Kane woke to less pain than he had expected and an uneven snore against his chest.
Sira was draped over him like a claim she had no intention of releasing in sleep, orange hair stuck to his skin, one arm thrown across his ribs, mouth slightly open.
A line of drool had darkened a spot on his collarbone.
He looked down at her and, for a moment, her age hit him the way it sometimes did when the noise stopped.
Twenty.
A barbarian who had been forced into hard choices early and had still walked up to him after he defeated Lain, questions sharp, spine straight, refusing to treat him like a story.
Not Thora’s weathered certainty.
Not Misha’s measured gravity.
Young, loud, and somehow still here, drooling on the man she had spent the night fucking.
He smiled once, small and private, and eased out from under her.
Sira made a protesting noise and curled into the warm space he left without fully waking.
Kane stood, rolled his shoulders, and opened the system.
[Recovery Status]
[Rib integrity: 98 % – Unrestricted]
[Left forearm/shoulder complex: 97 % – Unrestricted]
[Residual Full Rage backlash: Cleared]
[Brace: No longer required]
[Combat load: Authorized]
[Full clearance: Confirmed]
The numbers sat clean.
No provisional tolerances.
He flexed the left hand, felt the joint answer without the old grind, and let the window fade.
The body was ready.
He dressed, left Mjoldr within easy call, and walked down toward the main hall.
Misha and Thora were already at the long table.
The compact axe and the other Bloodfang pieces he had bought were laid out between them: oil, cloth, small adjustment tools.
They worked with the focused quiet of people who had decided the morning belonged to preparation rather than conversation.
When Kane entered, both looked up, nodded once, and went straight back to the work.
It was strange, in a mild way, to see them locked on something that was not him.
"What is it?"
Misha shifted a fraction so he could see the edge she was checking on Thora’s new axe.
"Nothing urgent. We are working on the weapons you brought for us. Balance on the compact head needed a second pass. The gauntlets for Kessa are fine. My cloak’s seam seals held overnight."
She did not look up again.
"Healed?"
"Confirmed. Brace is done."
Thora grunted approval and kept oiling the striking face of the axe.
"Good. Then you can stop moving like the furniture might break if you turn too fast."
Kane left them to it.
The hall smelled of oil and bread.
Then Firlia came in from the outer corridor at a pace that was not ordinary.
She was sweating despite the cool air.
Green hair stuck to her temples.
The professional mask was cracked enough that Kane turned fully toward her before she spoke.
"The tribes," Firlia said.
"One of them came."
Kane’s mouth curved, short and without humor.
"One? Looks like the others are unwilling."
Firlia hesitated.
The pause was small and ugly.
"The others... are dead."
Silence filled the room.
Misha’s hands stopped on the axe.
Thora’s head came up.
Somewhere behind Kane, a cup was set down too hard.
The ordinary morning noise of the manor seemed to pull back from the edges of the hall.
Kane raised his hand.
Mjoldr crossed the space from where he had left it and settled into his palm with a solid, familiar weight.
The system’s clearance numbers still sat clean behind his eyes.
"Stay," he said to his women, already moving.
"Hold the hall. No one follows until I call."
He didn’t wait for argument.
He walked out through the guest corridors and into the pale light of Sylvander’s outer approaches, Mjoldr loose at his side, the new absence of the brace making every stride feel sharper than the day before.
The gate yard was not crowded.
A few elven watchers held a perimeter at a respectful distance.
In the center of the open ground, a single tribesman knelt on the packed earth.
Half-naked still, paint smeared and ruined, his torso and arms mapped with scratches that looked like nails or claws rather than clean blade work.
He was crying in the raw, exhausted way of someone who had run out of better options and had nothing left but the truth.
Kane stopped in front of him and towered over the kneeling figure without raising the axe.
"What happened?"
The tribesman looked up.
His eyes were red and unfocused with fear. When he spoke, the words shook.
"The beasts... something happened. Bears. Foxes. Even the snakes. They started getting violent and stronger. Not hungry-violent. They came through the camps like they knew where we slept. The charms—"
He touched the bone circle still hanging at his throat with a trembling hand.
"The charms did nothing. We burned what we were told to burn. We moved when the stones went warm. It did not matter. They tore through the others before the sun was fully up. I ran. I ran because the scarred one told me to reach the axe mark if the worst came. The worst came."
Kane held the man’s gaze.
"How many dead?"
"Most of the band. Children too. Those who wore the wards and those who did not. The animals did not care which."
The tribesman’s voice cracked.
"There were shapes behind the animals. Not clear. Not solid. Like heat over stone. The bears listened to them. The foxes listened. Even the snakes moved in lines. That is not how the belt works. That is not how anything works."
One of the elven watchers shifted.
Kane didn’t look away from the kneeling man.
"The warm stones," Kane said.
"The ones that do not belong on the map. Were they active when the beasts turned?"
"Yes. Hotter. Smoking in places. The teachers—when they still came—said the stones were doors that were not open yet. They said burn the traces and keep the charms close, and the doors would stay shut."
The tribesman’s laugh was broken.
"The doors did not stay shut. Or whatever was on the other side stopped caring about doors."
Kane’s grip on Mjoldr adjusted once.
"You said shapes behind the animals. Yellow eyes? A voice?"
Before he could answer, the elven guards near the gate whistled hard.