Ravens cocked their heads as sunlight brushed their feathers, their piercing gazes cutting through the forest canopy below. Nothing escaped their scrutiny, every movement laid bare in perfect clarity.
Harra remained in his cave, tongue absently licking at the fur of his arm.
Fignar trudged back toward his waiting army.
And most significant of all, the very mana surrounding the spiderfolk had shifted. Their entire essence transforming into something... else. Worse still, they appeared to have crowned a new king.
Raza closed one eye, his vision merging with the ravens surveying the forest. This was his gift, the reason he served as one of the forest's two main overseers: beast taming. With it, he could bend the wills of creatures—at least the smaller ones.
He opened both eyes, severing the connection.
Days of constant surveillance often yielded little. This duty existed for its own sake, necessary even when the forest lay stagnant.
But change was stirring now. And the most troubling development was the spiderfolk's new leader. In all his years watching these woods, Raza had never seen that face before.
An exile's son? The theory held some merit. Yet something didn't sit right. The transformations had begun precisely with this stranger's arrival, the sudden shift from dank caves to proper housing. Almost as if they'd changed their race entirely.
Raza sighed and rose. Noon light streamed through the window. He'd forgotten his academy duties again. The students would surely give him an earful.
___________
In combat, a boxer relies on fundamental techniques—punches, kicks, grapples, sweeps, overheads, and uppercuts. These core skills make a fighter dangerous. Versatile. And that was exactly what Sirius needed to become.
His feet slid across the dirt as he charged Elendira again, wind whipping past his face. Twin daggers flashed through the air in controlled strikes, deliberately holding back both speed and power.
Statistically, he outmatched her in strength, but her experience eclipsed his. There was no point in overwhelming her, he needed to learn.
She sidestepped with ease, the blade passing inches from her face. In one fluid motion, she pivoted and drove her foot into his ribs. The kick carried just enough force to sting, not break.
Sirius staggered back, exhaling sharply before raising his blades again.
He recognized her tactic—repeating the same technique until he learned its counter. The humiliation of needing such basic training burned, especially as their supposed leader. Yet he remained grateful for her patience.
On his next charge, his blade arced through empty air as he noticed the telltale signs—her left leg shifting, torso turning, head tilting.
He knew what came next: a missed strike leaving him vulnerable to her counterkick.
This time, he adapted. With a grunt, he twisted his wrist mid-swing, forcibly redirecting the blade downward in a fresh attack.
A strand of webbing shot out, intercepting the dagger mid-motion and hardening instantly against the steel. Sirius allowed himself a small smile.
Seven attempts, but he'd finally countered her first technique. Progress, slow... but progress nonetheless.
Elendira yanked her hand back, the webbed dagger snapping toward her. Sirius resisted, pulling against the silk—only for her to suddenly release the tension. The blade recoiled, and in that split second of imbalance, she closed the distance. Her foot connected with his ribs, sending him sprawling.
"You're not exactly pulling your punches," Sirius grunted, pushing himself up slowly.
"Isn't this what you asked for?" Elendira's voice softened as an unexpected laugh escaped her. "It's just... you faced Horst without any real training. You stood up for us when you didn't even truly know the fundamentals."
"How does that explain you kicking the shit out of me?"
Her smile faded.
"I can't—I don't want to watch you get hurt again." The webbing around her fingers tightened reflexively. "You're king now. There are probably countless of battles ahead for you, but even still... I don't want you getting hurt anymore, for my sake—" A pause. "I've overstepped, haven't I? This speaking freely—it's still..."
Sirius wiped his mouth, smiling. "Say everything you want. Do everything you want. Feel everything you want. That's what I want from you."
Elendira turned sharply away, her face hidden.
"Hey." Sirius reached out, then hesitated. "Did I say anything wrong?"
"Something in my eye," she muttered, shoulders rigid. A spider's lie.
The earth trembled.
Mana pulsed through the ground in furious waves, each beat like a war drum's echo shaking the air. That rhythm—that presence—it was unmistakable.
"The minotaurs."
They sprinted toward the village where the other three already waited, weapons drawn. No words needed. Only the pounding of their feet against the forest floor answered the distant stomping.
The minotaurs had moved sooner than expected.
Sirius skidded to a halt at the overlook, his grimace deepening as he surveyed the camp below. Rue stood at the edge, turning as their mana brushed against hers. "Guess they're not subtle," she remarked, nodding toward the minotaur war party.
The massive warriors stamped their hooves in unison, fists hammering against chests in a thunderous motion.
"What's this display?" Rune asked, brow furrowed.
"War chant," Elendira answered. "They always do this before attacking."
"Isn't that... tactically unsound? Doesn't it warn their enemies?"
Garura's grip tightened on his weapon—a large wooden club, carved by one of the villagers. "That's the point. They're not an army—they're a force of nature. You can hear the storm coming, but you can't outrun it."
Sirius's gaze swept past the chanting warriors, locking onto the unguarded leaf tent at the camp's rear. No sentries. No wards. An open invitation.
They all knew who waited inside.
But they couldn't strike. Not yet. Not until the minotaur horde clashed with the Fenrir.
That battle's outcome would dictate theirs—whether they'd ambush the minotaur king heading to assist his troops, or place a full fronted assault against the warlord that was Fignar.
The former was definitely the better choice.
"The ball's in your court now, Harra," Sirius murmured, never blinking, never looking away from Fignar's tent.
The earth's convulsions grew violent as minotaur hooves pounded the ground into submission. Dust and soil screamed under the assault, stones leaping like frightened animals before crashing down.
The Fenrir stirred from their dens, low growls echoing just as the suffocating mana presence rolled toward them. Just that morning, their king had pronounced their doom and they'd accepted their fate without protest.
Now, because of some persistent spider king's interference, they surrendered no longer, but instead now fought for their very survival.
Drool dripped from bared fangs as the vibrations grew closer, nearer, more inescapable.
Deep in his cavern, Harra's tongue still worked absently across his forearm's fur. His senses mapped every mana signature within miles: Fignar's stagnant power pooling in that ridiculous tent, the six Arachne lying in wait like stiletto's, wielded by assassins.
"Morons," he chuckled, licking his yellowed teeth. "Suppose I should uphold my end too."
Harra rose, emerging to find his pack already formed up, their growls vibrating through the clearing. He moved behind them, observing their rigid readiness.
This was his clan, loyal unto death. That very morning he'd ordered them to surrender to minotaur rule, willing to endure slavery if it meant they would all breathe another day.
But now, everything had changed.
"Alright, boys." Harra's voice distorted as it carried across the battlefield, warping through the charged air. "Let's give them hell!"