At dawn, the sky had yet to fully brighten. A moist mist clung to the air outside the tents.

  Draven lifted the hide flap and stepped out of the camp, letting the morning breeze wash over his bare chest.

  The wind rose from the river, carrying the earthy scent of soil and watergrass—cool and untamed.

  He grinned, revealing sharp canines, and muttered under his breath, "Today's a damn good day."

  Their group had set up a temporary camp beside a wide river. The surface was calm, stretching more than ten meters across, running straight to the horizon like a silver ribbon winding through this fertile and wild land.

  By Draven's estimation, if they kept heading upriver for another day or two, they'd reach their destination—the parcel of land that had been granted to him.

  At the thought, he turned and ducked back inside the tent.

  The little fox-girl was still asleep, half-naked beneath the furs, her breathing soft and steady, her face still holding the warmth and weariness of last night's intimacy.

  Draven reached out and gently brushed her cheek. His fingers were cold from the morning air, and as they touched her smooth skin, she startled awake.

  Viola blinked drowsily, and when she saw his familiar, rugged face, her cheeks immediately flushed.

  She didn't speak, only buried her face into the furs, shy in the aftermath of their closeness.

  Draven chuckled low in his throat, walked to the corner, and pulled on his leather-hide tunic.

  "Up you go, lazy little fox," he said while dressing. "Daylight's here. We've still got some distance to cover."

  The past few days had brought them closer together.

  Though there hadn't been any formal ceremony, Draven had already begun referring to her as his mate.

  Among beastkin, traditions weren't overly strict. Once two people acknowledged each other, that was that. Their bond had grown more natural—more like a real couple.

  Outside, the camp was already stirring. Gear clanked, and baggage rustled as people packed up.

  A few younger slaves still yawned and dragged their feet until a captain kicked one of them in the back, forcing them upright with a groan.

  Draven did a quick circuit of the camp and nodded in approval, then gave the order to move out.

  They followed the river's edge. On both sides stretched endless rolling hills, green waves rippling under the morning sun.

  Here and there, narrow creeks trickled from the hills into the main river. These gentle streams didn't hinder their travel—quiet, unassuming, and easy to cross.

  As he walked, Draven kept an eye on the terrain. He understood that while this hilly region lacked treacherous mountains, its openness meant trade routes wouldn't be completely cut off. The soil was rich, ideal for farming and development.

  Even before reaching his territory, he was already calculating its future.

  According to the intel they'd gathered, the land he was about to inherit had been abandoned for over a decade.

  It had once belonged to a blood elf—a male chieftain who had left his tribe.

  In their matriarchal society, a male holding power was rare. For one to become a leader was almost unheard of.

  Supposedly, he had left his clan for unknown reasons and pledged allegiance to the succubus domain.

  At first, the succubi had shown interest. A capable male was a novelty.

  They even offered him terms to stay and serve under Selene.

  But the blood elf clearly had other plans. He politely declined, choosing instead to claim a territory and build a village of his own.

  Unfortunately, his luck lasted less than a year.

  The succubi had expected him to fail and come crawling back—but he didn't even last long enough for that.

  When a patrol finally returned to inspect the land, they found only ruins. The village had been destroyed, residents slaughtered or missing, and the blood elf himself had vanished.

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  No one knew if he was killed in a beast tide or escaped to some distant land.

  In the end, the incident was filed away as just another disappearance.

  More than ten years had passed, and he had never resurfaced. In the official records of the Demon Consort, he was considered dead.

  Originally, Draven hadn't been in line to inherit the land.

  The reason he was chosen had more to do with the Consort's personal interest.

  Maybe she'd been impressed by his performance, or maybe she just wanted to see how far this disobedient brute could go.

  Whatever the reason, this forgotten stretch of land ended up in Draven's hands.

  Truth be told, he got lucky.

  If that blood elf hadn't disappeared, this territory would've gone to someone else.

  And if the Consort hadn't taken a liking to him, he'd probably still be gnawing on dried meat at the border.

  Regardless of how it came to be—this land was his now. And he would take responsibility for it.

  "The first year's relatively easy," Draven thought as he walked.

  "As long as I feed the tribe and the slaves, and keep them from starving, I'll be fine."

  But after that, things would get more complicated.

  According to the laws of the Demon Consort, every territory must pay tribute—essentially, a tax—each year.

  The requirement wasn't outrageous: twenty low-grade magic cores or one mid-grade core.

  It didn't sound like much. But in truth, it was a hard rule.

  A single low-grade core was worth the life of an average awakened warrior.

  Even Draven, a chieftain-level werewolf, was only valued at one mid-grade core.

  "You have to fight for those things," Draven sneered to himself. "And only if you survive to bring them back."

  But he had confidence—in his strength, his instincts, and his brothers.

  The river babbled beside them.

  Sunlight filtered through the clouds, falling warm upon their backs.

  Everything was peaceful.

  The life ahead of them felt like the beginning of a grand adventure.

  Two days passed in the blink of an eye.

  The next afternoon, the slanting sun cast golden light over the edge of a dense forest beside the great river.

  The damp breeze carried the scent of grass and earth. At the front of the group stood the troll chieftain, Garruk, raising a thick finger to point at a lone, towering stone ahead.

  That stone stood like a natural boundary marker on the riverbank, solitary and solemn, its surface covered in pale gray moss and worn by the years.

  It was about three men tall, its edges jagged and rough, as if torn from a mountain by brute force and tumbled here long ago.

  Behind the stone, a clear stream flowed from the forest, its gentle murmur sounding like a welcome.

  "See that rock?" Garruk's gravelly voice rumbled. "From that point outward, half a day's walk in all directions—that's your land."

  He pointed toward a low thicket next to the stone. "Head that way, not far, and you'll find the ruins of the old village. Wasn't a bad spot. A few stone houses are still standing. The walls are mostly intact—you'll save yourself some trouble."

  His voice was unhurried, but filled with practical advice—and a subtle trace of satisfaction. His task was complete.

  Draven listened quietly, then pulled out a scroll from his belt pouch—the deed, written in ancient demon script.

  He unrolled it and studied the map: river, stone, forest, stream—everything matched. This was it.

  "We're here," he murmured, then looked up, a rare smile spreading across his face. He turned and shouted,

  "Everyone stop! We've arrived—this land, from today on, is our home!"

  His voice pierced the silence like a warhorn. Everyone—slaves included—paused in stunned disbelief, as if their minds hadn't caught up after the long journey.

  But a heartbeat later, cheers erupted.

  The children were the first to scream and run, laughing and tumbling on the sandbanks. Their cries echoed through the forest, as if the mountains across the river could hear their joy.

  Draven stood before the great stone, gazing at his people—exhausted, yes, but now rekindled with hope. A strange, heavy emotion welled up inside him.

  This was not conquest. This was not plunder. This was belonging.

  Garruk stood beside him, nodding slightly before coughing once. "Time to unload. Those pack beasts are borrowed—I need to take them back."

  Draven blinked, then smiled and nodded. "Don't worry, we won't keep you long."

  He waved for the slaves to begin unloading supplies—dried rations, building materials, tools, hides for tents.

  Bag by bag, bundle by bundle, they moved slowly but no longer like numb drones. There was a spark of care, even excitement, in their actions.

  They knew it too: from today on, this land would be their home—not as property, but as part of a people.

  Draven could tell Garruk was eager to leave. Despite the camaraderie built on the road, the troll chieftain still had his duties.

  "You won't stay a few more days? Wait until we've set up the first camp?"

  Garruk shook his head. His bronze bell–like eyes held a flicker of regret. "Can't. We have to reach the mines in the northwest. Got demon ore to haul back to the city. Escorting you here was just on the way."

  Draven didn't press. He walked over and bumped fists with Garruk.

  Before parting, Garruk pulled him aside and spoke in a low voice about two things.

  First, a message from Lydia, the steward of Selene City: "Don't rush to propose to a succubus a year from now."

  Garruk explained that Lydia didn't look down on him—on the contrary, she saw promise. If Draven could advance to mid-tier chieftain rank within two years, Lydia would arrange a much better match.

  Her exact words were: "By then, you'll have more than one woman worth considering."

  Draven just smiled at that. He already had Viola, and honestly, no succubus could compare. But he nodded all the same. He would remember this promise.

  Second, Garruk's personal warning:

  "Be careful of your northern neighbor. Across the river, about a day's travel, lies serpentfolk territory. They're not exactly friendly."

  Draven gave his sincere thanks.

  As the troll warriors mounted their massive pack beasts and began fording the river, water lapped against the animals' bellies, spraying into waves.

  Draven stood on the riverbank, watching their figures fade into the distant trees until they were completely gone.

  He let out a long breath, lowered his gaze, and turned to his people. The journey was over. Now, the true challenge began.

  He slowly lifted his head and let out a wild, echoing howl toward the sky—the Blackwolf Clan's call, and his proclamation to the land.

  In the next moment, Rurik, Bran, and the wolf pups howled in response.

  Their voices, raw and untamed, rang across the riverbank. Birds scattered from the trees, and it felt like sparks ignited in the very air.