When Wolves March

The forest thinned behind Senjar's small group.

For two weeks they had walked, through endless woods, across broken streams, past burned hills. But now, the trees were lighter. The air was softer. The smell of ash faded, replaced by grass.

Senjar walked at the head of the column. Around him, more than five hundred warriors moved with measured steps, worn but unbroken.

They had entered Erethari territory.

There were no paved roads, just well-worn dirt tracks winding through quiet woodland. No signs of war. No ruined villages. Only green, and life.

Tension eased, bit by bit. But Senjar still did not let his breath out fully.

They saw them before they were seen, figures on a ridge, Erethari scouts on horseback. No armor. No blades drawn. Just silent silhouettes against the trees.

They only watched.

Senjar raised a hand. The column halted.

One scout rode down alone, slow and steady. He was young, cloaked in green and gray. When he reached them, he spoke,

"More survivors from Skeldrhall, who leads?"

"Senjar." He answered the question politely.

"Senjar, you say." The scout spoke, this time with interest and curiosity.

"Yes."

"We have heard of you, they call you the young wolf."

Senjar didn't replied this time, but only watched the scout's face.

"Accept our condolences, Arl Senjar."

Senjar nodded.

"You can pass."

Senjar bowed his head once in quiet thanks.

The scout turned without another word and disappeared back into the trees.

They were not challenged. Only acknowledged.

A quiet spread through the line.

Rell spoke first. "What will they do?"

Senjar answered, calm and steady. "Nothing. They don't push their borders. They watch. That's all."

The warriors nodded.

Step by step, they moved forward again, deeper into land that had not known fire. Where no one had fled. Where no one had bled.

It was not home. But it was at peace.

They left the trees behind and stepped into openness.

Tall grasses whipped around boots. Wildflowers speckled the fields, blue, yellow, red, like bright scars over gentle waves. Rivers wound through the land, their banks soft and full. Cattle grazed in small herds, watched by silent herdsmen who shared wary curiosities with passing soldiers.

By midday, the sun shone without ash. It warmed their faces, but it also revealed their scars, arms bound, cloaks patched, eyes hollow. Yet the land felt like a promise.

Senjar walked beside Rell as they guided the head of the column. The sky was so wide it felt like a map, no ridge to hide behind, no forest to crawl through. Just earth, air, and intent.

"Here," Rell said, pointing toward two figures moving toward them from a distant path.

"Refugees."

They came slowly, an older man carrying a sack, a woman holding a child, followed by a few others, barefoot and hopeful. They bore the white and black pattern of Harkoraal, though their cloth was faded.

The columns halted as the refugees joined the line. A low murmur spread. These were survivors, stragglers who found their way west. They stumbled but they walked.

Senjar waited until they stood before him. He knelt and placed a hand on the child's shoulder small, wide eyed, wary.

"Welcome," he said softly.

"You are safe now."

The woman bowed her head. The man met Senjar's eyes and nodded, tears brimming. No words were needed.

Rell stepped forward, lifting a canteen. "Water. And food."

The refugees passed on, accepted. Harkoraal surrounded them, shields lowered, smiles breaking.

Senjar stood again. The line moved once more.

Behind them, the fields stretched. Farmers paused but did not fight. Hunters watched this small warband but did not move. The land allowed them passage, and Senjar thanked it silently.

By late afternoon, they reached a shallow stream. Camps sprang up, dozens of small fires. The smell of grain boiled with herbs drifted up.

Senjar walked among them. A blacksmith tapped a blade; children sagged their legs. He nodded, offered brief words:

"Who needs rest, rest here."

"Pass the grain here."

That night, the sky above the plain was full of stars. Harkoraal fires flickered in soft light. Men spoke in low voices: relief, shock, grief, gratitude.

Senjar found Rell by a small fire, feeding the refugees.

They looked at him together, as equals now.

Rell spoke: "We are near our destination, Arl."

Senjar did not reply. He just watched the children laugh at a new game, the fire dancing in their eyes.

Finally, he said, quietly: "Yes, we are."

Rell nodded.

And for the first time in months, hope stood at their side, not yet full, not yet calm, but it was present.

And that was enough for now.

The eastern fields gave way to gentle hills. Ahead, Senjar saw it at last, rows of canvas and leather tents fanned across a shallow valley. Smoke curled from small fires. Horses neighed softly. Beyond, perched on a low rise, stood the old castle stones weathered, and in bad shape, but still intact, now it was claimed by Harkoraal.

Senjar and his party moved toward the heart of the camp. Rell was walking beside him, eyes sharp, every sense alert. Around them, the pace slowed. Warriors and camp followers parted respectfully as their Arl passed.

They reached the central clearing, lined with the tribe's generals, chieftains, elders, and Kaelric at the center. His face, worn and proud, softened as he saw Senjar.

Kaelric strode forward, arms wide. "Arl Senjar."

The mass bowed deeply in unison.

Senjar paused for a moment. His boots hit the soft earth, dust rising from the boots to mingle with the smell of cooking fires and penned horses. He stood tall, sword sheathed but symbol enough.

Several voices rose together:

"Arl Senjar!"

The crowd echoed,

"Arl Senjar!"

Kaelric clasped his shoulder. "You've done more than survive. You've led."

Senjar's gave him no expression. The cheers rose, but his eyes sought faces, scarred warriors who'd seen his fury, mothers and children who'd found refuge, elders who whispered prayers.

He spoke, voice firm but calm: "We are whole again. But we carry scars. And now we stand on foreign ground, Empire land. They will watch. And they will ask us why we are here."

A murmur passed through the line.

A general stepped forward, a wide shouldered man in weathered steel. "They expect protection. They expect unity."

Another elder added, "Some expect revenge."

Senjar's gaze swept the assembly. "They can expect leadership. They can expect clarity. We will not provoke anyone. But we will also not hide from anyone."

The generals bowed their heads in response. The crowd fell silent, expectation filling that hush.

A lone horn sounded, low and resonant. Kaelric stepped aside as elders and warriors opened a path.

Senjar and Kaelric walked toward the castle steps, where an informal council of chieftains awaited.

"It's time, Sejar." Kaelric whispered to him while walking towards the keep.

"For what?"

"You will see."

They walked through the old wooden gate that looked like it will fell with just a single push. The main hall of the keep was clean but it's position was same old, worn out. All the Elders and Generals were gathered in the hall.

In the keep, Senjar was presented with a wolf sigil iron ring, an old tribal signet of his house. It was slipped onto his finger by a council elder who whispered:

"For strength, in peace and war."

Senjar looked at the people that were gathered, there faces were tired but shining. Their hope was a flame he could not deny. Without a challenge, everyone kissed the iron ring one by one and recognised him as leader of the tribe Harkoraal. 

Then all the Elders came outside the keep with their Arl.

It was announced that Senjar has been recognised as Arl.

Whole tribe started shouting,

"Arl Senjar."

He raised his hand.

People stopped and soon silence covered the whole tribe.

Sejnjar started speaking in a loud but clear voice.

"The Harkoraal have burned and bled. We have been scattered. But now we are here together, twelve thousand souls bound by blood and purpose. I, Senjar, Arl of Harkoraal, promise this: we will stand tall. We will hold this ground. And when the Morhaal strike again, or when the Empire comes calling, we will be ready!"

A roar followed, shouts of "Arl!" and "Harkoraal!" rising like thunder.

Kaelric clasped Senjar's shoulder again. Rell stood behind him, silent but steadfast.

The empire's border land settled beneath their feet, not conquered, but claimed by unity and purpose.

As the cheers died down, Senjar let his gaze drift across the valley. Smoke curled from campfires. Children ran between tents. Warriors stood tall again. Yet beneath the pride was weight of decisions still to come, of enemies unseen.

He felt the ring on his finger. Heavy not from iron, but from memory.

This land was not theirs.

Not yet.

And the Empire would not stay silent forever.

He would need to build, not just walls or warbands, but something stronger. Unity. Law. Identity.

Senjar breathed deep, eyes fixed on the horizon.

"I carry their hopes now. And I must not let them break."