Once he had finished going through the interviews, Mark lined the ferals up and went over the notes from Elowen’s list.

He had already chosen who he wanted to elect. But the ceremony was important. Mark had long understood the importance of social standing and intended to make the most of it. He saved his former company almost forty million dollars in payroll by removing mandatory pay raises that they provided junior developers after the first, second, and third years. And It had been quite easy. Instead, he promoted the best performers. He had always thought it amazing how much a new title would affect someone’s performance over a small monetary gain. He had felt a little guilty at the time and, ultimately, convinced himself it was okay because it was what was best for the company.

Working as a Silicon Valley executive had always felt like he was walking a morally gray tightrope—this place was different. And even the threat of death and torture at the hands of monstrous half-man-half-wolf monsters wasn’t enough to make him wish he was back home.

There was nothing morally ambiguous about this. Even if he took advantage of these people, it was in defense of the fort and their lives. This was a fight for their survival—all of them.

He wasn’t even sure if the gathering tribes in the south would be okay without him. The visions had been blurred, but all he had seen within the Frontier was death and destruction. Mark didn’t want to gain a savior complex, but a part of him couldn’t help but shake his importance in all of this. A feeling that if he failed, so would all life independent of the warg—at least within the Frontier.

His thoughts turned back to the gathered ferals. Seven men and one woman stood in a line, and behind them, just about every feral that lived within the walls had gathered. The ferals faced Mark, who was flanked by several acolytes, including Elowen.

Taking a step forward, Mark cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming today. You do both me and your future tribunes an honor. This is a tremendous day for us all. It brings me and my fellow Imperials one step closer to you all. Building a bridge that will not just see us survive the coming winter together but thrive,” Mark roared. He had to exude confidence; there was no room for doubting himself in front of the crowd.

He had studied hundreds of rousing speeches when he practiced public speaking in his previous life and had run these through his thoughts as he prepared his speech—even the one's history remembered less fondly.

It was manipulation. Or at least attempted manipulation. There was no doubt about that.

“Upholding the Imperim’s law is a most holy duty. One that should be embraced and honored. These men and women here today transcend their former selves and begin their new lives with a mission to uphold the greatest authority the world has ever seen,” Mark threw his fist into the air, but the response was lukewarm at best.

He turned to his acolytes with a bent brow, and seeing his glare, he saw that they had broken into a forced cheer.

Better than nothing. But it needs a lot of work.

Half of his new tribunes then joined with mediocre cheers of their own, but most remained silent, or whispering among themselves. He even heard a few awkward coughs as his acolytes cheers petered out.

This could have gone better. A lot better. It’s a pity I didn’t have any rousing feral speeches to study.

Mark raised a silencing hand, but everyone had mostly fallen quiet on their own by then. He then turned to Elowen who stepped forward, and a second acolyte passed her a spear, wooden shield, and red cloak.

“Come forth as I call you, my tribunes, and be honored. Tribune Trumus of the Sentinel Range,” Mark said, taking the spear and cloak from Elowen.

The sketchy feral stepped up to Mark as he raised the cloak in the air, showing off the iron badge that they had etched a spearhead into. He placed the cloak over the feral’s shoulder.

“Your weapon, Tribune,” Mark added, handing him the spear.

He then turned back to Elowen and took the shield.

“And finally, your shield. May you hold it high in your defense of Fort Winterclaw.”

The spears were a combination of utility and status. Since most of the ferals had very basic weapons—sharp metal or even wooden shivs—giving them all a real weapon would elevate them from their peers. Shields were also rare. However, they were used by the clans. Made of wood, they held far less monetary value. But he hoped the symbolism wouldn’t be lost on them.

“Be proud of this achievement, Trumus. You may return,” he gestured toward the lined-up ferals.

Trumus nodded and did as instructed.

Continuing, Mark went through the list, calling out names and handing them their new equipment.

He couldn’t help the dumb smirk that creased his face as he looked over the red-cloaked tribunes.

“From this day on, you will adhere to the laws passed down by your tribunes.”

Of course, none of the tribunes had any idea what Imperial laws were at this point. That would require some training. But the basics could be passed down rather quickly. As long as people weren’t killing, stealing, or assaulting one another, and the walls were safe from cultists, the law was being upheld well enough, at least for Mark’s interests. Following actual Imperial law was a pain he put up with for the sake of his acolytes and masters.

Before dismissing the crowd, he provided the tribunes with a summons—tomorrow, they would gather here. It wasn’t just about laws, though. He had bigger plans for these tribunes. Mark needed to build the foundations.

**

Elowen had already written up a list of all the families within the fort. Their meager population made the census rather easy to conduct. Even without the feral’s willing participation, she could count them from the walls. There were eighty-four ferals living in the fort in total. Of that, Twenty-two were adult males. Twenty-six were adult females. And there were thirty-six children.

They could probably double the population in a day if they wanted to. But Mark wanted to stay in control of the situation.

Ever since the cabins started going up, and trading with the fort had begun, the number of ferals desperate to migrate within the walls increased. With new outsiders requesting entrance at the gates every day.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Unfortunately, Mark knew he needed to be stricter now if he wanted to keep the place from falling into chaos. A lack of any kind of control was exactly the reason the lands outside of the fort were the way they were. And unless he had a much bigger force to patrol and enforce law, there was no way he could extend his peace to everyone.

The only exception to this was families with young daughters. After all, he didn’t want the locals to turn on him. And letting cultists steal their daughters to give to monstrous wolves sounded like the perfect way to achieve that.

All of this had caused increasing urgency. Numbers were vitally important, and he didn’t have the luxury to risk losing them. As great as walls were, without an army, survival was unlikely. What he needed was to increase the speed that they could bring new ferals into the fort without risking the security he currently had.

This was, of course, the entire reason he had recruited the tribunes in the first place. But waiting made him anxious.

For now, acolytes would remain in control of the wall. But he intended to give control of the governance within them to his tribunes when they met tomorrow.

Elowen had cautioned him on this. Even with the tests they had conducted, it was hard to be certain. But she hadn’t seen the visions he had.

Sighing, he rubbed his temples and hoped this would go smoothly for once.

In three days they intended to hold a market day outside of the walls. The plan was to have his tribunes patrolling outside of the walls, and his acolytes atop them.

It hadn’t been long since ferals ran to his gates fearing for their lives, and now he was inviting them to openly trade with the man who was intentionally defying the cultists they were so afraid of.

His head could spin for hours, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. In an attempt to quiet it for a bit, he poured a rum.

Downing the drink in one, he leaned back in his chair. No more curve balls, okay? If anyone is listening, just let things go to plan for once.

***Acolytes—Erin***

The air thinned as the ground became increasingly rocky. Steep ledges peered over rocky descents, and winding paths were carved into the rock by the countless steps that had come before them.

They were still a long way from the Daggers, but the land was starting to change, mimicking the foothills of the awe-inspiring mountains.

It wasn’t just Erin who struggled. Marching had grown difficult even for the cultists.

Days back, both Erin and the rider had been forced to dismount. Climbing the increasingly steep hills had grown too burdensome for the animal.

Blizzards whipped up around them, and a few trees managed to survive. The ones they passed looked more like sticks protruding from the ground.

Erin held her robes tight, but it did little to hold out the lashing, icy winds. And for two days, her jaw had chattered endlessly.

The feral rider wasn’t doing much better, constantly sneezing and blowing his nose. But somehow, the young man who always walked a couple of feet back from them seemed relatively okay with the sub-zero weather.

Eventually, they pulled to a stop, tying the horse down to a depressing-looking tree.

“Friggin’ snow,” the feral rider hissed. “Got worse it has. What’s it been? I swears its been barely a month.”

“Don’t like the cold?” The young man smirked.

“Shut ye mouth, you. We can’t all be bless–ed by the wolf.”

Ignoring the two who seemed to bicker whenever they weren’t walking, Erin found a spot to coil up beside her pack. Not that it helped much. The icy wind seemed to pierce through everything.

They took any dry or rotting wood they found along the way and put it into pouches carried by the horse. The young man took it and piled it up. Erin didn’t get a good look at what it was, but he held something in his palm. He used it to start the fires. Had done since they left. And she had been desperate to get an eye on it. But the man had been careful. Always turned away from her before starting a fire.

Frustrated, Erin pulled her robes over her face. Like every other day, she wasn’t going to see it and may as well try to keep warm.

***Acolytes—Callum***

Creeping closer as he saw the fire light up, Callum eyed the camp. This was where the tracks led. He had finally caught up with them.

He eyed Erin curled over a brown leather pack. The white robes disappeared into the surrounding snow, but as she had moved against the leather, he spotted her.

Calming his breaths, Callum moved closer, using both rock and snowy hills to conceal himself.

He stopped to eye a ledge of rock that looked over them and continued. None seemed to notice as he shuffled toward the ledge’s edge. His crossbow was already in hand, and he rested it against the rock as he pushed over the edge to spot his targets.

Luckily. The two cultists stood out better than Erin. Their black wolf pelts easily spotted in the snow.

There was no doubt in his mind that the one who rode the horse was important. Horses were one of the highest status symbols in the Frontier.

Which one is it?

The younger-looking one worked the fire while the other shuffled through pouches hung from the horse. There was no guarantee that was the rider, but being beside the horse was all he had to go on. Besides, he was the older of the two. And seniority often meant importance.

Blowing out a steam funnel, Callum aimed at the man’s back.

Easy, easy…

He pulled on the lever, and the bolt flew.

The man grunted and stumbled to his side as the bolt stabbed just below his shoulder blade.

“Got him,” Callum said and turned to the second as he pulled a bolt from his quiver and lined it with his crossbow. “Wait, where is he?” he scanned his surroundings as panic soared.

His hands trembled as he began winding back the crossbow.

Where, where is he?”

*Crunch* *Crunch* *Crunch*

He swung around to a hatchet descending toward his head and whipped his crossbow up, squeezing his eyes shut.

The strength of the blow rattled his arms as he blocked it, and Callum forced his eyes open to see the hatchet embedded in the crossbow's side.

The young, blonde man grunted and pushed forward, tumbling atop Callum as they both fell to the ground and continued to roll down the bank of the ledge he had been perched atop.

Bouncing as they thudded to a stop, the cultist lost grip of his axe and was sent sprawling across the ground.

Groaning, Callum forced himself up, but the cultist was quicker, leaping toward him and throwing him back to the ground.

Hissing something in his barbarian language, he stole Callum’s breath as he kicked his sides.

Rolling over as pain cut through his ribs, Callum spat blood and moaned.

“Pathetic,” the young cultist said and turned for his axe, walking calmly and confidently toward it. “Weak like all southerners.”

Callum tried to force himself up, groaning at the pain. He would be dead if he didn’t do something now, though. But then, through thinned vision, he saw the cultist swing around and bring a hand up to his brow.

“What now?” the cultist growled. He turned back, glared at Callum then shook his head and ran in the opposite direction, charging for a craggy section of rock.

“A horse?” Callum murmured as he focused on the sound of galloping hooves. “Th-that’s…” he stammered as he focused on the figure.

The rider charged straight through the camp and after the cultist, but the man was fast. He leaped over rocky terrain and passed over a treacherous ravine that cut through the scarred earth. The horse neighed and reared, almost sending its rider toppling from its back as it pulled up against the ravine.

“Curse the Wolf-God!” Henric shouted at the cultist’s back as he darted away.

Sheathing his sword, Henric pulled out his crossbow and aimed at the cultist’s back but lowered it a second later. The shot had been lost.

Pulling his reins, Henric turned his horse to the two acolytes, his face etched with a deep scowl. “Grab the barbarian’s horse, Acolyte Erin. And anything else of value, Acolyte Callum.”

Standing by the horse, Erin nodded, wrists still tied to the dead cultist.