The rage of vengeance is a supreme fuel.
It is a sub-zero fire that can ignite the sluggish, freezing blood of soldiers in the teeth of the harshest winter. It is a beacon that illuminates the path for lost souls when navigating the deepest valleys of despair.
For seven agonizing days and nights, Colin's vengeful vanguard of 217 Wolf Riders had sustained a breakneck, sleepless pace. They had paused only once—a brutal, high-speed hunt executed solely to replenish their raw meat supplies. Their velocity defied the physiological limits of any conventional army in the known world.
Exhaustion had long since seeped into the very marrow of their bones like a deep, throbbing infection. Weariness coiled in their bellies like a starved venomous snake, constantly gnawing away at their resolve.
Yet, not a single voice complained. Not a single rider fell behind.
They were a legion of cold, metallic killing machines programmed with a singular, unyielding directive. Their universe had shrunk to the simple mechanics of momentum. Forward was their only mission; retribution was their only god.
The Code in the Stone
On the dawn of the seventh day, as the first pale, sickly shards of light cut through the suffocating darkness, the leading Wolf Guard scout brought back intelligence that sent an electric jolt through the dying nerves of the elite warriors.
Traces. Fresh traces.
The blood spatters marring the pristine snow were no longer the blackened, ancient ice lumps they had tracked for miles. These drops retained a faint, dark-crimson hue that had not yet completely succumbed to the permafrost.
Hask was close. He was practically within arm's reach.
The column's speed surged instantly, the massive paws of the Snow Giant Wolves throwing up plumes of powder. Finally, at a desolate crossroads sculpted by the howling gales into a deceptive maze of drifts, they found it—the crucial emergency marker.
To an uninitiated eye, it was an inconspicuous piece of detritus: a jagged stone dislodged by the wind, looking like a crude road sign pointing toward the rugged, uncharted mountain ranges of the north. Any experienced tracker pursuing Hask would immediately conclude that the fugitive was attempting to lose his tail in the treacherous, vertical labyrinth.
But the moment Colin looked upon the stone, a faint, knowing, and bitter smile broke through the frozen, caked grime on his face.
He saw the real signature. Beneath the large, northward-pointing rock, half-buried in the drift, lay three small, fist-sized gray pebbles.
They were arranged in a highly classified configuration known only to the innermost circle of Blackwood Fortress: two lying flat, one standing perfectly upright.
Instantly, a memory flashed through Colin's mind—a coded phrase he and Hask had agreed upon during their grueling westward expedition:
"Third brother, stand up and look in the direction of home."
Home lay to the east.
The northern trail was a masterpiece of misdirection. Hask, using his characteristic, slippery cunning, had laid a fatal trap for his human pursuers, baiting them into a meat grinder in the mountains while he slipped away toward the true rendezvous point in the east.
"...Even at death's door, you still have the nerve to play these games," Colin muttered to himself. His voice was a complex, raspy friction of a laugh and a curse.
Yet, the iron coils wrapped tight around his chest loosened just a fraction. If Hask still possessed the mental acuity to orchestrate a psychological trap this sophisticated, it meant he wasn't completely broken. He was still drawing breath. His mind was clear.
"All troops, pivot!" Colin bellowed, his voice cutting through the wind like a whip. "Target: Due East!"
As if governed by a single nervous system, the 217 Wolf Riders shifted their weight in flawless harmony, carving a massive arc into the snow as they changed their trajectory without a moment's hesitation.
The Echo of the Frontier
Colin turned his gaze toward the youngest Wolf Guard in the vanguard—a youth named Claw, whose vocal cords had been trained to perfectly mirror the local apex predators.
"Claw."
"Sir!"
"Utilize the third frequency band, seventh echo mode," Colin ordered. His voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a steady, undeniable authority. "Tell them their reinforcements have arrived."
"Understood!"
Claw slammed his fist against his breastplate, dismounted, and strode to the peak of a prominent, wind-sheathed boulder. He took a massive breath, inhaling air so violently cold it threatened to crystallize the tissue of his lungs. Then, cupping his gloved hands around his mouth, he tilted his head back toward the bruised, vast sky and unleashed a long, piercing, rhythmic howl.
"AWOOOOOOOOOOO—!!!"
[Acoustic Signal: Wolf Guard "Claw"] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Frequency Band : 03 (Non-Aggressive / Identification Inquiry) Echo Mode : 07 (Long-Range Atmospheric Penetration) Target Sector : Eastern Horizon
It wasn't the roaring, territorial challenge of an alpha, nor was it the mournful, lonely dirge of a dying stray. It was an encrypted mathematical puzzle spoken in the dialect of the wild—vibrating with anxiety, demand, and desperate hope.
The sound caught the crest of the northern gale, riding the air currents across jagged peaks and frozen valleys, spreading out toward the unknown eastern horizon.
Then, the world fell into a terrifying, suffocating silence.
Colin and his 217 iron-willed soldiers held their breath, their hearts freezing in their chests. They waited for an answer that logic dictated might never come.
One second. Two seconds. The silence stretched until it felt like an eternity pressing down on their skulls.
Just as the young Wolf Guard's eyes began to dim with the crushing weight of disappointment, a distant, drawn-out sound fractured the blizzard from the far southwest. It was faint, heavily muffled by the snowstorm, but it carried an unmistakable wave of absolute grievance, unbridled excitement, and raw ecstasy.
"AWOOOOOOOOOOO—!!!"
Tears of the Vanguard
In that exact moment, Claw broke.
The young, merciless assassin—who hadn't so much as blinked while butchering his way through three hundred slave-hunters days prior—could no longer contain the burning, scalding tears of joy that spilled over his eyelids, cutting clean lines through the frost on his cheeks.
Behind Colin, the 217 hardened Predator warriors reacted as one. Massive, leather-gloved hands slammed against their faces, fiercely wiping away the sudden moisture blinding their eyes.
They had found them. Against all odds, they had found them.
"The entire army!!"
Colin violently drew his longsword from his hip—a blade that had remained sheathed throughout the entire grueling march. He pointed the gleaming steel toward the southwestern horizon where the echo was still fading into the wind.
His voice, usually an impenetrable fortress of ice, shook with a violent, beautiful tremor:
"FULL SPEED AHEAD!!!"