Chapter 6 #2
Last night. Holding Michelle against his chest, her body warm and trusting in his arms. For those few hours, the world had been quiet. Peaceful. The Legion presence in his blood had been content, satisfied in ways he didn’t fully understand.
He’d never experienced anything like it. The closest comparison was meditation, but even that fell short. This had been... rightness. Like every restless part of his nature had finally found what it was searching for.
When she wakes, will she be terrified of me?
Her nightmare had been draanthing brutal… he’d caught fragments of it in her fevered mumbling. Violence. Blood. The sound of bone breaking. She’d watched him tear apart ferals with his bare hands, had seen the predator that lived beneath his careful control.
What female wouldn’t be terrified after witnessing that?
The smart thing would be to leave. Find Kraath and Raaze, get Michelle back to the garrison where human doctors could care for her. Distance himself before she could reject what was building between them.
But the thought of walking away made his chest tighten until he could barely breathe. She was his. He’d known it the moment she’d smiled at him over those flowers, and everything since had only reinforced that certainty.
If she wanted him gone, he’d go. Somehow. For her sake, he’d find the strength to walk away. But he’d wait until she was conscious and coherent before making that choice.
She deserved that much.
The shelter’s improvised walls groaned against the wind, but the sound was nothing compared to the chattering of Raaze’s teeth.
He pulled his jacket tighter, still shivering from the cold that had seeped into his bones during the night.
The storm had passed, but he was draanthing cold to the bone. Through to his soul.
Oh good, we’re freezing our ass off in paradise, his legion drawled in his head. Remind me why we volunteered for this rescue mission again?
Kraath emerged from the other side of their makeshift shelter, broad shoulders blocking the early sunlight. His eyes swept the transformed landscape, taking in the damage. Water still rushed through channels that hadn’t existed yesterday, carving new scars across the terrain.
“Most of the tracks will be gone,” Kraath said. “We’ll need to circle around the flooding.”
Raaze nodded, though internally he was cataloging just how draanthed they really were.
The valley floor looked like someone had taken a giant blender to it…
rocks, debris, and fresh channels cutting through what had been relatively stable ground.
Any sign of Michelle and Zeke’s passage would be buried under tons of sediment or washed away entirely.
Fantastic. We’re playing detective with a crime scene that got pressure-washed by nature.
They picked their way across the soggy terrain, boots squelching in mud. Raaze automatically scanned for anything useful… a disturbed rock, a partial print, even fabric caught on vegetation. The systematic search was second nature, muscle memory from his days before everything went to trall.
“There,” he said, pointing to a section where the flooding had been less severe. “Higher ground might have preserved something.”
Kraath grunted agreement, but something flickered in the commander’s expression that didn’t quite match his measured tone.
Interesting. Our fearless leader’s got his poker face on extra tight today.
They climbed toward the ridge line together, Raaze’s breath coming in visible puffs.
His muscles were still adjusting to the temperature shift, but the movement helped chase away some of the bone-deep cold.
The landscape spread below them like a battlefield…
muddy, scarred, and transformed beyond recognition.
“Fan out,” Kraath said. “But stay within sight. Look for anything that survived the wash.”
He moved in a zigzag pattern, eyes tracking across every surface while keeping Kraath in the corner of his eye.
Like most warball players, he had decent spatial awareness, but tracking was different.
It required reading the story written in displaced stones, bent grass, and the faint compression patterns that most people couldn’t even see.
At least this skill set transferred better than your famous curveball.
The first hour yielded nothing but frustration. Every promising sign turned out to be storm damage or debris. He wondered if they were chasing ghosts… maybe Michelle and Zeke had been swept away entirely, their bodies already miles downstream.
Well, well. What do we have here?
He crouched beside a patch of relatively sheltered ground where a rock outcropping had deflected the worst of the water flow.
There, pressed into the softer earth, were the unmistakable signs of passage.
Not clear prints, the storm had been too thorough for that, but the subtle depressions and disturbed vegetation told a story to anyone who knew how to read it.
“Kraath,” he called. “Got something.”
The commander’s footsteps crunched across the rocky terrain as he approached. Raaze pointed to the signs, his finger tracing the path without actually touching the evidence.
“Multiple individuals passed through here,” he said. “Before the storm, based on how the water patterns overlay the disturbance.”
“Ferals,” Kraath said immediately. “Has to be. The mountains are full of them.”
That was fast. Almost like he doesn’t want us looking too closely.
Raaze studied the tracks more carefully, his trained eye picking apart the details. Stride length, foot placement, the way weight had been distributed. The patterns were subtle but distinct, like fingerprints written in mud and stone.
“Maybe,” he said slowly. “But something’s off about these.”
They continued following the trail, Kraath’s heavier footsteps behind him as he led the way. The signs were intermittent, scattered across terrain scoured by the flood. But he knew how to fill in the gaps, reading the landscape like a book.
Professional athlete to mountain tracker. What a career trajectory. Dad would be so proud.
The trail led them along a series of ridges that had been partially protected from the storm’s fury.
Here and there, he saw clearer evidence…
a heel print in softer soil, claw marks on a tree where someone had steadied themselves, the faint scuff marks where multiple individuals had passed through a narrow gap between boulders.
But the more he studied the signs, the more convinced he became that something was wrong with Kraath’s assessment.
“These aren’t normal feral tracks,” he said, crouching.
Kraath’s gaze fixed on him. “What do you mean?”
He ran his finger along the edge of one print without touching it. “The stride length is wrong. Too short for adult male ferals, but the width suggests a different bone structure entirely.”
And here’s where it gets interesting. Watch the commander’s face.
“Could be youngsters,” Kraath said, but his voice carried that same too-quick quality Raaze had noticed earlier. “Ferals who were sent here as children. They’d have different proportions.”
He shook his head, standing to face the larger man. “I’ve tracked enough to know the difference. Children who grew up feral would still have a male skeletal structure… broader shoulders, different hip angles. These tracks...” He gestured at the evidence. “These suggest female bone structure.”
The words hung in the cold air between them. Kraath’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his stare.
Hit a nerve, did we?
“That’s impossible,” Kraath said flatly. “There are no female ferals.”
“I know what I’m seeing,” he replied, his voice equally flat. He’d learned not to back down from confrontation during his playing days, and going feral hadn’t changed that part of his personality. “These aren’t male tracks.”
“You’re misreading the signs,” Kraath said, his tone taking on the authority of command. “The storm damage, the partial impressions… you’re seeing patterns that aren’t there.”
Oh, he’s definitely hiding something. Question is, what?
He studied the commander’s face, looking for tells. Kraath was good at maintaining his composure, but everyone had weaknesses. The slight tension around his mouth, the way his jaw tightened—subtle signs that most people would miss.
“Maybe,” he said finally, though he didn’t believe it for a second. “But I’m calling it like I see it. These bone structures don’t match male ferals.”
Kraath’s silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable. When he spoke, his voice carried an edge. “Let’s focus on finding actual signs of our missing people instead of getting distracted by old feral tracks.”
‘Old’ tracks? When did we establish they were old?
They carried on walking, but now Raaze conducted a different kind of tracking exercise. He was reading Kraath now just as much as he was reading the tracks.
The trail led them higher into the mountains, following game trails and natural corridors that offered the easiest passage through the rough terrain. Whoever had made these tracks knew the country well… chosen their route with the efficiency of experience.
“Multiple individuals,” Raaze said, studying where the trail widened. “At least four, maybe five.”
“Pack behavior,” Kraath agreed. “Ferals often travel in groups.”
But not female ferals, right? Because those don’t exist. Except we’re literally following their tracks.
The morning sun climbed higher, burning off the thin layer of frost that had formed overnight.
His breath no longer misted in the air, and the physical activity was warming his muscles back to something approaching normal function.
But the cold in his gut had nothing to do with the weather.
And something was very wrong with Kraath’s story.
Welcome to the wonderful world of garrison politics, his legion snarked. Where the truth is whatever the brass says it is.
They crested a ridge and paused to survey the route ahead. The valley beyond showed less flood damage, protected by the natural barrier of the ridge line. The rocky canyon ahead twisted through the mountains like a scar, offering multiple routes deeper into the wilderness.
Kraath pulled out a battered map, spreading it against a flat boulder. “We’re here,” he said, tracing a contour line. “The terrain gets rougher ahead.”
Raaze glanced at the map, then back at the tracks they’d been following. “These ferals, or whatever they are, they know exactly where they’re going.”
The trail led down into the valley, and here the story became clearer. Multiple individuals, moving with purpose rather than the random wandering typical of feral packs. The stride patterns suggested urgency but not panic… controlled movement by individuals who knew exactly where they were going.
“The patterns are too organized,” he shook his head. “Look at the spacing, the way they’re maintaining formation even through difficult terrain. This isn’t blood rage behavior.”
A muscle worked in Kraath’s jaw. “Ferals can be cunning when they need to be. Pack hunting requires coordination.”
“This isn’t hunting,” he replied, facing the commander. “This is travel.”
The silence between them stretched. Kraath’s stare studied him with an intensity that made him feel like he was being dissected. When the commander finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.
“You’re reading too much into a partial sign. Storm damage creates false patterns.”
And you’re working awfully hard to discredit what we’re seeing.
He shrugged and followed the trail into the valley, his tracking instincts completely engaged now. There were signs of temporary camps, evidence of tool use, patterns that suggested organized behavior rather than the chaotic violence typically associated with blood rage.
So we’ve got mystery ferals who don’t exist, moving like they’re on a mission through country they know better than we do. This just keeps getting better.
The tracks led toward a narrow canyon that cut through the mountain range.
As they approached the entrance, more signs became visible…
disturbed vegetation, the faint marks where the group had passed through the bottleneck.
The rock walls would provide excellent cover, but also create a perfect trap if things went wrong.
“Trail heads into the canyon,” he said, studying the entrance.
Kraath nodded, but something in his expression suggested he wasn’t surprised by this development. “Terrain funneling. Limited routes through this section of the mountains.”
They stood at the mouth of the canyon. The walls rose steeply on both sides, creating a natural corridor that would be perfect for an ambush but also offered the fastest route.
“We follow the trail,” Kraath decided. “But stay alert. If there are ferals in this area, we’re walking into their territory.”
Their territory. Interesting way to put it. Almost like you know exactly whose territory this is.
The canyon walls rose around them, casting long shadows despite the morning sun. Kraath moved with the careful alertness of someone who expected trouble, his gaze constantly scanning ahead. But there was something else in his posture—a familiarity with this place that said he’d been here before.
How many times has our fearless leader taken this particular scenic route?
The evidence was clear, even if the commander wanted to ignore it. Female ferals existed, they were organized, and they knew this country like they owned it.
Time to see just how deep this particular rabbit hole went.