The return of the hunting party was met with a silence more profound than any cheer. They brought back no triumphant spoils, only a grim aura of violence and the two captured weapons—a cheap hunting rifle and a bloodstained hatchet. The message was delivered not with words, but with the set of their shoulders and the cold fire in Rex's eyes.
Elara was waiting at the gate, her medical kit in hand, her face a mask of professional readiness that did little to hide her relief. Her eyes scanned the three of them, checking for injury.
"We're unhurt," Rex said, his voice rough, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He handed her the bloodied arrow. "Dispose of this."
She took it, her fingers careful not to touch the dark stain. The reality of what they had done was in her hands. This was no longer theoretical.
In the great hall, a somber gathering formed. The story was told in terse, unemotional sentences by Jean. When he finished, describing the two wounded Brutes left to crawl home, a complex mix of emotions filled the room. There was fear, of course. But there was also a fierce, grim satisfaction, especially among the Newcomers. For the first time, someone had fought back for them. Pierre's death had been avenged.
Later, Rex found himself unable to sleep. The image of the man falling, his scream cut short, played behind his eyes. He had trained for this, prepared his mind for the necessity of violence, but the reality was a cold, heavy stone in his gut. He walked to the ramparts, seeking the clean, cold air.
He was not alone. Kaelen was there, leaning against the battlements, staring out into the darkness. She didn't look at him as he approached.
"It feels different, doesn't it?" she said, her voice quiet, stripped of its usual fire. "Swinging a hammer at a piece of steel is one thing. Aiming a crossbow at a man… you see his face."
Rex nodded, joining her at the wall. "Yes. It does."
"He was looking right at me when I pulled the trigger," she whispered. "I saw the surprise. Then the pain." She flexed the hand that had fired the weapon. "I don't regret it. He was one of the ones who would have killed us all. But… I will remember his face."
They stood in silence for a long time, two young rulers bound by a shared, bloody secret. The weight of command was no longer just about logistics and law; it was about carrying the ghosts of the men you've killed.
"We had to do it," Rex said, the words as much for himself as for her.
"I know," Kaelen replied, her voice regaining some of its steel. "And we'll have to do it again. We made ourselves the alpha wolf tonight. The rest of the pack will either submit or challenge us."
Down in the courtyard, a soft light glowed from the infirmary window. Rex could see Elara moving inside, likely unable to sleep as well, tending to her supplies, preparing for the wounds to come. Her work was a silent counterpoint to theirs—she would mend what they were forced to break.
And in the shadows near the gatehouse, he saw a slight figure. Liana. She was sitting on a bench, her sketchbook open. But she wasn't drawing the castle or the stars. She was looking towards the woods, her charcoal stick moving slowly, deliberately, as if trying to capture the echo of the violence that had just transpired out there, to make sense of it by putting it on a page.
The three threads of his heart were each processing the night's events in their own way: the healer, the warrior, and the chronicler. Their reactions—Elara's quiet preparation, Kaelen's grim resolution, Liana's haunted artistry—were the human cost of the kingdom he was building. The first blood had been spilled, and it had changed all of them forever.