The first week of freedom was not a celebration; it was a grueling, calculated exercise in triage and risk management.
Aris drove them relentlessly away from the known military routes. Using the cryptic map references Lenn translated from the supply ledger, they aimed for the "Silent Valleys"—a sparsely populated, contested region rumored to be too wild and dangerous for continuous military occupation, located near the intersection of Northwatch and Eastmarch territories.
Their stolen wagon, nicknamed The Sledge by Doran, was their anchor. It held their world: the food, the vital medical supplies, and the ledger.
The survival of the group hinged on the strict adherence to their new roles:
* Lenn (The Mind): Guarded the ledger, rationing the food and water down to the single calorie. His quick mind and numerical memory were vital, allowing him to forecast their supply limits with chilling accuracy.
* Mira (The Healer/Scout): Managed their wounds and illnesses, quickly learning to identify edible and poisonous plants. Her sharp eyes were invaluable for scouting ahead.
* Tova (The Driver/Keeper): Cared for the exhausted mules, which were more valuable than their own lives. Her fierce protectiveness extended to the animals, ensuring they didn't break down.
* Doran (The Shield): Guarded The Sledge and the perimeter. His large size and newfound discipline made him the perfect, intimidating first line of defense.
* Aris (The Iron Fang): Managed the strategy, setting the pace, making all high-risk decisions, and conducting the continuous, brutal training.
One evening, deep in a narrow, fog-filled gorge, Aris returned from a reconnaissance mission and found the group gathered around the fire, their faces lit by the low flame. Lenn was lecturing Mira on the correct application of a splint, while Doran sharpened the pike head, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Report," Aris commanded, stepping into the light.
"We have two days of dried meat left," Lenn stated immediately, consulting his mental tally. "We must find food tomorrow, or rations drop to half-measure."
"The mules need richer fodder," Tova added, her voice tight with worry. "The scrub grass is thinning their muscle."
"And the spore rot is back on Doran's foot," Mira sighed, pointing to Doran's ankle. "The cold and wet ground are doing worse damage than the drills."
Aris listened, absorbing the data stream. Survival was a continuous problem of minimizing deficits.
"We solve three problems at once," Aris decided. "Mira, prepare the stronger antibiotic paste. Doran, you will patrol a two-mile perimeter for preys. Tova, you will use the heavy rope to bind up the fodder stores and secure the wheels—we are moving out of the valley at first light."
"Why?" Lenn asked, adjusting his spectacles. "This spot is defensible."
"Because it's too quiet," Aris stated. "The Wild is never truly quiet. The lack of predator calls, the absence of natural prey tracks—something moved through here recently and drove them out."
Aris knelt, pointing to a set of barely perceptible grooves in the mud, half-obscured by moss. "Not military. Too wide. Too heavy. Not human."
"A bear?" Doran suggested, clutching his pike.
"Worse," Aris corrected, pointing to a single, deep impression near the stream bank.
"Crag Wolf."
Crag Wolves were known throughout the Northwatch legends—massive, grey-furred predators, cunning and highly territorial, capable of bringing down full-grown horses. They hunted in packs, and their appearance meant their isolated route was no longer safe.
The next morning, the fog had lifted, revealing a clear, cold sky. Doran and Aris set out together.
"We are hunting," Aris explained. "But we are also training. This is a lesson in tracking and silent movement."
They tracked a small herd of mountain goat for three hours, moving in silence. Doran's lumbering body was surprisingly stealthy when motivated, and his eyes, having spent years analyzing shifting ore grades in the dim light of the mines, were perfectly suited for spotting broken twigs and faint tracks.
Aris moved with the coiled, nervous energy of a hunting dog. He was constantly checking the wind, the sun, and the horizon. He knew the Crag Wolves would be hunting, too.
They cornered a solitary, young mountain goat in a hollow.
"Doran," Aris whispered. "Take it with the pike. Don't waste the short sword."
Doran advanced, planting his pike. The goat, seeing the giant boy, bucked and charged. Doran didn't flinch. He used the pike exactly as Aris had taught him: as an immovable point of defense. He planted the shaft, angled the sharp head, and let the goat run itself onto the point.
The kill was swift and clean.
"Meat," Doran muttered, his large hands shaking slightly. "We have meat."
"Good," Aris said, already field dressing the animal with the surgical precision required to preserve every calorie. "Now, we move fast. The scent of blood carries for miles."
They were halfway back to The Sledge, Doran carrying the carcass over his shoulder, when Aris abruptly stopped.
"Down," he hissed, pushing Doran into the heavy undergrowth.
Aris did not need to see the wolves; he smelled them. The distinct, acrid musk of Crag Wolves on the hunt, carried on a sudden shift in the wind.
They were already close. Too close.
The pack—three huge wolves, their grey pelts perfectly blending with the rock and brush—emerged onto the path, drawn by the trail of blood and the scent of fresh kill. They were magnificent, terrifying beasts, their yellow eyes fixed on the young, bleeding target on Doran's shoulder.
"The pike," Aris whispered, his heart hammering in his chest, but his mind completely clear. He drew the Westvale short sword. "You are the wall. I am the blade."
The lead wolf, huge and heavily scarred, let out a deep, territorial growl. It was a challenge.
Aris knew they couldn't run. They couldn't climb. They could only hold.
"Triangle formation!" Aris barked. It was a drill from the penal legion, designed for holding a line under cavalry charge. "Doran, front. Me, flank. Brace!"
Doran instantly dropped the carcass and planted the pike head into the earth, holding the shaft with both hands, ready to receive the charge. He was the Shield, ready to absorb the impact.
Aris took his position on Doran's left flank, the short sword held low, ready to cut at the legs and joints.
The lead wolf, sensing weakness in the small boy, charged at Aris.
Aris didn't step back. He met the charge, not with a swing, but with a feint. He moved the sword to the left, drawing the wolf's attention, and then, using his small size, dropped into a crouch. He drove his sword up, aiming for the soft throat.
He missed the throat, but the blade sliced deep across the wolf's chest. The wolf yelped, spraying blood, and checked its attack.
The two flanking wolves, however, went straight for the larger target Doran.
They tried to bypass the pike, snapping at Doran's exposed legs. Doran roared, using the pike shaft to strike horizontally, not to kill, but to repel. He blocked the first wolf with the heavy wood and used the momentum to drive the second wolf back, pinning it briefly against a rock.
Aris finished the first wolf with a short, brutal stab to the skull. Then, he turned to face the remaining two, his eyes burning with a terrifying, primal focus.
They were not just surviving the wild. They were dominating it.