Leon woke with a pounding headache, his mind muddled and his surroundings hazy. Blinking against the dim light in the tent, he soon realized he was surrounded by sleeping Gnolls—and he was only half-dressed. A wave of alarm washed over him as he gathered his bearings, the fragmented memories of last night refusing to piece themselves together.

As quietly as he could, Leon started gathering his clothes, wincing as he stepped around the tangle of sprawled limbs. The air was thick with the sounds of soft growls and deep snores, the rhythmic symphony of slumbering Gnolls surrounding him as he did his best to avoid waking anyone. He didn’t see Varra or Brag among the sleepers; they were probably more accustomed to this than he was.

Once he was dressed, he carefully slipped outside into the cool and misty morning air, grateful for the clarity it offered. A few steps away, Khazarg sat, methodically sharpening a pair of axes, each stroke deliberate and precise.

“Good morning, Leon,” Khazarg greeted him without looking up.

Leon rubbed his temples, still groggy and disoriented. “What… what happened last night?”

Khazarg let out a short chuckle, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You drank yourself into a stupor, that’s what. Consider yourself lucky you didn’t fall asleep somewhere dangerous. I kept watch.”

With a practiced hand, Khazarg reached into his pack and withdrew a small vial of green liquid, extending it to Leon. “Here. A Stamina Potion. One sip will take the edge off. Just one, though, or it’ll knock you flat.”

Leon eyed the vial suspiciously. “What’s in it?”

“Mostly herbs—strong ones,” Khazarg replied with a slight smirk. “Trust me, you’ll thank me soon enough.”

With a nod of resignation, Leon took a small sip. The liquid tasted unexpectedly sweet, and as he swallowed, a warming sensation spread through his chest, dulling the headache and easing his nausea.

“Better?” Khazarg asked, his gaze now appraising.

Leon managed a faint smile. “Better. Thanks.” The fog of his hangover was beginning to dissipate, though Khazarg’s steady gaze held him under scrutiny.

With a grunt, Khazarg returned his focus to his axes, the rasp of metal against stone filling the air between them. “Moderation, Leon. You’ve got a sharp mind and good instincts, but none of that will save you if you can’t keep control of yourself.”

Leon nodded slowly, Khazarg’s words sinking deeper as he watched the older Gnoll's controlled, methodical movements. Khazarg glanced up, his gaze sharper now, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“Especially for you,” Khazarg added, his tone low and pointed. “That temper of yours—it’s a fire that could just as easily burn you from the inside out as it could save you.”

Leon felt the sting of those words but held the Gnoll’s gaze, swallowing hard. He knew Khazarg wasn’t wrong. His anger, fierce and blinding, had a way of taking the reins, pulling him into places he couldn’t control. And last night had only driven the point home further.

“Anger’s a weapon, Leon,” Khazarg continued, resuming his sharpening, the blade hissing against the whetstone. “But one that cuts both ways if you don’t learn to temper it.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Leon took a steadying breath, swallowing the bitter truth in Khazarg’s words. He took a moment, then managed a steady reply. “I’ll be more careful next time,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Even if you’re around to keep me in line, I know I can’t rely on that forever.”

Khazarg’s gaze softened slightly, a rare sign of approval. “Good,” he replied, pausing the steady rhythm of his sharpening. “You’re beginning to understand. People like us don’t have the luxury of living like everyone else. We can’t afford even a moment’s slip. Without absolute control over ourselves, we’re a danger to those around us—and to ourselves.”

Leon’s gaze drifted down to Khazarg’s axes, their edges gleaming with a strange, almost icy brilliance as he sharpened them, the rhythmic scrape of stone against metal sharp in the quiet. He realized suddenly that it was the first time he’d actually seen Khazarg with weapons.

The axes were forged of a rare, pale metal that seemed nearly white, almost blending seamlessly with Khazarg’s light fur. He thought back to the evening before, realizing that these must have been what Khazarg had gone back to retrieve from his hut.

“Those are what you went to fetch earlier?” he asked, nodding toward the gleaming axes.

Khazarg looked up and gave a single nod, a slight grin tugging at his mouth, showing fangs. “Yes, I don’t usually carry them, unless it’s… necessary.”

Leon raised a brow. “You mean to say you just leave them lying around? Someone could have stolen them.”

At this, Khazarg burst out in laughter, a deep, resonant sound that filled the clearing and startled a few nearby birds into flight. It wasn’t a quick chuckle or a quiet snicker—this was the full, belly-deep laugh of someone who found the notion absurd to the point of hilarity. He leaned back, his broad shoulders shaking, his laughter echoing through the morning air as if he hadn't heard something so ridiculous in a long time.

“Steal them?” he repeated between laughs, his eyes glinting with genuine amusement. “Leon, no one would dare touch my axes. Anyone fool enough to try would be either dead or too terrified to lift a finger.” He shook his head, still chuckling as if he could barely believe Leon’s innocence. “These blades are mine alone,” he said with a tone that held both pride and an edge of warning, the laughter fading into a dangerous smile.

Leon felt heat rise to his face, realizing how naive his question must have sounded to Khazarg. Yeah, no one would dare steal from him.

He cleared his throat.

“These are incredible,” Leon said, genuine admiration in his tone. “Magnificent, really.”

Khazarg paused his sharpening to give Leon a thoughtful nod. “I found them far to the north, in a dungeon near the Sea of Ice. Quite the treasure,” he murmured, as if remembering. The respect in his eyes as he looked at the axes made clear just how priceless they were to him.

Watching him, the reality of the looming conflict suddenly hit Leon, settling uneasily in his stomach. He hesitated, then asked, “Khazarg… just how big is the Windcloak tribe compared to yo—ours?”

Khazarg’s expression twisted into a darkly amused grin. “About three times our size,” he replied, voice edged with grim humor. “Roughly two thousand Gnolls.”

Leon’s eyes widened in shock, a ripple of fear settling over him. “Two thousand?” he choked out, barely able to steady his voice. “Then…why don’t you all just leave? I mean… if there are that many of them—”

Khazarg interrupted him, looking genuinely perplexed. “Why would we do that?” He sounded as if the idea had never crossed his mind. “I’m here.”

Leon blinked, taken aback. He opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Khazarg’s face suddenly tensed. He straightened, his entire body rigid and alert. “My [Danger Bell] is ringing,” he said, his gaze slicing across the horizon, white eyes narrowing with a fierce, unblinking intensity.

His danger bell?

Khazarg then lifted his muzzle to the air, his nostrils flaring as he took in a deep breath. His pale eyes darkened, and his expression grew grim. “I can smell blood,” he said, his voice low and edged with menace. “A lot of it.”

Just then, the distant sound of two horn blasts echoed through the camp. Leon’s heart skipped a beat, and he shot Khazarg a questioning look.

“One blast means a friend,” Khazarg explained. “Two? That’s a warning. They’re coming.”