"Everyone intact back there?" Mestin grunted, his deep voice rumbling as he looked toward the wagons. He reached up, using a thick, dirt-stained thumb to wipe the trail of blood leaking from the shallow cut on his cheek.

"The builders are shaking, but they’re fine," Torin replied smoothly, gesturing with a tilt of his chin to the splintered oak side-panel of the lead wagon. "The beast managed to put its mark on the wood before it died, but nothing a few iron nails can’t fix before nightfall."

Telarin let out a sharp, breathless laugh, sheathing his slender blade and leaning down to inspect the carcass Torin had left behind. " You didn’t even let the damn thing bleed on the canvas. I swear, you move faster than a striking adder when you turn that Vitre on."

"Speed is a necessity when dealing with uninvited guests," Torin said dryly. His eyes flicked to Resven. "You’re favoring that arm, Resven. Did one of them catch you?"

Resven shook his head, though a sharp intake of breath betrayed him as he touched his shoulder. "Just a blunt swipe. The armor held, but the impact buried into the muscle. It’ll throb like hell by tomorrow, but I can still swing a hammer if another pack decides to drop from the canopy." He turned his gaze to Telarin. "What about you? You were tangled up in the briars with two of them."

"Just a few scratches and some ruined leather," Telarin dismissed, pulling at a jagged tear in his tunic. "The thorns did more damage to my wardrobe than the apes did to my ribs. I’d say we got off remarkably light."

Mestin rolled his left arm, wincing slightly as his leather bracer rubbed against a massive, dark purple bruise where the first beast’s vice-like grip had nearly splintered his forearm. "Light enough. But we lost a crate of the cooking oil. Shifted right off the back of the third wagon during the panic and smashed to pieces on the rocks. The dirt’s going to smell like lard for a mile."

"A minor tax for surviving a Dread ape ambush," Resven remarked, walking over to the massive silver-furred form Mestin had piled near the center of the trail. He pushed the dead beast’s snout with the toe of his boot, exposing the brutal, flat chisel canines. "Look at the hide on these things. It’s thick, well-preserved, and color-matched to the Vorrhalden. But for them to come this far north from the mountains... in groups no less."

"It’s strange, these beasts are territorial lone wolves, are they not?" Resven mumbled to himself, his brow furrowing as he stared down at the massive, silver-furred corpse.

The silence stretched for a moment, save for the nervous rustle of the builders picking through the remaining crates behind them. Resven rubbed his aching, bruised shoulder, his mind racing. "We are at least two hundred kilometers north of the Vorrhalden range. Think about it. For a single Dread Ape to wander this far into the lowlands of the Black-Spine is rare enough. But eight of them? Coordinating an ambush?"

Telarin’s lighthearted demeanor vanished, his hand instinctively dropping to the pommel of his sword. "A lone wolf doesn’t pack up unless a bigger beast forces its hand. Either a dominant alpha rose up in the high peaks and bent them to its will..."

"No," Resven interrupted grimly, shaking his head. "An alpha breaking their solitary nature makes sense for a local hunting pack, but it doesn’t explain why they migrated this far north. They’re sub-alpine hunters. They hate the dense green canopies. They’re out of their element here."

He looked over at Mestin. The giant was leaning heavily on his monolithic warhammer, his amber eyes fixated on the dark treeline. Mestin didn’t offer a grand theory. He simply spat a thick glob of blood into the dirt, wiped his mouth with the back of his massive, scar-covered hand, and growled a single, heavy word.

"Driven."

Resven nodded slowly, the weight of that word sinking into his chest. "Driven. Option two. Something up in the Vorrhalden peaks is powerful enough, or territorial enough, to completely displace an entire population of Dark-Red tier predators. They didn’t march north to expand their territory. They fled."

"And if whatever drove them out decides to follow their trail down into the valleys," Telarin added, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "we’re sitting right in its path."

A cold, heavy atmosphere settled over the trail, but it was broken by the crisp, measured footsteps of Torin approaching from the lead wagon. His posture remained perfectly guarded, his sharp eyes flicking between the three warriors with a cool, detached scrutiny. He was here because their goals aligned for now, but he was no member of their circle.

Resven caught Torin’s eye and offered a respectful, disciplined nod. "We owe you our thanks, Haldane. If you hadn’t stepped in when that last beast broke through, the builders would have been slaughtered."

Torin paused, his hands resting naturally near the pommels of his twin viper swords. His expression didn’t soften; his allegiance belonged strictly to one person. "Keep your thanks," Torin replied, his voice smooth but devoid of any warmth. "I protect the lady Elspeth, and she requires a functional camp with capable hands to build it. If your perimeter fails again, I will ensure her safety first. The rest of you are on your own."

Without waiting for a response, Torin turned on his heel, his dark cloak sweeping behind him as he walked back to the medical wagon to resume his vigilant watch over the healer.

Mestin watched him go, a low, rumbling grunt vibrating in his massive chest—an unreadable sound that could have been respect or a warning. He didn’t speak. Instead, he simply hefted his colossal black-iron hammer onto his uninjured shoulder.

He gave Resven a single, sharp look that signaled the conversation was over. There was no point in fearing what was in the mountains when there was work to be done here.

"We should gather wood for the wagon’s repair," Mestin muttered, turning his massive frame toward the forest to gather more timber and pine.