The clang of hammers echoed across the valley.
At dawn, Vireloch was awake and alive with purpose. The newly discovered iron vein had become the town's heartbeat—feeding forges, sharpening blades, and giving rise to something more powerful than weapons: resolve.
Under Zareena's order, the townsfolk had been divided into units. Former hunters became patrol scouts. Farmers turned miners. Old soldiers who thought their fighting days were long past stood once more, training the young with calloused hands and quiet pride.
The forge, once cold and forgotten, now burned day and night. Blacksmiths molded the ore into shields, spearheads, and horseshoes. Every piece bore the mark of Vireloch—an emblem of a rising town not yet ready to fall.
Zareena stood with Captain Thorne, overseeing the construction of new watchtowers along the inner wall. "Double the guard at night," she said. "If Marcerov intends to move, he'll test us first."
"He will," Thorne nodded. "But he won't find a town of cowards."
Beneath her calm, Zareena's thoughts moved faster than any hammerstrike. She knew Marcerov. Knew he wouldn't tolerate a border town growing wealthy, unified, and fortified. He'd send spies, or saboteurs. Maybe worse.
And that meant they had to be more than strong—they had to be smart.
In the market, stalls reopened. Black bread and smoked fish returned to tables. The laughter of children mingled with the beat of drum training, and for the first time in months, the people began to believe they could win.
Vireloch was no longer an exile's outpost.
It was becoming a fortress