Jean's POV
Once, long ago, Samuel and I made a promise.
If he ever surpassed me—if his strength, his rank, his will rose beyond my own—then we would marry. At that time, we would no longer walk separate paths. We would share the burden I carried alone. The secrets. The dangers. The weight of standing at the front of the tribe.
It was a simple promise.
And yet, as time passed, it became heavier than iron.
As long as Samuel could not surpass my rank, those words remained nothing more than unfulfilled vows—beautiful, hollow echoes suspended between us. That was why we both pushed ourselves so relentlessly. Why neither of us was willing to slow down, to settle, to compromise.
Love alone could not bridge the distance between us.
Only strength could.
But now, the mission placed upon my shoulders threatened to tear that fragile balance apart.
This mission was far too dangerous.
Chief Odin had refused it at first. He had dismissed the proposal outright, declaring it too risky, too uncertain, too close to reopening wounds the tribe had barely managed to seal. Yet I had volunteered without hesitation.
Because I recognized it.
The traces. The abnormal patterns. The familiar sense of wrongness.
This mission was not merely a reconnaissance or suppression task—it was a thread left behind by the so-called "accident" from years ago. A clue buried beneath blood, chaos, and official conclusions.
I could not ignore it.
Even if it meant gambling my life.
It took an entire month to convince the Chief. A month of arguments, reports, predictions, and instinctual warnings I could not fully articulate. Only when Odin realized that I would pursue the truth with or without permission did he finally relent.
And now, the decision was irreversible.
"Is your team ready for the mission?"
Chief Odin asked the question without turning toward me, his broad back facing the balcony railing, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.
"Yes, Chief," I answered without hesitation. "I am taking only twelve people."
He paused.
"Twelve?" he repeated slowly.
"Yes. A smaller unit will reduce our visibility and increase flexibility. The terrain and situation favor mobility over numbers."
There was silence.
Then Odin nodded once. "Good. I was going to advise the same. It seems you planned ahead."
Relief flickered briefly in my chest.
"As for the remaining personnel," he continued, "I will redistribute them to other squads. With the Hunter Apprentice Camp drawing capable hunters away, adjustments are necessary."
"Thank you, Chief," I said sincerely.
I reached into my cloak and withdrew two sealed parchments. My fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before extending them toward him.
"And… please," I said quietly, "give these letters to Samuel and to James—if something happens to me."
Odin finally turned.
His sharp golden eyes met mine, searching, weighing, understanding far more than he let on. He took the parchments but did not speak immediately.
"Jean," he said after a moment, "do you truly believe this mission may cost your life?"
"I do," I replied calmly. "But I also believe it is worth the risk."
He exhaled slowly.
"Very well. I will do as you ask."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"As for the boy—James," Odin said. "Is he truly trustworthy? You have known him less than a year."
The question was not accusation—it was responsibility.
The Hunter Apprentice Camp concealed secrets vital to the tribe's survival. Any weakness, any infiltration, could spell disaster. Even Odin had reason to doubt.
I met his gaze without wavering.
"Yes, Chief," I said firmly. "You may be assured. He is too innocent to be used as a spy."
Odin raised an eyebrow.
"My instincts tell me so," I continued. "Everything he has shown us over the past months has been genuine. He is like a newborn—his innocence remains intact despite his age. In this world, even children lose their innocence before the age of ten, crushed beneath cruelty and survival."
I clenched my fist slightly.
"But he is different."
I did not say the rest.
I did not tell him that my instincts urged me to invest in that boy. That some unseen blessing clung to him, subtle yet vast. Even I did not fully understand it—only that someday, if nurtured, it would bring immense returns to the tribe.
Odin studied me for a long moment.
"Hmmm…" he murmured. "Very well. I will relay your assessment to those old piles of bones in the Elders' Tower."
A grin slowly spread across his face.
"Hehehe… I can't wait to see their expressions when another hard bone is thrown onto their doorstep again."
He laughed loudly, then paused.
"Ah—no. I mean… a pile of fresh blood," he corrected himself with exaggerated seriousness. "Let's put those old monsters to work once more for the prosperity of the tribe."
I couldn't help but shake my head.
Sometimes, Chief Odin revealed a childish side that only his family—and a select few—were allowed to see. And strangely enough, I found comfort in it.
It meant trust.
It meant I had been accepted as family.
That realization eased my worries about James considerably. If there was one thing that concerned me more than his peers in the camp, it was the reaction of the ancient monsters who would oversee it.
With Odin involved, at least some balance would be maintained.
"Honey," Madam Elizabeth's gentle voice cut in, "stop that. You're showing your childish side in front of your future daughter-in-law. Have some shame."
Odin froze.
Then coughed awkwardly.
"And besides," Elizabeth continued sweetly, "that 'pile of bones' you mentioned includes your father—and my mother."
Her smile did not change.
Odin laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "Ah… yes. Right. Family matters."
Watching their interaction stirred something warm in my chest.
Hope.
Someday… perhaps Samuel and I could stand like that—side by side, teasing yet united, carrying the weight of the tribe together rather than apart.
"Chief. Madam," I said, rising and bowing respectfully. "I will excuse myself now. I need to prepare for my departure."
Elizabeth turned toward me, her gaze soft but resolute.
"Be careful, Jean," she said. "Before you leave… come to me once more."
She glanced meaningfully at her husband, who was still half-lost in his thoughts.
"I will," I replied.
As I stepped away from the balcony, the wind brushed past me, carrying the distant echoes of the camp—the cries of children beginning their trial, the future of the tribe sealed behind wooden gates.
And somewhere among them was a fragile flower.
May it survive the storm.
And may I return in time to see what it blooms into.