At first light, the Fossa were already in the fields.
Black shirts bent over rows of soil while the village still slept.
It wasn't pride—it was necessity.
Arthur's order had been simple: Work first. Speak later. Respect is earned with sweat. Earn it, or rot outside their walls.
By the time smoke curled from village chimneys, the sound of hoes striking dirt echoed across the fields.
Fighters mimicking farmers—awkward, stiff—but they kept the rhythm. Dirt clung to their arms, sweat soaked their backs, and still they pressed on.
From the tree line came movement.
The last of the scattered clan emerged—scarred, worn thin by years of hiding, but alive.
Arthur met them steady, voice carrying without force.
"You've walked far enough. Rest. Tomorrow you take up the hoe and the spear. No more running. We're whole again."
The words stirred murmurs, but no cheers. Only the steady beat of tools on earth.
Later, near the grain store, Fazer's restlessness broke through. His fists clenched at his sides.
"Let me scout," he pressed. "I can track. I can fight. Just—don't leave me behind like some useless kid."
Abigail fixed him with that unflinching stare. "You are a kid. And the forest doesn't forgive mistakes."
"I'm not weak!" His voice cracked, sharp with anger.
Her hand touched his shoulder briefly, almost gentle—but her eyes never softened. "Not yet, Fazer. Stay alive long enough to prove me wrong."
He tore away, chest burning, no words left she'd listen to.
Brad found him by the fence, boot scuffing dirt.
"So she told you to fuck off again?"
Fazer shot him a glare. "She treats me like I'm nothing."
Brad's grin was crooked, half-tease, half-dare. "Then stop asking. You want respect? Take it."
Fazer narrowed his eyes. "…What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Brad lowered his voice, "we train anyway. Behind the barn. No eyes. No orders. Just you and me until you stop whining and start fighting."
Fazer hesitated only a breath, then followed.
Behind the barn, the grass swallowed their steps. Brad raised his fists, grin wide. "Alright then, crimson-eyes. Let's see if you're more than just a loud little bastard."
Fazer's jaw tightened, blood thrumming hot. "Fine. Don't cry when I drop you."
Their fists met the air, sloppy at first, then heavier, sharper—frustration and defiance shaping each strike.
In the fields, the Fossa stumbled. Bread burned. Patrol shifts were botched. Hoes snapped in calloused hands unfit for farming.
But slowly—painfully—they adapted. Less mistakes, steadier rhythm.
The whispers, though, didn't fade.
They're cursed. They'll bring ruin. They'll damn us all.
That night, benches scraped across stone as the villagers cleared space for a council.
The Fossa clan filled one side, black shirts unmistakable, crimson eyes catching lamplight like coals.
Opposite sat the villagers—tight-shouldered, wary, watching Arthur and Abigail as though weighing whether to trust or to fear.
Darven leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"Tracks near the ridge. Eastbound. Patrols. Not villagers." His tone left no doubt.
The headman's mouth pressed thin. "If the Capital's dogs are sniffing this way, your presence drags them faster."
Arthur didn't blink. "Our presence is why your homes still stand. Don't forget that."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some nodded. Others muttered—the old fear louder than gratitude.
Abigail sat rigid, hands folded hard in her lap. "No one denies what Arthur and the others did. But the danger follows us. And it will keep following. So we decide—do we stand, or do we keep running?"
Darven snorted. "Running? We've wasted years doing that. Scattered, hiding, scraping. Enough. Here we rebuild."
A gray-templed farmer jabbed a finger. "Rebuild? On cursed ground? My father told me stories—Fossa and Tenrec tearing each other apart. Blood, fire, ruin. And now you tell us it'll be different?"
The name Tenrec cut the room sharp. Whispers swelled like a ghost had walked in.
Fazer, cross-legged near his mother, tilted his head—eyes alive with curiosity.
Arthur's voice cut through before the whispers drowned them. "The past is the past. We're not the Tenrec. We're not the Capital. We are the Fossa. And I'll see my clan whole again, even if I carve it out with my own hands."
His tone didn't rise, but it carried weight like stone. Some villagers leaned back. Others leaned in, caught by it.
Abigail touched his arm, quiet but firm. "And when the Capital sends more than patrols? When they send armies? When they come not just for us, but for everyone here?"
Arthur glanced her way, then back to the headman. "Then they'll learn we don't break easy."
The headman looked from the fear in his people to the resolve burning in crimson eyes.
At last, he let out a slow breath. "Earn your place at the table. Show them you're more than shadows and curses."
Arthur nodded. "Fair."
Abigail's shoulders loosened a fraction, though the storm in her eyes hadn't passed.
For days the Fossa bent their backs to village work.
Not warriors, not mercenaries—just men and women in black shirts, their crimson eyes downcast as they pushed plows, hauled water, stacked wood.
It wasn't perfect.
Burnt bread, broken tools, awkward hands on farmwork.
But little by little, the rhythm came.
And little by little, the villagers' glares softened—never gone, but dulled.
Some days later, by afternoon the air was heavy with dust and smoke from the fields.
That was when the scouts came running, boots biting into the earth.
One of them found Arthur at the edge of the fields.
His chest rose and fell hard, voice low but urgent. "People moving near the treeline. Not our own. Three… maybe four. Watching the village."
Arthur set down the bundle of wood in his arms and wiped his palms slowly against his shirt.
His crimson eyes narrowed toward the distant trees. "Armed?"
The scout nodded. "Couldn't tell what, but they weren't farmers."
Arthur's tone stayed calm, but every word cut sharp. "Keep your eyes on them. No contact unless I say. If they push closer, I want to know before they take a breath."
The scout hesitated, then leaned in. "You think it's Capital men?"
Arthur didn't answer. His gaze stayed on the treeline, unreadable.
From behind, Darven spoke, voice flat. "Could be scavengers. Could be patrol. Either way, they don't walk this close by accident."
Abigail came up with a water pail in her hands, catching only enough of the words to see the tension.
"What is it?"
Arthur didn't look at her. "Eyes in the forest. That's all."
Her lips pressed thin. "That's never all."
Arthur finally turned, meeting her stare, saying nothing more—but the set of his jaw told her enough.
Near the fence, Fazer straightened, wiping sweat off his brow, watching every word with sharpened ears. His fists curled at his sides, itching.
"Father," he said, voice steady but fierce. "Let me scout with Darven. I can handle it."
Abigail's voice cut through fast, sharp as a blade. "No. You stay."
Fazer's jaw tightened. "You never even think I'm ready."
Arthur's eyes flicked to his son, unreadable. For a long second he held Fazer's gaze—then spoke, calm, final.
"You'll be ready when you're ready. Not before."
Fazer swallowed the burn in his chest, turning away, crimson eyes fixed on the treeline as if he could burn through the leaves.
Brad drifted over, muttering low so only Fazer heard. "Fuck this waiting. If they're out there, let's just find 'em and get it done."
Fazer's mouth tightened. "Try telling that to my parents."
Brad smirked sideways. "Then maybe we don't ask."
Fazer didn't answer—but the thought stuck like a seed, sharp and dangerous.