Time flowed quietly within the tense and orderly rhythm of Blackwood Fortress.
The long winter had quietly come to an end before anyone realized it.
For most creatures in the North, this was a cruel, long season filled with death and hunger.
But in Blackwood Fortress, this winter became a golden age for accumulating strength and sharpening claws.
Throughout the winter, Blackwood Fortress was like a massive, precisely calibrated war machine, with every gear in its place, operating at high speed and in perfect order.
Every day, when the first glimmer of dawn pierced the darkness, the fortress would awaken from its slumber.
On the drill grounds, the uniform shouts of the Wolf Guards and the Rock Legion would punctuate the air on time, serving as a bugle call to wake everyone up.
That sound had evolved from initial chaos into something robust and rhythmic, filled with a sense of iron-clad discipline.
Immediately after, in the blacksmithing district, the massive furnace that never rested would once again spew out tongues of scorching flame, accompanied by the rugged chants of the blacksmith apprentices.
The clanging sound of hammering, like war drums that never ceased, struck the most passionate beats for this symphony titled "Preparation for War."
Further away, in the direction of the mines, although no sound could be heard, the ox carts returning daily, fully loaded with black ore, and the figures of miners—exhausted yet working vigorously because they could exchange their labor for food—all declared that the industrial heart of this fortress was pumping blood with great strength.
At the other end of the fortress, in the vast livestock area, the movement of thousands of Frost-Horned Deer and Giant-Horned Oxen added a unique, life-filled background note to this robust symphony.
The occasional long calls of deer and lowing of oxen no longer sounded filled with fear and rage as they had at the beginning, but gradually carried a hint of the ease belonging to "livestock."
The shouts of battle, the clanging of hammers, the silence of mining, and the calls of livestock—these four distinct sounds intertwined in the cold air, composing a unique movement belonging solely to Blackwood Fortress, one about "dormancy" and "vitality."
Most importantly, under this tense rhythm, no one went hungry.
The massive amount of meat Colin brought back from Giant Bear Ridge was smoked and air-dried, then properly stored in the giant warehouse.
Under Lena's calculations and distribution, which were precise to the point of being cold, it was guarantyd that everyone in the fortress, from the tallest Boar-folk warrior to the frailest Fox-folk child, could receive enough meat every day to fill their stomachs.
Sufficient protein was the most fundamental fuel for maintaining the efficient operation of this war machine.
Those once sallow and emaciated mine slaves had become ruddy-faced after a winter of nourishment, and their bodies had become visibly stronger.
The children were no longer as bony as before; wearing thick fur coats, they chased and played in the not-so-spacious streets, their crisp laughter adding the warmest color to this iron fortress.
As for the warriors, their physiques were even more formidable.
Sufficient meat, combined with high-intensity training, made the muscles on their bodies bulge like granite.
Even the most ordinary Werewolf Warriors, standing there, exuded an intimidating, fierce aura.
On a clear afternoon, Colin finished inspecting the drills of the Wolf Fang Legion and walked slowly along the main road of the fortress.
Looking at everything before him, his heart was filled with a complex and profound sense of satisfaction.
He saw a few human women working together to lift a giant iron pot, in which aromatic meat broth was simmering, preparing to load it onto a cart and send it to the mines.
On their faces, the fear from when they were first captured was gone, replaced by a grounded calmness of integrating into their new lives.
He saw one of blacksmith Berg's werewolf apprentices, face blushing, stuffing a rough yet chic iron rose—hammered out of scrap metal—into the hands of a passing wolf-kin girl, drawing a burst of good-natured laughter.
He saw the fortress administrator, Lena, holding a wooden board, meticulously directing the women as they continuously processed animal hides and assembled armor; her petite body seemed to contain infinite energy.
All of this gave him a surreal, wonderful feeling, as if he were personally creating a new world.
His footsteps finally stopped at the livestock area in the northwest corner of the fortress.
This was the place that had changed the slowest throughout the winter, yet it best embodied "vitality."
From afar, he saw the Deer-folk elder, Aynil.
The old man, hunched over, held a small bundle of the freshest hay in his hand and stood with extreme patience before a giant cow.
That cow had once been one of the most vigilant "troublema warmth, his eyes flickering with a cold yet excited light.
"Spring is coming."