Orek felt a sharp pang of shame. He had never been an arrogant man, but since taking command of the Frostwall Legion, his ego had swelled steadily. After the Battle of Wolfhold half a year ago, the kingdom's adoration of him had reached a fever pitch. Swallowed by that cult of personality, he'd lost himself—forgetting not only the respect ordinary people deserved, but even his fear of the divine precepts.

The virtue of humility had been buried under the dark dust of pride.

When did I grow so blind to the world around me?

The seer let out a soft sigh. Though he recognized his fault, he refused to back down in the face of the caretaker's veiled jabs—he still clung to the authority of the Frostwall Commander.

"The Frostwall was just breached by werewolves, yet you stand here singing The Red Moon and the Werewolves. What is your meaning?" Orek said coolly.

"Commander, please don't misunderstand. Old Mu merely sang from the heart," the caretaker replied.

"Is that so?" Orek shook his head slowly. "But you don't know the song well—you forgot several verses. It seems to me this wasn't a spontaneous act, but a deliberate one."

"Hehehehe." The caretaker laughed. Orek found the sound skin-crawling, like the scrape of bones on stone.

"Old Mu is a cemetery caretaker. Every day I hear the songs of the dead—ballads from their hometowns, voices crying to return to their roots. I know those death songs by heart. But The Red Moon and the Werewolves isn't a song of the dead. It was sung by a bard from the Capital who came to pay his respects at the Divine Folk Cemetery last year. I thought it was beautiful, so I tried to memorize it, but since I only heard it once, I couldn't help forgetting some lines."

"Tonight is the red moon night. When I saw the chaos at the Frostwall, I thought of the horrors described in the song, and my heart ached. I sang to ease that sorrow. I had no other intentions. I beg you to see that, Commander." The caretaker pressed a hand to his chest and bowed deeply.

Orek's brow furrowed, unsure what to say. Though the caretaker was technically part of the Frostwall Legion, his duty was to guard the Divine Folk Cemetery in the Snowwood Forest. Orek had never paid much attention to the caretakers, leaving him feeling deeply unfamiliar with this nominal subordinate.

In truth, Orek had always looked down on the caretakers. Though they were Divine Folk, they never fought on the battlefield, spending their days only with the dead. He saw them as "outsiders" among their kind.

They can understand the language of the dead—but what good does that do? It can't bring the dead back, nor kill werewolves.

Their only use seems to be "talking" to corpses.

Orek was about to order the annoying caretaker to leave when a flash of insight suddenly darted through his mind.

Did I forget something important?

He tried to grasp what it was, but the insight slipped like a ghost drifting through the forest—close enough to see, impossible to catch.

Wait! The mole!

Orek finally remembered. There was still a wolf hiding within the Frostwall Legion. It was the one who'd stabbed Peter, Shu, and Kael to death, the root of all the chaos that had fallen upon the wall.

How could I forget it's still out there!

In an instant, the seer snapped awake.

It was obvious now: the werewolves' early assassinations and their red moon night assault were part of a coordinated, well-planned military campaign.

The Frostwall was a god-forged barrier, its ancient runes making it unbreakable—but it had one fatal weakness: the Shield Fort. Without a wolf mole leaking that secret, even with the red moon boosting their strength, the werewolves could never have breached the wall.

Now that their plan had succeeded, that hidden wolf was laughing at him without mercy!

The thought sent a chill down Orek's spine. He turned to look at the Divine Folk standing by the cemetery—witches, knights, guards, hunters… it seemed every face hid an unspoken secret.

Finally, his gaze settled on Scholar Ray, the closest to him, hoping to find some clarity in the man's wise eyes.

The mole must meet at least three conditions: first, it must have the strength to kill a Holy Light Mage; second, it must have access to the Frostwall's secrets, knowing the Shield Fort was the weakness; third, it must be able to send intelligence beyond the wall.

Orek thought long and hard, but he couldn't think of anyone in the legion who met all three.

"Commander." The caretaker spoke again. "You brought your men to the Snowwood Forest, so Old Mu came to report. But it seems I've distracted you." The caretaker hunched further, his twig-like hands folded in his sleeves. "I'll return to the cemetery then."

Wait—

Before Orek could speak, the caretaker had glided ten paces away. The red moon's pale light cast shadows across his gnarled face, and Orek could still see that eerie smile tugging at his lips.

"I'll bring that deserter back for you," the caretaker said, then vanished among the tombstones.

What a strange man.

Orek stared blankly at the spot where he'd disappeared, more confused than ever. You'll bring Basru back? He ignored my orders—why would he listen to you?

I'll never understand caretakers. They're always wrapped in a fog of mystery.

"Aah!"

A startled cry suddenly rang out by the cemetery.

What now?

The seer was already drained. He sighed and turned toward the sound, only to see Fito limping out of the Snowwood Forest, blood seeping from cuts on his cheek, arm, and trousers.

Fito!

Orek's heart surged with joy and relief. He was about to rush over when Shana darted out of the crowd first, reaching Fito's side and wrapping an arm around his own. Her black hair fell like a curtain as she leaned toward him.

"Fito! You're finally here! I've been waiting so long!" The witch's amethyst eyes brimmed with anxiety, as if she might drown in it.

"Ow! Easy!"

"Ah… what's wrong?" Shana let go, and Orek saw Fito's right arm hanging limp at his side, like a broken reed.

"What happened to your hand?" Shana cried.

"I promised you I'd come. I kept my word."

"I'm asking about your hand!"

"It's broken. Par for the course for a warrior." Fito gave a bitter smile.

The witch stood frozen, her eyes glistening with tears, her lips trembling, but she said nothing more.

The others crowded around. Orek looked Fito up and down, his Adam's apple bobbing hard. "Did you encounter werewolves?"

"My wounds aren't from werewolves. In fact, a werewolf saved me." The guard smiled. "But I fulfilled my mission—I activated the flint runes mechanism."

"Good." Orek's tense shoulders relaxed instantly. This was the only good news he'd heard all night. But confusion flickered in his eyes. "You said a werewolf saved you?"

"It's true. When I activated the runes, I was attacked by a black-armored warrior. During the fight, a collapsing pillar pinned me down, and I couldn't escape. Just as I thought I was done for, a werewolf burst into the Oval Chamber, dug through the rubble, lifted the pillar, and pulled me out." Fito's face held a look of utter disbelief as he spoke.

"What… that's impossible…" Orek was completely bewildered. What in the gods' name are the werewolves playing at?