The night stretched long, the forest swallowing the sound of their steps.
Moonlight spilled in fragments through the canopy, catching on eyes that glowed faintly crimson.
The clan moved like a shadow, steady despite the drag of fatigue.
By the time the first light bled across the horizon, the trees thinned.
The sun had already climbed past the treetops when the Fossa clan reached the edge of Porter Village.
Light spilled over the thatched rooftops, warming the fields that stretched in neat rows beyond.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the air carried the earthy scent of tilled soil and fresh bread.
But as soon as the first crimson eyes appeared at the treeline, the villagers froze.
Tools stilled in calloused hands.
Mothers tugged children closer.
A ripple of unease spread across the morning.
Arthur walked at the front, shoulders squared, jaw set.
Beside him, Abigail kept her gaze ahead, though she could feel the weight of every stare.
Fazer clung to the rhythm of his father's steps, his own eyes sharp, taking in the scene.
Behind them, Ronan and Darven guided the column, children shielded in the center.
A farmer whispered hoarsely, "The cursed clan…"
Another muttered, "Their eyes burn like blood."
But then a younger voice rang out—Brad's.
He broke from the small knot of boys lingering near the well.
His face lit up when he spotted Fazer. "It's him! He's the one who saved me!" Brad darted forward, earning gasps from the villagers, and skidded to a stop in front of the boy.
Fazer blinked, startled, as Brad thrust both hands forward in a clumsy bow. "Thank you—" His voice cracked but steadied. "Thank you for saving my life."
The villagers stirred.
Some exchanged glances, others frowned, but no one spoke against Brad. His words had weight, more than he knew.
Arthur's gaze softened almost imperceptibly.
He placed a hand on his son's shoulder and addressed the gathered villagers. "We ask only shelter for our families. Nothing more. One day of rest, then we'll work beside you—field, kitchen, guard, whatever your village requires. You have my word."
The head of the village, Harven, pushed through the crowd.
His hair was more silver than black now, his face worn by years of harvests and hard winters.
He studied Arthur, then the rows of weary Fossa faces.
His eyes lingered on the pregnant women, the children clutching at their mothers' sleeves.
"They call you cursed," Harven said bluntly. "Red eyes, no weapons. And yet…" He glanced at Brad, then back at Arthur. "And yet my village still stands because of you."
Murmurs rose. Some bitter—others grudgingly respectful.
Harven let the noise settle before speaking again. "One day's rest. After that, you'll share our burdens. If your clan eats from our fields, your hands will tend them. If your children sleep under our roofs, your men will guard them."
Arthur gave a single nod. "Agreed."
Relief flickered across Abigail's face, though she masked it quickly.
Ronan grinned, clapping one of the younger clansmen on the back.
Darven muttered something under his breath that earned him a sharp elbow from Kira.
The villagers parted slowly, warily, and the Fossa clan filed into the village square.
Children peeked from behind skirts and barrels, wide-eyed at the sea of dark shirts and red eyes.
That first day, the clan did little more than breathe.
Mothers laid blankets in a corner of the square and eased down with their little ones.
Men stretched sore limbs, leaning against wagons.
A few, like Ronan, helped mend a fence or fetch water just out of habit, but Arthur insisted the bulk of them rest. "Strength first. Tomorrow we prove ourselves," he said.
Fazer didn't rest. He followed Brad like a shadow, or maybe Brad followed him—it was hard to tell. The two boys lingered near the well, talking in bursts.
"I want to fight like you," Brad blurted, voice half-daring, half-pleading.
Fazer frowned. "I didn't fight like my father. I just… did what I had to."
Brad kicked at the dirt. "Still more than I could do. The knights would've cut me down." He looked up, eyes shining with stubbornness. "Teach me. Just a little. Please."
For a moment, Fazer felt something strange—a tug, as though he stood both as peer and protector.
He thought of Arthur's words: Not today, one day. He hesitated, then gave a small nod. "We can try… when we're not being watched."
Brad grinned, and for the first time since leaving the forest, Fazer grinned back.
Abigail watched the two boys laughing softly over some joke only they understood.
She held a ladle over a pot, stirring, but her gaze kept drifting.
When Arthur came to stand beside her, she didn't turn.
"He's already walking your path," she murmured.
Arthur's arms folded. His expression stayed firm, but his silence told her she was right.
By midday, figures appeared on the south road—dusty, weary, but still bearing the mark of the Fossa.
They'd returned in twos and threes, called back by Arthur's summons.
One of them, a woman with a scar down her cheek, bowed her head as she spoke. "Arthur. News. The one who ordered Porter's destruction—the minor king of Varrow—he's dead. Poisoned in his hall."
A ripple went through the gathered Fossa.
Some muttered, some scoffed, others only exchanged glances, remembering the blood that had been spilled in that king's name.
Arthur's crimson eyes narrowed. "Dead. Do we know by whose hand?"
The woman shook her head. "Only that his court is broken. The hunters he loosed on us have no master now."
Abigail's voice cut in, sharp with disbelief. "So after all the ruin he caused, after every life burned away—he ends with poison in his cup?"
Arthur looked at her, then at Fazer, who had gone silent, fists tight at his sides. His answer came flat. "It gives us room to breathe. That's enough."
Darven who stepped forward then, his voice quieter, words measured. "There's more to this place you should know. The villagers don't speak it loud, but they whisper it. This land isn't claimed by any kingdom. No banners fly here. No taxes come. That's why it still stands."