Fang stepped out of the cave first, his boots crunching against the loose gravel. The morning air was sharp, but he didn't flinch. Isgram followed close behind, hands loose by his sides, face unreadable.
There—just forty meters ahead.
Fenel was laying on the grass, chest heaving, robes torn. Alive. Barely.
Fang smirked. "Looks like he didn't get far."
Then, with trained precision, two figures dropped from the trees beside Fenel. Silent, swift, and armed. Archers. Guild warriors, by the look of their cloaks, two blades sheathed behind their backs, bows already in hand.
The two locked eyes with Fang and Isgram. No words exchanged. No questions. Just instinct.
Their hands moved for arrows...
But Smoke beat them to it.
He emerged behind them like a smoke grenade, no warning, no sound.
Just an eruption of shadow flooded the air around them. A thick, swirling smokescreen rose in seconds, turning the clearing into a fog of confusion.
The archers coughed but didn't hesitate. They grabbed Fenel, put him on one's shoulder, and darted away from the burnt clearing between the scorched trees with unnatural agility. Ghosts in the smoke of battle.
Isgram growled. "Cowards."
"No," Fang muttered, watching the smoke shift. "Professionals."
He stepped forward, letting the last wisps of Smoke's veil slip past him.
"They came for Fenel. Not a fight, they saw they were defeated the moment we use magic."
Isgram's jaw tensed. "You want to chase them?"
Fang didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked toward where the shadows thinned—and where the tracks began.
Fang didn't move.
The smoke drifted in lazy spirals, thinning until only the scent of burnt wood lingered. The archers were long gone. Chasing them into an unfamiliar forest, wounded and drained, would've been suicide.
He turned away.
"Let's get inside," he said.
Isgram gave the tree line one last scowl before following. "Let them run. They'll be back."
The cave was still. Smoke, ever loyal, waited inside, curling in the corners like a resting animal.
They made no fire. No words. Just the sound of Fang slumping against the stone wall, eyes already heavy. Isgram leaned his hammer against the entrance and sat down cross-legged, muttering a few words in Dwarven before drifting into silence.
Sleep came fast.
------
Morning.
Fang blinked awake to light, too bright to his taste. He stood, muscles stiff, and stepped out of the cave.
And froze.
The forest, once blackened and choked with ash, was alive.
Sunlight poured down in warm, golden rays, sparkling off fresh leaves and new growth. Trees that had been scorched the day before were healing.
Their bark regrows in layers, green shoots sprouting directly from charred branches. Burnt soil now pulsed with life, dotted with wildflowers and ferns that hadn't been there hours ago.
Isgram emerged behind him, squinting into the sun. His mouth opened, then shut.
"The fuck…" he muttered, running a hand through his beard.
Fang stepped forward, brushing his fingers against a low-hanging branch. It had been blackened by fire yesterday—but now? Smooth, living wood. Cool to the touch. A thin line of sap trickled down its side, as if it were bleeding and healing at once.
"The forest's… regenerating," he said. "Like it's alive."
Isgram kneeled beside a patch of moss that hadn't existed before and plucked a small flower from the soil.
"Magic?" he asked.
Fang didn't answer. His eyes scanned the horizon.
Isgram crouched by a cluster of sprouting vegetables—something like wild potatoes, though the leaves had a faint shimmer to them, like they soaked up more than just sunlight.
"We could farm here," he said suddenly.
Fang raised a brow. "Here?"
"Yeah. Right outside the cave. Soil's fresh. Magic or not, this place is waking up." Isgram picked up a chunk of soil, letting it crumble between his fingers. "Loose earth. Rich smell. Moist underneath. That's good land. Real good."
Fang stared at the greening forest, trying to picture rows of crops. It was hard to imagine—he barely knew how to cook properly, let alone farm.
"I wouldn't even know where to start," he admitted.
"I do," Isgram said, brushing dirt off his hands. "Dwarves in the outer mines couldn't rely on the Guild's caravans. We learned to grow things in worse places than this. Mushrooms, root crops, even water grains in aqueducts. Farming's just patience and knowing how to read the ground."
Fang folded his arms, slowly nodding. "Alright. If you say it'll work, I'll help."
Isgram smirked. "Good. You'll dig. I'll point."
Fang chuckled once—tired, but honest. "Deal."
They stood there for a moment, just listening to the forest breathe.
Then Fang's eyes narrowed. "We still need to deal with the Guild."
Isgram's expression hardened. "They'll come back."
Fang nodded slowly. "Then we make sure they regret it. Traps. Warnings. Let them know we're not worth the trouble."
"Poison the woods?" Isgram suggested.
"Too risky. We live here now." Fang looked to the trees. "But false paths, dangerous bushes filled with sharp objects, collapsing ground with stakes...
Those we can make. If we make the forest itself unfriendly, they'll think twice."
"I can rig some rune markers," Isgram said. "Make it look like the forest's cursed. Maybe even scare a few into running before they get too close."
Fang grinned. "Let's make this place our home. Let them walk into their own fear."
Isgram clapped him on the shoulder. "Now you're talking like a proper bastard!"
-------
just outside the cave's mouth, where the ash layer was thin and the sprouting greenery was thickest. Fang stood shirtless, sweating, holding a jagged stick Isgram had sharpened into a crude hoe. He stared down at the patch of earth like it had personally insulted him.
"Start here," Isgram said, dragging a line in the dirt with his boot. "You want to loosen the soil. Break it up so roots can breathe."
Fang jabbed the tool into the ground. It thunked and bounced off a rock. He grunted, reset, and hit again. And again. And again.
"This is awful," Fang muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You're doing it wrong," Isgram said flatly.
Fang gave him a sharp look.
"You're trying to kill the ground. You need to coax it." Isgram stepped over, took the tool, and showed him. "Short strokes. Angle down. Let the tool bite, then pull."
He handed it back. Fang tried again, mimicking the motion. This time, the soil gave way, crumbling open in earthy chunks.
"Better," Isgram said.
They worked in silence for a bit, Fang tilling while Isgram used a smaller knife to cut down creeping vines and clear the patch. Occasionally, he'd point out root nodes or young sprigs and mutter whether they were useful or dangerous. Fang just tried to keep the rhythm.
"Where'd you learn all this?" Fang finally asked.
"Dwarven border colonies," Isgram replied. "Out past the red hills. Before the war took them. The ground there was stubborn. Made us patient."
"Think this land will be good?"
Isgram looked out at the healing forest. "I don't know. But it's willing. And that's enough."
Fang paused to take it in. The sunlight was filtering through the trees in golden shafts now, and the air smelled like herbs and old fire.
"This is… new for me," he admitted.
"You're doing fine," Isgram said, crouching to draw a planting line in the earth with his finger. "We're not building a kingdom here, just a meal."
Fang looked down at the turned soil under his feet. His muscles ached, but he felt good. Like they were finally shaping something instead of just reacting.
"We'll make it work," he said.
Isgram grinned. "Yeah. Now, we talk irrigation."
Fang groaned. "You're enjoying this too much."
"You have no idea. Now, is there any water nearby?"
Fang nodded. "There is a stream down in the forest, only around 200 meters from here."
Isgram gave a small shrug. "Alright. We could just carry the water manually in buckets. We'll need to make sure the buckets are sturdy enough to hold the water while we haul them up."
Fang glanced over at the stream, then back at Isgram. "Buckets, huh? I've got no problem carrying them if that's what it takes."
Isgram grinned. "It'll be a bit of a workout, but it's the simplest solution. We can make a few wooden buckets, fill them up from the stream, and just carry them back one by one. It won't be quick, but it'll get us the water we need."
Fang scratched his chin. "I mean, that doesn't sound so bad. We don't have to overcomplicate things. We get water in the buckets, bring it up, and use it for the garden."
"Exactly," Isgram agreed. "It's basic, but it works. We can use the time to also clear the area around the stream, make sure the water flow stays clean."
Fang thought for a moment. "Okay, yeah. I'm with you. Let's start by getting some buckets first, and then we can move the water up. I can carry a few at a time."
Isgram nodded. "I'll get some wood ready to make the buckets. You start thinking about how big the garden should be."
Fang smiled. "Sounds like a plan. Not the most elegant solution, but it'll get the job done."
Fang stood over the freshly tilled soil, the sun already climbing high, casting long shadows over the forest floor. Sweat dripped down his face as he looked out at the land they had started working on. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his muscles sore from hours of digging and clearing.
Isgram was bent over, inspecting a patch of soil, muttering to himself as he sorted through some roots and weeds. Fang squatted down, placing his hands on his knees and squinting at the land around them.
"I think… we need about 30 square meters for the garden," Fang said, lifting his hand and measuring with his fingers.
Isgram glanced over, then nodded. "That'll be enough for what we need. You plan on planting everything in a grid?"
Fang considered it. "Yeah, I think a grid might help keep things organized. That way, we don't waste any space. Maybe we can set up rows for potatoes, herbs, and whatever else we can grow."
"Good idea," Isgram replied. "But we'll need to mark the borders. Give us a clear idea of what we're working with."
Fang looked around and spotted a few long sticks near the tree line. He picked one up, testing its weight. "We can use these to mark the edges of the garden. I'll need to make sure I've got enough space between each row so the plants have room to grow."
Isgram nodded in approval. "You're starting to think like a farmer. Now, you sure you want 30 square meters? It's a lot of space to manage. Could be more work than you're ready for."
Fang smirked. "If we're doing this, we might as well make it worthwhile. We'll need the food."
"Fair enough," Isgram said, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Alright. Let's get the sticks, mark the grid, and figure out how much water we're gonna need."
As they began to mark the borders of their plot, Fang's mind wandered briefly to the next step—getting the water. But he kept his focus. It was just the beginning, but they were already taking control of the land.
Isgram grinned to himself and carefully dug around the roots, his hands working quickly. After a moment, he pulled up several small, round potatoes.
Dirty but unmistakable in their shape.
"Well, what do we have here?" Isgram mumbled, inspecting them with a curious sparkle in his eyes. He wiped them clean on the edge of his shirt, revealing their wrinkled, brown skins. "Potatoes," he muttered, almost to himself. "I knew we were onto something."