Chương 118: What Victory Tastes Like

The rain had stopped by the time James returned to the mountain. The world still dripped. Water fell steadily from leaves, stone ledges, and the naked ends of branches. The southern path gleamed with mud and broken puddles, each hoofbeat sending dark water splashing up the legs of the Cold Mistdrake Runner beneath him. The air smelled of wet stone, crushed grass, blood, and that sharp clean freshness that came after a storm, when the whole forest seemed to inhale through soaked bark.

James rode low against his runner's neck. Beside him, Finni clung to his own runner with both hands, red hair plastered to his forehead, mouth set in the grim expression of someone who had agreed to an idea before properly considering the consequences. His mana wolf loped behind them with easy silence, paws barely disturbing the mud. The wolf looked far too composed for an animal following two dragon-horses toward a battlefield full of dead goblins and angry armored pigs.

Behind them, in the distance, wardens gathered at Hearthroot's southern gate. James had ridden back hard after the fight, fast enough that the cold air had stung tears from his eyes. Rogan had taken the news without shouting, like the professional he was. Within minutes, he had sent runners for Kerrin, Talar, Gisela, Maude, Bren, and every available warden who could leave without weakening the village's immediate defense.

Rogan himself stayed behind to strengthen the western gate, double the watches, and ensure that the ambush at the mountain was not part of some wider trap. Finni had been a spontaneous decision. Capturing the stonebelly hogs had been a spontaneous decision too. James kept telling himself it was practical. The hogs were ugly, mean, overgrown pigs with stone plates bulging from their bellies and tusks that looked like they had been chipped from old masonry. They had carried goblins.

They had tried to trample his wardens. They had screamed, bitten, gored, and generally acted like monsters with a deep personal hatred of good sense. James did not see only monsters when he looked at them. He saw a source of food. His mind drifted toward thick steaks sizzling over fire, fatty strips crisped in a pan, smoked slabs, sausages, bone broth, crackling skin, rendered fat for cooking, spiced skewers, meat pies, and something close enough to bacon to make his soul weep.

His mouth watered despite the mud, blood, and exhaustion. That was useful. Thinking about food kept him away from the other thought. Goblins had come again. They had found the mountain again. They had attacked the source of stoneheart. His wardens had fought beautifully. That truth warmed him even through the damp weight of worry. Lyrion's group had held as a unit.

The Hearthguard Harnesses had taken the worst of the blows, the new swords had bitten deep, and Ilyndra's smoke potion had given them the precious confusion they needed. Rogan's drills had lived in their bodies when fear should have scattered them. The dwarves had come from the mountain with hammers and fury, and together they had broken the attack. Some of the tight fear that had lived in him since Bloomweald had eased. Hearthroot's warriors were young, yes. They had gaps, yes. They were growing.

Another fear had returned to take its place. The goblins were still out there. They came once. They came again. They would come again. The runner slowed as the mountain came into view. James lifted his head, rainwater sliding from the edge of his hood. The battle site had already become something between a butcher yard, a prisoner pen, and a muddy argument. The dead stonebelly hogs were being loaded onto the horned dray beast's sled under Bramli's supervision.

Five carcasses lay heavy and awkward in the mud, their bristles slick, their stone plates pale beneath streaks of blood and rain. Several dwarves heaved ropes under the bodies while the dray beast stood with its head low and the long-suffering expression of an animal who had never asked to pull armored pork. The living hogs were worse. Seven of them had been tied with thick ropes to posts, stones, and anything else that looked sturdy enough to withstand rage.

They squealed, snorted, thrashed, and slammed their weight against the bindings. One tried to bite a rope, only for Sarra to smack its snout with the flat of her shield hard enough to make it reconsider. Another dug its hooves into the mud and shook its head until foam flew from its mouth. James and Finni dismounted. The moment Finni's mana wolf stepped closer, the hogs went wild. All seven shrieked at once. The sound punched through the clearing, sharp enough that several dwarves cursed.

The wolf lowered its head, ears forward, and released a low growl that rolled across the mud like distant thunder. The hogs froze for half a breath. Then they resumed squealing with noticeably less confidence. Finni stared at them with worried fascination.

"Well," he said.

"They hate him." The wolf looked pleased. James left Finni to approach the bound animals and went toward Lyrion. The elf stood near the shelter, bow slung over one shoulder, sword at his hip, rain dripping from his hair and chin. Mud streaked one side of his face. A shallow cut marked his forearm, already bound with a strip of cloth. He looked tired, blood-streaked, and steadier than James remembered him looking during those early tunnel expeditions months ago.

Back then, Lyrion and Faelor had been green warriors trying to become protectors through terror and stubbornness. Now Lyrion looked like someone others naturally watched for direction.

"News?" James asked.

"Faelor went scouting," Lyrion said.

"He followed the tracks west to see if more waited nearby." James frowned at once.

"Alone?" Lyrion read his expression and shook his head.

"He is careful when he wants to be. In the trees, in this rain, he can vanish better than most. Selathi has trained him hard, and he had talent before that. He will come back." James accepted that because he had to, though part of him wanted to order every scout to move in groups of five and carry bells. He turned to the gathered wardens and quarry dwarves. They were animated despite the exhaustion.

Tibbin stood in the mud showing Keldrum something with his hands, likely reenacting how he had stabbed a hog while sliding under it. Keldrum laughed and slapped him on the back hard enough to nearly faceplant him. Sarra sat on a stone with someone binding her shoulder, jaw clenched, eyes bright with irritation that anyone thought she needed tending. Bramli was explaining to three dwarves how a hog plate had cracked along a seam, using his hammer as a teaching tool.

Two quarry workers kept comparing their new levels in voices that grew louder each time. James raised his voice.

"Everyone." The chatter softened. He looked at them, really looked. Wet hair. Muddy boots. Bloodied sleeves. Shaking hands hidden badly. Eyes too bright from the fight. Pride, fear, laughter, relief, all tangled together in the aftermath of danger.

"I am proud of you," James said. The words landed; he could see it when several faces shifted, in the way people did when praise found them before they had built defenses against it.

"You showed bravery today. More than that, you showed competence." His gaze moved across the wardens.

"You held a position against mounted enemies. You used your gear. You used your potions. You protected one another. You waited for support without breaking. You have become true wardens." Tibbin straightened so hard his muddy hood fell over both eyes. Sarra looked away, which James chose to interpret as acceptance. Lyrion bowed his head slightly. The motion was small, but his throat worked once. Bramli thumped his hammer against his shoulder.

"And we broke the pigs."

"You broke the pigs beautifully," James said. The dwarves approved of this description. James smiled with them, but the smile did not reach all the way through him. Even while the others laughed, his mind kept circling the attack. The goblins had come mounted, led by ash-grey figures, and they had struck as if they knew exactly where to hurt Hearthroot. The hogs troubled him most. Beasts like that did not become war mounts by accident. Somewhere nearby, there was a camp. His thoughts turned toward the mountain.

Toward the stoneheart beneath it. Finni returned a few minutes later with mud on one sleeve and a thoughtful expression. The mana wolf followed, looking deeply satisfied with himself.

"They are highly aggressive," Finni said. James glanced at the hogs, one of which was currently trying to glare a hole through a rope.

"I gathered."

"Bred or conditioned for battle, I think. Maybe both. If you mean to bring them to the village, they need their own enclosure. Away from the fawns, away from the sky-quills, and away from anyone who might panic if one of them tests the fence." Finni continued, "The fence must be sturdy. Very sturdy. I can work with them through Animal Husbandry, but I cannot promise what they will become. They are promising for meat. Maybe hide and plates, if the butchers and crafters can use them. Little else for now."

He hesitated. James recognized the look of someone whose skill had whispered something strange.

"What?" Finni looked back at the hogs.

"They digest rocks." Bramli, several paces away, paused mid-sentence. James's eyes narrowed with interest.

"They digest rocks?"

"Yes. Their bodies use minerals to strengthen those belly plates and tusks. I can feel it, sort of. They need grit, stone, maybe specific mineral feeds. It is part of how they grow their defenses." James looked at the stone plates. Then toward the mountain. Then back to Finni.

"What if we feed them stoneheart?" Bramli spun so fast that his boots slipped in the mud.

"Over my dead, sinking body!" James did not look at him.

"Small amounts. Dust, maybe chips."

"Over my powdered bones!" Finni's expression turned more thoughtful, which did nothing to soothe Bramli.

"We would have to see. Very small controlled amounts. It could strengthen the plates. Or ruin their digestion. Or make them sick. Or create some other effect. I would need to test carefully." Bramli pointed his hammer at the hogs.

"Those beasts will not eat good wall-stone while I breathe." James smiled mildly.

"We will begin with scraps." Finni walked back toward the hogs before the dwarf could continue, clearly already considering feed mixtures. They waited nearly half an hour for the wardens from Hearthroot. During that time, the dead hogs were secured on the dray beast's sled. The dwarves tied them down with enough rope to moor a ship. Bramli checked every knot because apparently stonebelly hog carcasses still deserved proper engineering. Lyrion's group drank water and let wounds be rebound.

Tibbin kept flexing his fingers and staring at his own hands, grinning every time he remembered his new profession. Keldrum muttered "level twelve" under his breath so often that Sarra threatened to make him count goblin teeth instead. James checked the mountain entrance and the guard shelter. The shelter had taken a cracked post from a hog impact, but still stood. One section of muddy ground had been torn into deep ruts.

The runner had wandered close to the dripping rock wall and seemed happy enough licking rainwater from stone. At last, Hearthroot's wardens arrived. Kerrin led the first group, wet and sharp-eyed, spear in hand. Talar followed with Gisela, Maude, Bren, and more than a dozen wardens spreading behind them. They moved quickly but without the wild rush of panic. Rogan had trained that into them. Fast movement, clear eyes, weapons ready, no useless shouting. They all stared at the hogs.

One of the younger wardens whispered, "Are those pigs?" Sarra, still seated on the stone, said, "Be polite. They are terrible pigs." James waved a hand before curiosity could devour discipline.

"Lyrion. Report." The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Lyrion stepped forward and gave a clean account to Kerrin and Talar. Around twenty goblins. Most mounted on stonebelly hogs. Two larger ash-grey goblins directing the attack. Approach from the west-southwest. Mountain guard held. Quarry dwarves reinforced. Seven hogs captured alive. Five carcasses secured. Goblin bodies gathered for burning. Faelor scouting tracks. Kerrin listened without interrupting.

The younger man had changed too, James realized. Still sharp. Still carrying that restless edge. But there was more control in him now, perhaps because Rogan and Selathi had both taken turns sanding down his roughest parts with the gentle methods of wolves and knives. Kerrin began giving orders at once.

"Four search groups. West spread. Bren, take the mud track with Gisela. Talar, south hook and return by the broken pine marker. Maude, north edge toward the old runoff. No heroics. Horn if you see anything larger than stragglers. If you find a camp, mark it and wait." The wardens moved. Four groups cut west from different angles. Another group relieved Lyrion's exhausted unit at the mountain shelter.

Talar ordered Lyrion, Tibbin, Keldrum, Sarra, and the wounded quarry fighters to return to Hearthroot and see Irla as soon as transport was ready. Sarra tried to argue. Talar looked at her shoulder and said nothing until she stopped. Faelor returned as the first patrol group disappeared into the trees. He came from above, dropping lightly from a rain-dark branch with his hood plastered to his face and mud streaked up both legs. James decided Lyrion had been right.

If Faelor wanted to move unseen in wet trees, very little short of Selathi herself would notice him. Faelor shook his head before anyone asked.

"Tracks lead to an abandoned camp. Recent. Bed marks under brush. Cold fire pit, though the rain ruined most of it. No larger force in immediate sight. I found signs of other movement, but the rain washed too much away."

"Other movement?" Kerrin asked.

"Maybe another band. Maybe old tracks. Hard to say." James felt the worry settle deeper. Kerrin only nodded.

"Good work. Get your arm checked."

"My arm is fine." Lyrion pointed to Faelor's sleeve, where blood had watered down to pink. Faelor looked down.

"That is someone else's blood." Sarra snorted.

"Everyone says that." Eventually, the site settled into grim routine. The goblin bodies were stripped of anything useful. Crude weapons, bone charms, straps, small sacks, odd stones, dried meat, and a few tokens Kerrin wrapped carefully in cloth for James to examine later. Garrick, who was left to guard the mountain entrance, helped burn the bodies.

His fire magic had steadied enough that he could direct flame with his new spell without turning the whole muddy clearing into an argument with Irla, though everyone watched him carefully. Two Veinbound dwarves took the sled of dead hogs back to Hearthroot with the horned dray beast. The living hogs remained James and Finni's problem, mostly because James had created that problem loudly in front of everyone. The journey back was miserable. Also absurd.

Seven bound stonebelly hogs did not travel so much as object in a direction. Finni led with ropes and calm commands. James helped because guilt demanded it. The mana wolf became the unquestioned master of the entire operation within five minutes. A low growl sent three hogs forward. A sharp bark stopped one from trying to dive into brush. When one hog planted its hooves in mud and refused to move, the wolf stalked close, stared into its eyes, and showed teeth.

The hog squealed and trotted six steps before apparently remembering it was furious. James and Finni pulled, cursed, slipped, shouted, and invented several new combinations of threats involving roast meat and soup pots. The mistdrake runners followed nearby, looking amused in the elegant way only magical dragon-horses could manage. James's cloak stayed warm through all of it, though the outside gained enough mud that Mira would likely have words.

By the time they reached the south gate, James's throat was dry from shouting and his shoulders ached from rope strain. Finni looked worse. His hair had dried in a wild shape, mud streaked his cheek, and one sleeve was torn where a hog had nearly caught him. The mana wolf walked beside him with proud exhaustion, tongue lolling. At the gate, several villagers stopped whatever they were doing and stared. James called for Trell and Pella.

They arrived at the southern edge within minutes, both carrying tools and both wearing the same wide-eyed expression when they saw the hogs. Trell spoke first.

"What are those things?" James put both hands on his hips, exhausted and grinning.

"Food." Pella stared at the stone plates, tusks, ropes, mud, and one hog currently trying to chew a post.

"Food with armor?"

"Yes." Pella looked at Trell.

"He has that look." Trell nodded.

"The building look." James began giving instructions before either of them could escape.

"The enclosure goes up before sundown," he said.

"Away from the other animals, away from the longhouses, and away from anywhere children usually run." He pointed toward the far side of the plateau.

"I want the fence reinforced. Deep posts, tight crossbeams, and a second gate so nothing bolts straight through if someone opens the first one. Finni is the only one feeding them until we understand what calms them and what makes them worse." Later, they could make it better. Metal rods, stoneheart posts, Pella's judgment, whatever survived contact with angry war-hog reality. For now, they needed something ugly and strong. Pella absorbed it quickly.

"Southwest of the pasture. Downwind if possible." Trell nodded.

"Close enough for Finni to reach, far enough from the fawns."

"And away from the runners," Finni added.

"The hogs are scared enough already." James looked at his runner, who had begun sniffing one hog's tail with great interest.

"Good point." Trell and Pella took over. That was one of the best parts of Hearthroot now. James could start chaos, and other people could organize it into labor. They called every available builder who was not on wall duty or patrol. Posts, crossbeams, rope, rough palisade sections, spare planks, and stakes began moving across the southern village like ants carrying a very bad idea. As they passed the Hearth Hall with the dead hogs on the dray sled, James saw another kind of chaos.

Marla, half a dozen cooks, and nearly as many hunters had taken over a covered area beside the hall. Worktables had been dragged under a tarp. Buckets, knives, hooks, cloth, herbs, and wash water were arranged in stations. The five carcasses were already being dressed with grim efficiency. Hunters handled the heavier butchering. Cooks sorted cuts. Marla stood at the center with bloody sleeves rolled to her elbows, directing portions like a battlefield commander.

Irla stood nearby, issuing sanitation orders with terrifying calm. Ferrer, holding a long knife, muttered, "We know our job, woman." Irla looked at him.

"Wonderful. Then you will have no trouble doing it while I remind you." Marla saw James. Her glare crossed the distance like a thrown spoon. James raised one hand in apology he did not fully mean. Her glare sharpened, as if she understood that. He kept walking. The afternoon blurred into labor. The emergency enclosure went up before sunset, though only barely. It looked like something built by people racing both daylight and angry meat.

The posts were thick, the rails heavier than they needed to be, and every rope brace had been pulled tight by someone who had clearly decided ugly was better than dead. Pella had added sharpened stakes along the inside after one long look at the hogs and a very quiet, very firm, "They will try." It would hold for the night. After that, it needed metal, stoneheart, and a feeding trough that would help whoever fed the pigs from losing an arm. For now, it held. Finni tried to calm the hogs once they were inside.

It went poorly. One hog clipped his thigh with a tusk. Another caught his forearm when he moved too close to a rope. A third slammed the fence hard enough that Trell screamed at it like it had insulted his mother. Each time, the mana wolf intervened with sudden movement and a growl deep enough to make the hogs remember caution. Aelthirra ended up posted near the enclosure by the gate. She healed Finni's wounds with her newly unlocked life abilities, face tense and pale beneath her silver hair.

Green-white light moved between her fingers as she closed the scrape on his forearm. Finni tried to tell her it was shallow. The mana wolf pressed against his leg and gave a low huff that sounded suspiciously like disagreement. Aelthirra's mouth tightened.

"Your wolf is sensible." Finni looked down at the wolf.

"Traitor." James saw the worry in her face and the way Finni softened under it. He also saw Tember watching from too far away, jaw tight, pretending very badly to check a fence post. James turned around and left. He had survived goblins and armored hogs. He had no intention of stepping into young romance with sharp elven edges. By evening, the smell of cooking meat pulled him to the Hearth Hall like a spell. It hit him before he reached the door. Rich fat. Smoke. Sizzling meat. Herbs. Rendered juices. Char.

Berry reduction. Roasted vegetables. Something deep and savory that made every difficult part of the day seem momentarily worthwhile. Inside, the Hearth Hall had become a frenzy. Cooks moved in lines. Hunters carried fresh cuts. Marla shouted orders. Bowls clattered. Steam rose. Children tried to sneak closer and were redirected with bread.

The entire village seemed to have heard there was new food, and the hall filled steadily with wet boots, hungry faces, and the kind of excitement that followed a victory no one had fully processed yet. James stood near the counter for a moment, watching. Then he walked behind it. Marla turned slowly. The Hearth Hall grew quieter around them.

"What," she said, "are you doing on this side?" James met her eyes.

"I want to barbecue." Marla's face became very still.

"This is my domain."

"I know."

"You have a whole village. This side is mine."

"I know that too." Her gaze searched his face. Whatever she saw there made her grip on the ladle loosen. James was restless, worried, and mud-streaked, with the smell of battle still somewhere under rain and hog rope. His hands needed to make something that did not involve walls, reports, or fear. Cooking was safer than sketching defenses until dawn. Marla pointed toward a grill space near the hearth.

"You ruin good meat, I throw you out."

"Fair."

"And you do what I say."

"Mostly."

"James."

"Yes, Marla." He washed his hands, borrowed a knife, and accepted the slab of stonebelly hog meat a hunter laid before him. The cut was dark and rich, with heavy marbling and a faint mineral line near one edge where the stone plate had fed into the body. It smelled stronger than pork from Earth, wilder, with a sweetness under the iron. James cut steaks. Marla watched like a hawk. He rubbed the first batch with crushed peppery herbs, a little smoked ash-seasoning, minced garlic-like bulbs, and rendered fat.

The cuts hit the hot surface with a hiss that made half the nearest table turn. Fat spat. Smoke rose. The meat tightened, browned, then charred at the edges in exactly the way James wanted. He breathed in.

"Oh, that is promising." Marla leaned closer despite herself.

"Do not burn it."

"I am searing it."

"You are saying it with confidence, but all I am seeing is charre meat."

"That is half of cooking."

"That explains many things about men." James let the steaks rest on a warm board, which caused Marla visible distress until he explained badly that the juices needed to settle. She looked suspicious, then cut one after a few minutes and grudgingly admitted less juice ran out than expected. They tasted the first piece together. The meat was rich, savory, slightly sweet, and tender when cut against the grain. The fat carried flavor beautifully. The herbs clung to it. The char added depth.

There was a faint mineral earthiness that might have been strange in another meat, but here it made the whole thing taste hearty and wild. James closed his eyes.

"Success." Marla chewed slowly. Then she nodded once.

"Again." That was the highest form of approval. The kitchen transformed around the discovery. James made herb-rubbed steaks first. Then thin slices with vegetables in sizzling fat. Then skewers brushed with a tart berry sauce that Marla improved by adding a spoon of something dark from a jar she refused to explain. Fatty strips were crisped hard for the children, though Marla rationed them with the severity of a temple priest guarding relics. Bones went into broth with roots and herbs.

Smaller chunks were seared and tossed with roasted vegetables. James tried a sauce using warm aether fawn milk, rendered fat, herbs, and a sharp root paste, and Marla declared it strange enough to keep. At some point, James realized he was wearing Varn's famous apron. He had no memory of putting it on. It was too stiff at the chest, too wide at the waist, and somehow made several villagers cheer when they noticed. Varn himself came in, saw it, stared for three breaths, then solemnly saluted him with a cup.

The first proper batch of steaks went out with ceremony. James carried the plates himself to Lyrion's table. Lyrion, Faelor, Sarra, Tibbin, and Keldrum sat together near the hearth, washed and bandaged, still damp around the edges. Their table had become the center of too many admiring looks. Tibbin sat taller than James had ever seen him. Keldrum looked embarrassed and thrilled. Sarra looked like she would endure praise for exactly as long as the food remained worth it.

Faelor appeared to be enjoying the attention enough for both elves. James set the plates before them.

"For the mountain guard," he said. The Hearth Hall cheered. Tibbin stood on the bench and bowed as if accepting a crown.

"I will carry this burden with humility."

"Sit down before humility falls into your food," Sarra said. Keldrum cut into his steak, tasted it, and stared at the plate with reverence.

"We should capture more." Faelor pointed his fork at him.

"Careful. If every goblin attack ends in steak, then victory is that much sweeter." Sarra gave him a flat look.

"Do not tempt anything." Lyrion said nothing at first. He tasted the meat, then looked toward James with quiet gratitude that reached beyond food. James nodded back. The night widened. The Hearth Hall filled until it felt ready to burst. Dwarves, elves, humans, gnomes, fairy children, wardens, builders, hunters, cooks, and researchers packed the benches. People came for the new dish, for the victory, for the warmth, for the story. Voices tangled over one another. The battle grew larger with each telling.

Lyrion's two arrows became three, then four, until Faelor loudly corrected the number down to two and claimed all missing arrows for himself. Tibbin's smoke potion became a heroic cloud that swallowed half the road. Bramli cracking a hog plate became a tale of quarry wisdom applied to living stone. James yelling about wanting the hogs became the punchline that refused to die.

"I was being practical," James said for the ninth time. Marla handed him another tray.

"You shouted like a man trying to adopt pigs."

"They are food."

"They were trying to murder you."

"Food can be complicated." The fairy children adored the crispy strips. Piri declared them battle ribbons and tried to wear one until Marla caught her. Buzzydew ate solemnly and said the hogs had been worthy enemies. Dewpip asked if Maerelith could smell food from inside the tree. James had no answer, but he promised they would save a taste for when she returned. Rogan eventually sat at the counter. Marla gave him a serving without asking.

He ate quietly, eyes moving around the hall, taking in the wounds, laughter, pride, and relief. James kept cooking beside Marla until his feet hurt and his arms ached. The work steadied him. Cut. Season. Sear. Turn. Rest. Serve. Repeat. The rhythm took the jagged pieces of the day and laid them down one by one beside the fire. Slowly, the hall emptied. Children were carried out asleep. Fairy lights vanished toward Heartroot's branches and the grove. Dwarves left in clusters, singing low and off-key.

The wardens remained longer than most, reluctant to let the night end, perhaps because morning would bring patrols, reports, and the sober shape of what had happened. James finally took off Varn's apron and hung it over the back of a chair. He leaned on the counter, stole a strip of meat from Rogan's half-finished plate, and put it in his mouth. Rogan looked at him.

"That was mine." James chewed.

"Leadership tax."

"You are taxing wounded soldiers now?"

"You were not wounded."

"My spirit was." Marla appeared and placed a cup in James's hand.

"Drink." James sniffed it. The drink was dark, rough-smelling, smoky, and warm with something like grain and bitter root. He lifted an eyebrow.

"That brewer is on to something," Marla said.

"It is pretty good." From somewhere deeper in the kitchen, a dwarf called, "Thank you!" James drained it in one pull. It was rough, smoky, bitter, and exactly what he needed. Heat spread down his throat and into his chest. He coughed once, then held out the cup. Marla refilled it. The Hearth Hall had grown quiet enough that the rain dripping from the roof outside could be heard again. The hearth glowed red. The smell of meat, smoke, and herbs lingered in the rafters. James looked at Rogan.

"So," he said.

"What do you have for me?" The warmth shifted. Rogan set down his cup.

"They found another camp." Marla went still beside them. James waited.

"A different band," Rogan said.

"Not the one that attacked the mountain, as far as we can tell. We still haven't found where that group went." He rubbed a thumb along the edge of the cup, the small movement too controlled to be casual.

"Every available warden is searching in rotation. Bren found signs west of the plateau, but the rain ruined most of the trail before he could follow it properly." James felt the warmth of the room thin around him.

"Nothing points toward the village yet," Rogan added.

"No sightings close to the walls, and no sign that a larger force is moving on us."

"That bothers you."

"It does." James nodded slowly. Marla watched his face, measuring him with the same attention she used on stew, dough, and grief.

"The problem," James began, then stopped to gather the words properly.

"The problem is that the goblins know where the mountain is. They know it is the source of stoneheart. And they clearly want stoneheart badly." Rogan's jaw tightened. James continued.

"This feels like a scouting expedition. A probe. They wanted to see how well the quarry was defended, how quickly we responded, how much we cared. Maybe the hogs were meant to grab stone and run. Maybe they were testing our defenses. Maybe they expected fewer guards."

"They found Lyrion instead," Rogan said.

"They found your training," James said.

"Your wardens did an admirable job. You trained them well." Rogan accepted the praise with a slight bow of his head. James leaned both hands on the counter.

"But the problem stands. They know about stoneheart. They will try again. What happens if next time they send fifty? A hundred? An actual army? A mountain guard post and a quarry crew will not hold that." Marla's voice was quiet.

"What do you propose?" James stared into his cup. The mountain entrance could not remain a hole guarded by hope and tired wardens. It needed to become part of Hearthroot properly, tied to the village by more than a muddy route and emergency orders. A defended approach. A road that could carry stone, people, and warnings. Places for patrols to rest, signals to travel, and gates to slow anything that came south with teeth and bad intentions.

His thoughts kept widening until the simple idea of guarding a doorway became something larger and heavier. An outpost. A road. A defensive line. An entire chain of work that would take hands, stone, time, and plans they did not yet have.

"I do not know," he admitted.

"Maybe defenses at the mountain. A wall. An outpost. A covered road. Something that connects the quarry to the village properly. But that is a huge project. It could take too long if we rush blindly. I need to think." Marla said nothing for several breaths. Then she spoke the truth they were all circling.

"We all know it, even if we do not want to say it. What makes us think that since they know about stoneheart, they don't know about our village? The attacks will not stop until we find the source. Until we know who pulls their strings." Rogan nodded.

"We are not ready for that yet." James looked toward the quiet hall. He thought of Lyrion's rain-streaked face. Faelor laughing through blood and mud. Sarra holding the line. Tibbin covered in filth and grinning over three levels. Keldrum becoming a Warden of the Hearthroot. Bramli and the quarry dwarves charging with tools in hand. Ilyndra's smoke potion blooming in the rain. Varn's harness turning a spear thrust into a bruise. Finni and his wolf driving armored hogs through mud.

Marla turning monsters into food and fear into a feast. He took another sip of the rough drink.

"No," James agreed. Then he smiled faintly.

"But we are getting there."