Chapter 21
Theron rubbed his coin-shaped medallion between his thumb and forefinger, its edges digging into the callus at the base of his hand, the motion calming something deep and angry inside him. The others waited at the treeline as they waited for Caulin to finish conferring with Jaroad. Brenn, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot and trying not to let his nerves show, Daelan and Naemer, hunched in muted conversation, all eyed the black rind of the woods as if expecting it to lunge out at them. Rook leaned against a dead log, the left sleeve of his coat now permanently stained with blood, and watched Theron’s hands with a small, crooked smile.
“Going to rub the pattern clean off if you keep at it,” Rook said, eyeing the spiral pattern of the medallion. “That a new superstition?”
Theron slid the medallion back under his shirt. “Just an old habit. Helps me think.”
Rook snorted, but the sound died quickly on his tongue. He looked towards the darkness. The wind here was more a memory than a presence, and even the grass beneath their boots seemed to shrink from the threshold of the forest.
Caulin strode toward them with narrowed eyes and a thin sheen of sweat along his jaw. He looked like a walking arsenal. A bow hung over one shoulder with a full quiver beside it. A bandolier crowded with knives crossed his chest, and a sword swung at his hip. He skipped any greeting. Instead, he pointed to each man in turn.
“Order is me, then Theron, then Brenn. Daelan and Naemer anchor the rear. We go in fast, but quiet. If you get separated, keep north by east until the ground levels. We regroup on the ridgeline. Codryk is out there, and we need to find him.”
Theron nodded, as did the others. Caulin’s voice, though barely above a whisper, always found its mark. He moved with the confidence of someone who had survived more than one lost cause, and Theron felt a twist of envy at the way the rest of the team looked to him.
Caulin swept his gaze across the circle of men huddled in the dim lantern light. He let it rest a fraction longer on Brenn’s face, searching for any flicker of doubt in his eyes.
“This one’s going to be rough,” he said, his voice low and even. “We’re going straight north up the riverbank, as it’s the fastest way to Redan Pass. Jaroad and I believe that if they took Codryk prisoner, they’ll be taking him there as fast as possible. As you all know, Roberic wanted to avoid this route, as this is the most obvious and quickest way to the fortress, so I expect they’ll have some surprises for us. Some of us might not come back from it. You all sure you want in? Jaroad gave me leave to pull any of you and slot in fresh blood if you feel you’ll be a liability.”
Caulin waited, patient as a hunter. He knew these men now, better than most sergeants ever knew their squads. The march had forged them, turning strangers into something closer to brothers. He saw the resolve in their eyes, the quiet fire that had grown from shared nights around dying fires and days marching in the mud.
Brenn braced himself. “Codryk’s not coming out of that forest alone.”
Caulin grunted his approval. “We move fast and light. We have to reach them before they leave the forest or we’ll have no chance of getting him back.” He drew his sword from his belt and gestured toward the trees. “On me.”
Jaroad had approached as they conferred and now stood next to Rook. He looked at each of them in turn, then nodded. “Good luck. Come on, Rook.” They walked back. Rook looked over his shoulder and saluted them with a quick flick of his fingers, that familiar grin flashing even in the dim moonlight. It was half cocky, half worried.
They slipped into the woods like oil into water. At once, the outside world vanished, even the faint glow of the camp’s torches was eaten whole by the trees. Underfoot, the earth was a tangle of old roots and shadowed ruts, every step a negotiation with bone-breaking falls. Moss and leaf rot muffled their passage, but even so, every sound was a small betrayal. Brenn’s breath, shallow and quick, was a metronome of anxiety behind Theron. Naemer’s boots scraped against a fallen branch, the noise making each man flinch.
Theron tried to focus on Caulin’s back, moving as he moved, shoulders tight, steps placed with deliberate care, hands always at the ready. Caulin’s movements were pure skill, every motion precise and necessary. Theron found himself reaching for the medallion again, feeling the old sigil into its face, the grooves now half-worn from years of fretful touch. He had not always been this way and had not always needed to recite old comforts in the dark. The forest brought out the old, rotten parts of him, and he clung to the medallion like a drowning man clings to air.
They pressed deeper. Mist collected between the trunks in strange, predatory shapes. Every so often, a patch of ground would give way underfoot, and the group would have to freeze, listening for the echo of pursuit. None came, but even Theron felt the watching, the sense of eyes behind every shadow.
After perhaps an hour of searching for Codryk, or his body, Caulin signaled a halt with a raised fist. The squad stopped as one. Theron felt his pulse thump in his throat, and only when he steadied himself against a tree did he realize how tight his chest had gotten.
Caulin crouched, knife in hand, and motioned for the rest to do the same. He pointed to a scattering of fresh tracks near the riverbank. A spatter of broken moss, a smear of something darker. Crimson blood. “Codryk,” he whispered. “Human blood. Close.”
A shudder ran down the line, but nobody spoke as they moved on, this time slower, every sense straining. Theron felt the world narrow to a point, noticing the slight give of the ground, the way his coat scraped against the hilt of his sword, and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rising whenever the group stopped to listen. Once they heard a snap, and Caulin signalled to stop and hold, then melted away from the group, vanishing into the brush without a single sound. He returned five minutes later, face hard, and pointed two fingers up, then to the left. “There,” he mouthed.
They skirted the indicated direction, angling their way up a gentle slope. Here the trees were older, the roots breaking through the surface like the veins of dead titans. The mist pooled deeper, and the ground smelled of fungus. Brenn lagged, and once, when he nearly tripped, his hand flew out and landed on Theron’s shoulder. Bracing them both, Theron helped him regain his balance, and Brenn nodded his appreciation.
They moved as a single, trembling unit, following Caulin’s lead as he wove through the worst of the terrain. More than once, Caulin would pause, sense something unseen, and then redirect them, always choosing the path that kept them alive.
At the next break, they huddled against the base of a massive tree, its trunk wider than a man was tall. Caulin pulled Theron close, their faces nearly touching.
“He’s close,” Caulin breathed. “Codryk. I’m seeing more and more blood.”
Theron nodded. “You want me to take point?”
Caulin shook his head. “You’re second. If I drop, don’t stop.”
Theron looked into Caulin’s eyes, searching for some sign of strategy, but found only the flinty resolve of a man who had already accepted the worst outcome. He pulled back and checked his blade, then nodded.
Behind him, Brenn prayed quietly, the words a thin thread of sound. Daelan and Naemer were silent, but their frantic breathing told its own story.
They had not gone another fifty paces when the world fell apart.
It began with a single, sharp whine. Then Brenn vanished. His body disappeared from the line with a yelp that dissolved soon into a wet, tearing gasp. Theron spun on instinct, hand already at his sword, but the only thing left was a jagged pit where the earth had opened up and swallowed Brenn whole. He had fallen in, and before he could even begin to scream, his life ended with a sickening, percussive snap, as his body was impaled on the many sharpened stakes at the bottom. How Theron and Caulin had stepped over the trap was no miracle. Brenn had stepped slightly out of line, and his feet had landed slightly to the right, where the trap was. Bad luck, nothing more.
Before Theron could even process it, the woods erupted. Blue and silver shapes blurred through the undergrowth, their bodies segmented by strips of mirrored metal that caught and reflected every ounce of the feeble moonlight. The first Sylphar was almost on top of him, knife raised. Theron sidestepped, let its momentum carry it forward, then slashed out. The blade bit into the Sylphar’s forearm, splitting flesh.
Caulin met his own attacker with surgical indifference. He dodged a lunge, caught the Sylphar’s wrist in one hand, and rammed a knife into the soft space just beneath the chin. The Sylphar bucked, jerked, then went limp, its body sliding from the blade in a slow, almost respectful bow.
Daelan and Naemer fought side by side, but neither had Caulin’s composure. Naemer’s bow shook in his hand, and when the Sylphar closed, he tried to block instead of attack. The Sylphar battered the bow aside, then clawed at Naemer’s face with nails sharpened to razors. Theron glimpsed a red fan of blood erupt, and then Daelan was there, bashing the Sylphar’s head with the hilt of his dagger, over and over, until the skull gave way and both bodies fell to the earth.
Two more Sylphar appeared out of nowhere, their movements so fast they seemed to phase in and out of reality. The first one slashed for Caulin, who ducked underneath and then drove a boot into its knee. There was a pop, a shriek, and then Caulin spun and slit its throat so quickly the blood hung in the air for a heartbeat before gravity brought it to the ground.
The second Sylphar bypassed Caulin entirely, aiming instead for Theron. He braced for the rush, but this one was different, as it held a small hand crossbow, and fired point-blank. Theron ducked, the bolt singing just past his ear. He came up and buried his sword in the Sylphar’s ribcage, then twisted hard, feeling the cartilage break beneath his hands. The Sylphar clung to life for a quick breath, then collapsed, twitching.
The forest was suddenly silent again, the only sound Brenn’s fading death rattle from below. Theron stared down at the pit, with its bottom lined with protruding, sharpened stakes and the glimmer of exposed bone.
Caulin cursed, “Leave him.”
Daelan looked ready to argue, but Caulin didn’t wait for agreement. He turned and pushed deeper into the trees. The others followed with eyes wide and wild, not sure which direction held more danger. Forward meant stepping into the unknown. Going back meant returning to the pit that had devoured their friend and the bodies of Sylphar.
They moved faster now, discipline forgotten, every man looking over his shoulder at the smallest hint of sound. The forest closed in tighter, branches clawing at their faces, mist condensing so thickly that it stuck to skin and armor. Theron’s mind replayed the image of Brenn, the moment he vanished, the futility of the noise he’d made. There was no dignity in that kind of dying.
Daelan flinched at every sound. Naemer gripped his bow in a white-knuckle death grip. Theron tried to hold the formation, to be second in line, but the group had lost all cohesion. They staggered and stumbled, nearly tripping over each other as they navigated the uneven ground.
Caulin stopped suddenly, one hand raised. He dropped to a knee and traced a faint mark in the dirt. “More tracks. Heavier. Could be six or more. Hard to say.” He looked up, face shadowed. “They know we’re here.”
Theron grunted, “How far to Codryk?”
Caulin gestured. “If they’re moving him, they’ll stick to the riverbank. Fastest way through the forest.”
Naemer swallowed hard. “They’re leading us into a trap.”
“Yes,” Caulin gave a short nod. “They are. But we have our orders.”
They changed direction, angling toward the small river. The air was different here, colder, but with an undercurrent of rot. A harsh whisper from Daelan came from behind. “Something’s following us.”
Caulin did not reply. Instead, he motioned them down, and the four men hunkered down kneeling behind a ridge of moss and stone. For a moment, nothing happened. Then came the sounds. First a whisper, then a hiss, then a faint conversation in the Sylphar language. The woods began to move, or seemed to, the shadows splitting into seven or more human-like shapes.
Naemer began panicking. “They’re everywhere”
“Quiet,” Caulin hissed.
Another voice, this one right on top of them, started yelling in the strange Sylphar language.
A few arrows erupted from the trees. One struck Naemer in the eye, killing him before he hit the ground. The rest scattered, embedding in roots, rocks, and flesh. Theron dove behind a tree, the bark splintering as a shaft glanced off near his shoulder. Daelan screamed, clutching at an arrow in his thigh, but managed to drag himself behind a log.
Theron saw Naemer’s body twitch, then go still, the arrow jutting from his face like a grotesque ornament. For a moment, the world slowed. He stared at Naemer, at the look of pure disbelief frozen on the dead man’s mouth, and something inside Theron, some last, trembling cord, snapped.
He grabbed Naemer’s fallen bow, checked the string, and snatched up the man’s quiver. He rose into a crouch, sighted along the line of his arm, and fired into the darkness.
The first arrow struck a Sylphar in the throat, dropping it instantly. The second and third were less accurate, but one found a mark, a shriek confirming it. Theron fired again, and this time a Sylphar appeared, face painted, knife raised, moving in a sidelong, animal way. The arrow hit just below its jaw. The Sylphar clutched at the wound, then toppled forward, gurgling.
Caulin and Daelan pressed forward, using the moment of confusion to close the gap. Theron advanced, firing twice more, and managed to keep the remaining Sylphar at bay. When they reached the spot where the enemy had emerged, the only thing left was a spatter of dark blood.
Daelan limped, blood trailing behind him. Caulin looked even more animal than usual, eyes darting, teeth bared. They paused just long enough for Daelan to bandage his leg with a strip from his own shirt.
“How many left?” Daelan asked, voice shaking.
Caulin shook his head. “Enough.”
Theron said nothing, but felt the words settle inside him like cold lead. He rechecked the bow, counted the remaining arrows. Four. Not enough. He looked back at the path they’d come, at the bodies they’d left, and knew there would be more.
He slung the bow over his shoulder, drew his sword again, and pushed forward. Caulin led the way, with Theron and Daelan following him into the living nightmare of the forest.
The clearing opened up so abruptly that for a moment, Theron thought it might be a trick of the light, or some cruel illusion thrown by the Sylphar to lure them into a final ambush. But there was Codryk, strung between two trees like a butchered animal, ropes digging into the flesh of his arms, head lolling against his chest.
He was alive, or close enough to mock the word. His bare skin was a mess of cuts and dried blood. One eye was swollen shut, and the other ringed in purple and red. His chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic pulses. He looked up as they entered the clearing. His mouth opened, but the only sound that escaped was a liquid wheeze.
Daelan broke cover first, racing across the ground with a brazen recklessness as he rushed towards his friend. Caulin held back, eyes on the perimeter. Theron moved to follow Daelan, but something about the clearing set every nerve alight. Something was very wrong.
He scanned the ground. Tripwires, almost invisible, ran between stakes buried in the loam. Branches covered at least two shallow pits, their surfaces artfully disguised with moss and leaves. Snares hung from the lower boughs, their loops placed right at throat height.
Codryk managed a single word, forced through broken lips: “Trap.”
Daelan reached the base of the tree and started sawing at the first rope with his dagger. “We’re getting you out.” His voice frantic with desperation.
“Wait!” Theron called out, but it was too late.
Daelan’s knee brushed a nearly invisible wire. The air snapped, and from somewhere behind a log, a sharpened spear shot forward. It caught Daelan just below the sternum, and drove him back, pinning him to the trunk of a tree. For a moment, he looked down at the wound, as if unable to believe it was real. Then he coughed, a single, bubbling exhalation, and went limp.
Blood oozed out of the wound, painting the ground under Codryk’s legs. He wailed as he looked at the lifeless form of his friend, a sound so raw it seemed to strip the leaves from the trees.
Theron was already moving, leaping another tripwire, landing just beside the mess. He ignored Daelan’s corpse, focused only on Codryk.
“I’m sorry,” Codryk choked out, tears cutting white tracks through the filth on his face. “I’m so sorry. They overpowered me—”
Theron pressed a hand to Codryk’s chest to steady him. “Quiet. We’re not done yet.”
He drew his knife and began slicing through the bonds. Codryk whimpered, but said nothing more. Caulin appeared at Theron’s side, never taking his eyes off the surrounding forest. He had his bow out now, and was at full draw, with an arrow nocked and ready.
“Can you walk?” Theron asked as the last rope fell away. Codryk slumped forward, nearly taking them both to the ground. Theron caught him around the waist and hauled him upright.
Caulin whispered, “More coming. We have to move.”
Theron nodded and slung Codryk’s arm over his shoulders. He could feel the bones beneath the skin, every joint trembling with exhaustion and pain. Together, they hobbled out of the clearing, skirting the traps with inch-perfect caution.
At the edge of the clearing, Codryk looked back at Daelan’s body. “You can’t leave him,” he moaned.
“We can.” Caulin’s jaw tightened, eyes hard as iron. “And we must.”
They moved, taking a different path than the one they’d used to get in, Caulin navigating by some silent logic. The world became an endless procession of fear with Codryk’s ragged breath, the smell of his wounds, and the constant threat of more traps and ambushes.
They had barely made a few hundred paces before Codryk collapsed, dragging Theron down with him. “I can’t,” he breathed. “Just leave me. Please, just—”
Theron ignored him, forced Codryk to his feet, and kept moving. Caulin ranged a few meters ahead, stopping every few steps to check for signs of pursuit. The woods behind them remained deathly still, but Theron knew better than to trust the silence.
At the next pause, Theron pressed Codryk against a tree and cupped his whimpering face in both hands.
“Listen to me.” He moved closer, voice steady and firm. “You are going to live. You’re going to carry the memory of Daelan with you, because someone must. He was your friend, and he died to save you.”
Codryk looked up at him, hope and horror mingling in his one good eye. “They’re monsters.”
Theron had no response, but as his eyes darted around, noticed something to his left. A tree, but with black spider veins of corruption and decay moving up along its trunk. His sharp intake of breath alerted Caulin, who snapped his attention back to them, eyes alert for any danger. But Theron simply shook his head and hefted Codryk upright to stagger towards Caulin, each step harder than the last. They pressed on, deeper into the forest, the air growing colder, thicker, more insistent with every breath. Theron felt his body begin to flag and felt the fatigue gnaw at his bones, but he did not stop. Not for himself, not for Codryk, not for the dead who now rested behind them.
The forest folded in on itself, and the air seemed to compress until it became harder to breathe. Codryk’s weight became more and more, not just because Theron was growing weaker, but because Codryk was beginning to lose consciousness. It would take sharp whispers and quick slaps to keep him awake and moving. He looked to the ground and his gaze sharpened to see black corruption veining up some nearby plants.
Grunting, he pushed his thoughts of concern away. There would be time later to worry.
The Sylphar appeared again in waves, never more than two or three at a time. The first was alone and attacked from the branches, dropping onto Caulin’s back with knives drawn. Caulin vanished beneath the impact, rolled through the undergrowth, and emerged seconds later with the attacker’s purple blood clinging to his blade. He did not bother with a warning for the next Sylphar to draw near. He simply slipped into the shadows, leaving Theron and Codryk alone, then reappeared behind the would-be killers and dispatched them with the same mechanical grace he’d shown before.
Theron fought only when there was no other choice. As more burst towards them, he propped Codryk against a tree, slumped over like a sack of laundry, then stepped forward to meet them with a quiet and lethal certainty. His movements carried an old, forgotten rhythm, something closer to instinct than training. Nothing he did looked showy or ornamental. It was the kind of grace that came from knowing exactly how to kill and exactly how little time to waste doing it.
Between Caulin and Theron, the Sylphar never stood a chance. Caulin fought like a living storm, deliberate power driving every swing. Armor crumpled under his blows, blades twisted and shattered, and strikes that would have felled other men only fed his momentum. He was deadly silent as he advanced.
Theron moved much the same. He was quiet, precise, almost absent amid the chaos. He slipped through the fight like a blade through cloth, reading attacks before they landed, stepping inside guards to end battles with clean cuts to throats and joints. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Together, they carved a path of blood and broken bodies. Caulin drew the fury and the fear, and Theron finished what remained.
A Sylphar with twin hatchets rushed Theron once. The creature swung in a blur and opened a shallow cut along his forearm, but the strike cost it its balance. Theron shifted his weight, carved through the tendons behind its knee, and ended the fight with a clean thrust to the back. The entire exchange lasted only seconds, as if the world itself had paused to let him finish the work.
Afterward, Codryk vomited blood and wept, clutching his ruined hands. “Leave me,” he begged.
“Not happening,” Theron grunted, hauling him up again.
They fell into a grim rhythm. Caulin slipped ahead and returned with signals or fresh violet blood on his blade. Theron hauled Codryk when he could and cut down whatever reached them. Codryk drifted in and out, more passenger than man, his body moving only because Theron forced it to.
The traps became less frequent as they moved toward the edge of the forest. Caulin still found some, pointing out the faint tripwires, and the pits hidden with loose branches and leaves, but they no longer came one after another. Even so, Theron froze more than once when a thin glint revealed a razor wire or the ground shifted under his boot in a way that felt wrong.
It was just after one of those moments, when Codryk nearly stepped into a shallow drop lined with sharpened sticks, that he felt the unbidden pressure. The cold weight of his Will slid into his chest and crawled up his spine until his hands began to tingle. He pressed his palm against his chest, searching for the medallion, and found the familiar shape waiting for him. His fingers closed around it, hard enough to make his knuckles throb, as he tried to steady the rising surge within him.
Theron looked up, and for an instant the forest shifted around him. Routes through the trees revealed themselves with startling clarity, along with every angle of attack and every likely line of movement. Certainty settled in his bones. The next Sylphar’s position was clear to him, as was the way it would strike. Even the air seemed to turn traitor to the forest, whispering secrets meant only for him.
The pull of Influence surged in response. His fingers twitched toward it, ready to surrender and let the power carry him wherever it wished. Caulin stood ahead, blade raised, crouched and waiting for the next assault.
Giving in would be so easy, the simplest thing in the world. The power waited for him like an open hand.
But it was what came after. That black hole that swallowed pieces of his mind, the way it scraped away the small good things and even the things that hurt. The cost had grown too high, and he was so tired of paying it. Every instinct begged him to open the floodgate, to reach for the power that waited just beneath his skin, but he forced it down. He would face whatever came next without it.
Letting the medallion go, he turned to face the next Sylphar that came at them with a short spear, shrieking. Theron sidestepped, hooked the spear arm, and snapped it at the elbow. The Sylphar dropped the weapon, went for a knife, but Caulin was there, a streak of blue and shadow, and finished the job with a quiet, brutal efficiency.
“Come on,” Caulin breathed heavily. “We’re almost there.”
The last few hundred paces were the worst. The forest pressed tight, the air electric with anticipation. Theron could feel the Sylphar behind them, watching. Waiting.
Caulin abruptly lifted a fist. Theron halted at once and listened. The light ahead changed as the trees thinned. The edge of the forest was close, and the camp waited just beyond. Smoke from the cooking fires drifted toward them, soft and warm in the cold air. The steady clatter of men preparing for morning carried through the trees, each sound sharp and disciplined. Theron felt the tension in his shoulders ease as the noises grew clearer. They had almost made it out.
Caulin edged forward, silent as death. Theron, holding Codryk, followed, every muscle screaming.
Suddenly, three Sylphar broke from cover in a final, desperate attack. One aimed for Codryk, but Theron twisted, took the blow on his armored shoulder, and stabbed up through the assailant’s chest. The second and third engaged Caulin, who dropped low and cut the legs from under one, then turned and buried a knife in the other’s throat.
Theron let Codryk collapse to the ground. He turned, sword raised, but there were no more. Caulin stood over the corpses, chest heaving, face impassive, sword in one hand and dagger in the other. For a moment, they just stared at each other, unable to speak.
Codryk, somehow alive, managed to crawl to the edge of the clearing. He looked up at the dark sky, eyes wide. “We made it,” he croaked, then passed out cold.
Theron slumped to his knees. Caulin limped over and sank down beside him. They rested there, catching their breath among the bodies and the churned earth until they heard the clatter of armored boots nearby and the yells of soldiers pushing through the trees. The men were coming fast, drawn by the noise of the fighting at the forest’s edge and ready to help or join the battle if needed. The sound grew clearer, steady and urgent, until reinforcements were upon them. Relief found him at last, thin and unsteady, and it carried no warmth at all for his three friends who would never rise again.
Under the canopy of the advance scouting command pavilion, it was almost too bright, the lamplight harsh against the dark outside. Theron blinked at the sudden change, the afterimage of the woods still dancing in his eyes. For a moment, he simply stood there, unable to move or speak, until Rook caught his arm and steered him toward a bench near the rear.
“Sit,” Rook motioned him down. “I’ll get water.”
Theron tried to move but then realized he still clutched Codryk, who was being attended to by two medics. One was dabbing a rag over his wounds, while the other was holding his head up to keep him from choking on some water. They helped Theron lower him to the ground. Caulin stood to one side, arms folded, jaw set, watching everything with that same predatory stillness he carried in the woods.
The officers clustered at the table, their faces lined and pinched with worry. One of them nodded at Caulin and spoke.
“You made it back with our missing man.”
Theron looked up, his mouth dry, words stuck behind a wall of exhaustion. Yes, they had returned with Codryk, but also had paid a steep price.
“Brenn,” he finally whispered. “Naemer. Daelan.” He stopped, unable to go on.
Captain Jaroad walked under the covering and turned to Caulin. “What happened?”
Caulin gave a clinical report about the traps, ambushes, and the number of Sylphar. He described the placement of the enemy and the likelihood of a larger force nearby. He spoke with the detachment of someone reading casualty numbers from an old ledger, but even so, Theron could hear the fury simmering just beneath.
“And Codryk? They didn’t try to escape with him?” The captain leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he scanned their faces.
“No, they used him as bait,” Caulin said, jaw tight. “I don’t think they were interested in extracting information from him. They just wanted to kill more of us.
Codryk, half-lucid, coughed and spat blood onto the ground. “They didn’t ask me anything,” he managed. “One did talk to me in our language and said he looked forward to fighting our forces at the Pass.”
The officers exchanged glances. One of the other squad leaders spoke up. “We didn’t run into a single Sylphar on our scouting run. Why was it just your squad?”
“Because we scouted near the river, which is the most direct path towards Redan Pass,” Caulin explained, eyes narrowing in thought. “They’ve laid all these traps and ambushes to reduce our numbers.”
“Well, unfortunately for them,” Jaroad said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Roberic expected as much and sent us to scout ahead for these tactics. Still, this is concerning. We’ll have to be more careful as we proceed to the Pass.”
No one answered. Theron leaned back, feeling the weight of the night settle into his bones. The tent was suddenly too small, the lamplight oppressive. He closed his eyes, remembering how the air in the forest thickened with that corrupted decay. There were bigger problems than the Sylphar.
He did not open his eyes when Rook pressed a cup of water into his hands, but he drank, letting the chill calm the fire in his chest.
The officers kept pressing Caulin for more. They wanted more details about the traps, the habits of the Sylphar, and the dangers another party might face. Caulin answered every question with the same calm focus he had previously shown. No matter how they tried to steer him, he always circled back to a single warning. “They know we are here. They want us to go back into the forest. If we do that, they will pick us off one by one.”
The captain listened, then turned to Theron. “What do you think?”
Theron opened his eyes. The tent spun for a second, then righted itself.
“They hunted us. Out there, we were prey. They wanted us to think we were safe when we moved to get Codryk, but we were not. We never were. They’ve had months to prepare for us, and with our small scouting numbers, survival is impossible. We must wait for Roberic.”
There was a silence then, broken only by the ragged breathing of Codryk and the muted sounds of men outside, going about the last routines before the night.
Jaroad stood up. “Get some rest. We’ll leave in the morning and return to Roberic to report. He won’t like that we didn’t scout all the way to the Pass, but he’ll understand.”
Caulin and Rook half-lifted, half-dragged Theron out from under the canopy to a patch of ground near a rock formation. For a while, they just sat there, the three of them. Caulin checked his blade, cleaning it with short, efficient motions. Rook watched the forest as if waiting for something to step through. Theron stared at the medallion in his hand, the edges sticky with sweat and blood.
“You two did good,” Rook finally said, his voice rough.
Theron shook his head. “We lost everyone.”
Caulin looked up. “We saved Codryk. That was the job.”
Theron wanted to argue, but could not find the energy. He let himself sink into the rough comfort of a blanket that Rook had provided, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine a world where tomorrow would not be exactly the same as today.
He had almost managed sleep when a sentry approached, breath drifting in pale threads through the cold air.
“I just heard,” the man said. “Naemer was a friend of mine. Did he die well?”
Caulin glanced at Theron, and Theron met the sentry’s eyes as the image of Naemer’s twitching body came back to him, arrow protruding from his eye socket.
“He died fighting to save Codryk,” Theron said. “He died well.”
The sentry let out a slow breath and nodded. “He and I used to play cards back in training. He alwa—”
The sentence never finished. An arrow punched through his throat, cutting the words off in a wet choke.
Caulin moved instantly. He surged to his feet and shouted, “Attack! We’re under attack!”