawling.
Finney.
He didn't even reach the gap before collapsing.
They dragged him inside.
He was barely recognizable—clothes torn, body scratched, one leg injured. His face was twisted with raw terror.
"Water…"
Lina rushed forward.
He grabbed the bowl, drained it in one breath, coughing violently.
Then—
He seized Colin's arm.
"They're here!"
Colin's grip locked onto his shoulder.
"Speak clearly. Numbers. Location."
Finney's voice shook.
"At least… thirty. All armed. Leather armor, spears, swords."
"They're spread out… like a net. Searching everything. Every cave. Every broken branch…"
He swallowed hard.
"I almost got caught… several times…"
Colin's eyes narrowed.
"Direction?"
Finney's lips trembled.
"Toward us."
A pause.
Then—
"Before dawn… they'll be here."
Silence.
Then chaos.
"Thirty?!"
"We're dead—"
"We have to run!"
"Run where?!"
Fear exploded.
Voices clashed.
Panic spread.
"Shut up!"
Colin's roar shattered it all.
He stood at the center, eyes burning in the firelight—cold, green, terrifying.
"Look at yourselves," he said, voice sharp as steel. "The enemy isn't even here yet, and you're already breaking."
"Run?" he sneered. "Run where? Into the forest? Back into fear? Back into death?"
He pointed to the walls.
"You built this!"
"Toil. Blood. Pain. Every stone here is yours!"
"They want to take it. Burn it. Kill you all."
His voice rose.
"So tell me—"
"Do you want to die on your knees?"
"Or stand and fight?!"
Silence returned.
But different now.
Hearts steadied.
Fear… hardened.
They looked at him.
And believed.
Colin inhaled slowly.
Then—
"Listen carefully."
His voice became precise.
Cold.
Unshakable.
"Goff."
"I'm here."
"Take the archers. East and south walls. Don't fire early. Wait until they reach the open ground. Then—target leaders first."
"Understood."
"Linna."
"Yes!"
"Take the melee fighters. Guard the gate. Stakes ready. If they breach—hold. You are the last line."
"I won't fall back."
"Lina."
"I'm here…"
"Take the children. Inner house. Prepare boiling water, stones, anything you can use."
A pause.
"If you hear three short howls—retreat through the tunnel. No hesitation."
Her lips trembled.
But she nodded.
Everything fell into place.
Everyone had a role.
Even the children.
Colin stepped onto the wall and picked up his sword.
"There are too few of us…"
But enough.
The outpost fell silent.
Not from fear—
But from readiness.
Weapons gripped.
Eyes fixed.
Breaths held.
Colin looked toward the horizon.
Clouds parted.
A thin crescent moon emerged.
Sharp as a blade.
The wind died.
And in the distance—
A faint crack.
A twig breaking underfoot.
Colin's eyes narrowed.
They had come.