As they moved through the snow-laden woods, Khazarg paused and titled his head up, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. The atmosphere shifted, a tension creeping into his stance. He turned to Leon, his expression darkening. “There are Gnolls nearby—not from the tribe,” he announced.

Leon squinted, his pulse quickening. “Who are they?”

“Windcloaks,” Khazarg replied, his voice low and filled with a primal intensity. The name hung in the air, heavy with implications. “They do not take kindly to humans. They lost much during the War of the Frozen Veins. The war against your kind. We must tread carefully.”

Just then, from the cover of the trees, a small group of Gnolls emerged, their eyes narrowing as they spotted Khazarg. They were leaner than the Er'Dovaz, their fur painted with tribal markings of all shapes and colours. Colorful scraps of clothes tied around their bodies, floating in the wind.

Leon could feel the hostility radiating off them, especially when they saw him. One of the Windcloaks stepped forward, his posture tense and challenging. He opened his mouth and barked something in Gnollish, the guttural, snarling tones filling the air.

Khazarg's eyes flashed with sudden anger, and he cut the Gnoll off mid-sentence, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Speak in Common. We have a guest.”

The Windcloaks stiffened, their hackles raised. The one in front, clearly the leader of the group, clenched his jaw, clearly displeased. But after a tense moment, he begrudgingly switched to the Common Tongue, his voice dripping with contempt.

“What are you doing here, Khazarg?” he growled, taking a step forward, his posture challenging.

Khazarg stood tall, his presence radiating danger. “I should be the one to ask you that, pup. The Er’Dovaz have made camp in the region. Ghor’Fang Forest is ours for the season. All know it. You have no place here.”

The leader bristled, but the Gnolls behind him exchanged glances, their expressions wary but defiant. “You know the rules, Khazarg,” one snarled. “Humans are forbidden in the Tundra.”

“Your rules, not ours.” Khazarg replied.

The Windcloack’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “A human here is a bad omen. Our Chieftain will be informed of your transgression.”

Khazarg’s stance hardened, his voice dropping to a growl. “You’ll tell your Chieftain whatever you wish, but know this: he will not find me and my tribe lacking. A humain under our protection is no sign of misfortune.”

The lead Windcloack took a step closer, nostrils flaring. “We’ll see about that,” he spat, casting a contemptuous glance at Leon. “A human here is a threat to us all. Beware, Khazarg. The Windcloacks will not forget.”

With that, they retreated into the shadows of the snow-covered trees, their silhouettes vanishing among the white.

Khazarg watched them disappear, then turned his gaze to Leon. His predatory eyes gleamed, wild and sharp. “You handled that well,” he said after a pause, his voice rough but laced with approval. “I saw your anger. You controlled it.”

Leon blinked, his own rage still simmering beneath the surface. He hadn’t realized how close he’d been to snapping during the exchange, but now that Khazarg had pointed it out, he felt it—the coiled tension in his chest, the heat in his veins. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. “I didn’t want to cause more problems,” Leon admitted, his voice tight. “But it’s hard. They act like I don’t belong here.”

“They are fools,” Khazarg growled, his eyes glinting with a fierce pride. “But controlling your rage—keeping it in check—that is the mark of a true warrior. You’re learning.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Not bad for a human.”

Leon smirked despite himself, though the weight of the encounter still clung to him. “Thanks, I guess.”

They headed back. Leon glanced toward the direction they usually headed after their hunting trips—back to Khazarg’s hut deep in the woods, next to the cliffs—but this time, Khazarg’s path veered unexpectedly. Leon paused for a moment, confused, then quickened his steps to catch up.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his breath forming clouds in the freezing air.

Khazarg didn’t look back, his hulking figure cutting a path through the snow. “To the camp. It’s time you returned.”

Surprise flickered across Leon’s face. He hadn’t been back to the main camp in weeks—months, even. Most of his training had been done in isolation, with only Khazarg and the harsh wilderness as his companions. The idea of returning to the tribe, of seeing the other Gnolls again, filled him with a mixture of anticipation and unease.

As they walked, the distant shape of the Teeth of Ghor loomed on the horizon—massive, jagged mountains that pierced the sky like the fangs of some ancient beast.

When they arrived at the Er'Dovaz camp, Leon spotted a Gnoll waiting for them, his tall, imposing and familiar figure silhouetted against the cold sky. His gaze was sharp as it landed on Khazarg and Leon, and Leon could feel the unspoken weight of the conversation that was about to unfold.

—

Kraka was waiting for them, as though he had known they would come.

Khazarg slowed his pace but didn’t seem surprised. He gave Leon a quick glance before turning his attention to the Chieftain. Kraka’s presence always carried a certain weight—a tension, like the storm clouds hovering on the edge of a blizzard.

Without a word, Kraka stepped forward to meet them. His gaze immediately swept over Khazarg, then Leon, assessing them both. Leon could feel it—Kraka didn’t miss much. He wasn’t just a warrior; he was something more. His instincts were sharp, and right now, Leon could tell he sensed that something had happened.

Kraka’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if reading the air around them. “I felt something amiss.”

Leon opened his mouth to speak, but Khazarg beat him to it. “Windcloaks,” he said simply, his tone matter-of-fact. “They crossed our borders. They saw Leon.”

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Kraka’s face remained unreadable, though there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He had expected trouble, but now it was confirmed. His jaw clenched slightly, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel.

“Follow me,” Kraka commanded, his voice calm but carrying a certain urgency. He strode toward the heart of the camp, his steps long and purposeful. “We’ll speak in the tent.”

Khazarg grunted, and exchanged a quick glance with Leon before falling into step behind the Chieftain. As they walked through the camp, Leon noticed the other Gnolls watching them.

They were drawn to Khazargl, their eyes following him with a mix of respect and fear. Whispers passed among them, quiet but noticeable. Some gave Khazarg subtle nods, acknowledging his status as an “Old One”, while others, the younger warriors, looked at him with awe. Leon even caught the occasional glance thrown his way, but it was clear who commanded the most attention.

Kraka led them through the camp without stopping, his presence enough to clear a path as Gnolls stepped aside, bowing their heads slightly in respect. Leon could feel the tension in the air, the underlying current of something big about to unfold.

As they approached the large, reinforced hide yurt near the center of the camp, Kraka pulled aside the heavy flap and gestured for them to enter. Inside, the familiar warmth of the fire greeted them, the flames dancing in the center of the tent. The smell of burning wood and herbs filled the air, calming but intense.

Once they were inside, Kraka turned to face them, his expression still unreadable. He took a moment, looking first at Khazarg, then letting his gaze settle on Leon.

“Tell me everything,” Kraka said, his voice low and commanding. He wasn’t asking out of curiosity; he wanted the full picture, and he wanted it now.

Khazarg wasted no time. “The Windcloaks crossed the border. A scouting group. They didn’t attack, but they saw Leon. They knew he was here. I think they just wanted to confirm it with their own eyes. They will report back to their Chieftain—to Narga.”

Leon could feel Kraka’s eyes burning into him as the information sank in. Kraka’s expression remained composed, but there was a tension in his jaw. He knew what this meant—trouble was brewing, and Leon’s presence had just stirred the pot.

Kraka stepped closer to the fire, his back turned to them for a moment. He seemed to be deep in thought, his massive frame still and silent.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter but with a hard edge. “The Windcloaks... They've been hovering at our borders for months, waiting, watching for any sign of weakness. I knew it was only a matter of time before they'd try something.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “Now, with Leon, they have the pretext they've been waiting for. They'll claim it’s about him, but this has been building for much longer.”

Leon shifted uneasily. “I didn’t provoke them. I didn’t want to make things worse,” he said, trying to explain his side.

Kraka’s gaze snapped to him, and Leon froze. There was something unreadable in his eyes, but it wasn’t disdain. He studied Leon, as if searching for something beneath his words. Then, surprisingly, the chief’s expression softened, just for a brief second.

“I know you didn’t,” he said quietly, his voice thoughtful. “I’ve watched you—more than you realize. I’ve seen your training, your progress, even when you didn’t notice me.” He paused, then added, more somberly, “But that won’t change things. You’re a reason—but not the only one. The Windcloaks have been eyeing our ressources for a long time. You’re just the spark they needed to ignite the fire they’ve been preparing for."

As Kraka's words hung in the air, the weight of his statement settled over Leon, filling the silence that followed. Just as Leon was about to respond, the atmosphere in the tent shifted. A soft rustling sound at the entrance interrupted the moment, drawing everyone's attention.

A tall, scarred Gnoll with fur grayed by age and wisdom entered the tent. He moved with deliberate slowness, leaning on a long, intricately carved staff. Despite the frailty suggested by his age, there was something else—a subtle, thrumming presence that filled the air as he walked. It was as if the very space around him pulsed with energy, though Leon couldn’t quite place what it was. The sensation sent a faint tingle up his spine, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Khazarg and Kraka immediately straightened as the old Gnoll approached, their respect for him unmistakable.

The old Gnoll’s gaze settled on Leon, his sharp emerald eyes assessing, cutting through the space between them. “You must be the human I've heard so much about,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble, deep with age and experience. “Though we’ve already met, haven't we?” His lips curled slightly into a knowing smile. “I’m the one who knocked you out during the…incident with Brakk and Nogg.”

Leon blinked, the memory rushing back. The sudden drowsiness, the overwhelming force that had pulled him under. His throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. “That was you?” he asked.

The old Gnoll nodded, his expression calm but unreadable. “Yes. A simple [Sleeping Spell]. Nothing more.” His eyes gleamed with the faintest hint of amusement. “I am Old Kazarai, [Elder Shaman] of the Er'Dovaz. Well met.”

Leon gave a respectful nod, his throat tightening slightly, not quite sure what to say besides, “Well met.”

Kazarai returned the nod, satisfied with Leon’s response. Then, with the same deliberate slowness, he turned his attention to Khazarg and Kraka, the shift in his gaze almost imperceptible but laden with meaning.

“I’ve heard the news. They will come for us now. It is inevitable,” Kazarai said, his voice slow but certain. “But you’re not at fault here, Leon. The Windcloaks have already attacked and absorbed several tribes since Narg, their new Chieftain, took power. It was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to us.”

Kraka nodded, his expression grim. “We will need to prepare the tribe for war.” He sighed, then stared hard at Leon. “Not a word of this to anyone, Leon, not even to Varra. I will announce the news to the tribe myself, tomorrow morning.” He sighed again, looking at the fire, “I want them to enjoy a last night of peace. Who knows when the next one’s going to be?”

Leon nodded, “I understand.”

“Good”, Kraka replied. He turned to Khazarg, looking tired, “It is unfortunate—we had planned to depart next month. But now...”

Kazarai gave a solemn nod. “Now, we stay and fight.”

Kraka turned to Khazarg, a trace of regret in his eyes. “I know you’d rather keep to yourself, away from all the noise and chaos of the tribe... but this time, we’ll need your strength here, in the camp.”

Khazarg’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous light as he replied. “Of course. I will stay. And they will die.”

Leon stood silently, a knot tightening in his chest. War was coming, and whether he was the cause for it or not, he was now part of this tribe—and its fate. His heart raced, but amidst the fear, a flicker of resolve began to burn.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

—

As Leon and Khazarg exited the tent, Kraka and Kazarai stayed behind. Silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the crackling fire at the center of the tent.

Kazarai, leaning on his staff, was the first to speak, his eyes fixed on his Chieftain. “There’s something strange about all this, isn’t there?”

Kraka nodded, his brow furrowed in deep thought. “More than strange,” he murmured, his voice low and grave. “I rescue Leon from the storm, and it turns out he has these uncontrollable anger issues... issues that a Berserker like Old Khazarg can help him with, of all things.”

Kazarai let out a thoughtful grunt. “It’s too much of a coincidence. As if fate guided his steps to us... or the Voice.”

The chief stared into the fire, his thoughts swirling. “And just like that, he finds himself in the middle of a situation that was already tense with the Windcloaks.” Kraka sighed deeply, his shoulders heavy with the weight of responsibility. “We thought we were just helping him, but now it feels like we’re caught in a larger game than we realized.”

Kazarai fixed the Chieftain with a serious gaze. “Stay vigilant. Leon might only be a pawn, but he may reveal himself to be a crucial one in this conflict. He could shift the outcome...in ways we don’t yet understand.”

Kraka nodded slowly, the thought sinking in. “Yes... and if he’s destined to play a larger role, we’ll need to be ready.”