"It’s a mercy, then," Silas murmured, his voice low and gravelly.

  The scout who had brought the report blinked, a look of profound confusion crossing his soot-stained face. "My Lord? I just told you our hunters were butchered and the grain stores are empty. How is that... mercy?"

  If Silas were anyone else, the boy would have suspected a Lee spy had poisoned his mind. But Silas stood straighter than he had in years. The grey pallor of his skin had been replaced by a faint, healthy flush, and his eyes—once clouded with the haze of defeat—now burned with a sharp, predatory clarity.

  "Because the Lees are arrogant," Silas said, more to himself than the boy. "They think they can starve a wolf into a dog. They don't realize that a starving wolf is the most dangerous thing in the hills."

  "My Lord, we have less than a day’s worth of salted meat left," the boy pressed, his stomach giving a loud, traitorous growl. "Every exit is watched. Every ridge has a Lee bowman."

  Silas didn't answer immediately. He looked toward the heavy iron doors of the Sanctum. "Gather the family. Every able-bodied warrior, every elder, and even the wounded who can still sit upright. Bring them to the courtyard. I have a decree."

  The boy scrambled away, but as he left, he whispered to a passing guard, "The Lord... he looks younger. It’s unnatural."

  Inside the Sanctum, York was bored.

  The morning sun was a dull, useless glare. Without the moon, his Lunar Eclipse technique was dormant, leaving his Vitality hovering at a stagnant 4.1. He had sacrificed a portion of his growth to mend Silas’s broken body, a move that felt like a high-stakes gamble.

  4.1 Vitality, York mused. I’m a glorified toothpick with a god complex.

  He could hear the commotion outside. The heavy vibrations of boots on stone, the clank of rusted mail, and the low, rhythmic thrum of a hundred hungry people gathering.

  The doors creaked open. Silas entered alone. He didn't offer incense this time. He walked straight to York’s obsidian trunk and placed a hand on the bark. Through the Truth Horizon, York could feel the man’s pulse—steady, fierce, and utterly determined.

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  "I’m going to use the Hidden Tunnel," Silas whispered, his voice barely audible. "Not to smuggle the children out, but to bring the hunt in. It’s the only way to bypass their ridge-watchers."

  York’s consciousness rippled. The Hidden Tunnel was the Thorne’s last secret—a narrow, ancient tunnel that led deep into the jagged ravines of the Forsaken Hills. It was meant for a desperate escape, a final flight for the scions. Using it for a hunting party was a massive risk. If a single Lee scout spotted them emerging, the secret was dead, and the house’s only exit would be salted.

  "If we don't get meat—Aether-rich meat—the warriors will fail by tomorrow night," Silas continued. "I need to know... will you sustain them? If they bring the kill to your roots, will you give them the strength to hold the line?"

  York didn't have a voice, but he had intent. He focused his will on his single emerald leaf. With a sharp, deliberate snap, the branch swayed, the leaf shimmering with a brief, silver spark.

  Silas exhaled, a long-held tension leaving his frame. "Then it is decided."

  The courtyard was a sea of hollow cheeks and desperate eyes.

  "My Lord, this is madness!" Uncle Ewan shouted, his shattered arm bound in a dirty sling. He was a Bronze-Rank veteran, and his word carried weight. "The Hidden Tunnel is for the Pups! It’s our only way to save the Thorne line if the walls fall. You would risk it for a few haunches of shadow-stalker?"

  "We are already dying, Ewan," Silas countered, standing atop the stone dais. "If we wait for the walls to fall, the Lees will hunt the children through those tunnels like rats in a pipe. I would rather feed my wolves today so they can tear out Lee throats tomorrow."

  Caleb Thorne stood at the edge of the crowd, his hand resting on the hilt of his notched sword. He looked at his father, then at the closed doors of the Sanctum. "The scouts say the Lees have moved their main camp to the Southern Ridge. They’re overconfident. They think we’re too weak to even crawl, let alone hunt."

  "Exactly," Silas said. "Caleb, you will lead the party. Five men. Iron-Rank or higher. You go through the Hidden Tunnel, you take the kills in the Black Ravine, and you return before the moon hits its zenith."

  "And the risk?" Ewan pressed, his voice trembling. "If they find the tunnel..."

  "Then we die fighting instead of starving," Silas snapped.

  The crowd went silent. The grim reality of the Forsaken Hills was laid bare. There were no good choices left—only the choice of how they would meet the end.

  "I’ll lead them," Caleb said, his voice cold and pragmatic. He looked at the elders with a flicker of his old arrogance. "But don't expect a miracle. If the Ravine is empty, I’m not coming back with empty hands. I’ll bring back Lee heads if I have to."

  As the council broke up, the younger scions whispered among themselves.

  "The Patriarch has lost it," one murmured. "He’s betting the whole house on a hunting trip."

  "He’s old," another hissed. "He’s forgotten that the Lees have three Bronze-Rank captains for every one of ours."

  York, sensing the dissent through the roots of the estate, felt a cold, cynical amusement.

  They think he’s crazy, York thought. They don't realize the old man has a God in his backyard. And I’m very, very hungry for a promotion.