The argument started the moment Sid finished speaking.
"We can't just leave them there," Ethan said, voice tight, eyes locked on the faint glow beyond the river. "They're alive."
The Tarnak'hul scouts exchanged sharp glances, tension etched in every line of their posture. Loyalty ran deep—they would not abandon their own. But the silence between them carried something heavier: doubt.
Dianna's tone cut through like steel on stone. "And what happens when you cross that bridge? You end up chained next to them? Then what? We'll need another rescue team to save you."
The words stung, but they were truth. Silence followed—unwilling, tense.
Finally, the scout leader rose from his crouch, towering over the others like a rooted tree. His voice was firm, final. "No one moves. Not until the chief knows. We hold position and wait for his command."
The debate died there. No one liked it. But no one argued.
---
Sid, kneeling at the water's edge, didn't speak. His focus drifted elsewhere—toward the fog curling in uneven swells beyond the far bank. Through Krixi's eyes, the clearing lay still, but something… moved. Not seen, not heard. Felt. A flicker at the edge of thought.
He inhaled slowly. "Quiet," he said at last. "Something's in the shadows."
They looked at Sid instead, waiting—unsure, trusting a sight they couldn't share.
Sid pressed his hand to the soil, threads uncoiling like strands of silver fog, weaving into Krixi's frame across the river. He urged her forward—past the chains, the bruised bodies, toward the one still conscious. The scout who muttered faint words like prayers to a deaf jungle.
---
A ripple.
Something slid through the fog again—low, crawling, soundless. Sid caught it, then forced the thought aside. A branch shifting… nothing more.
His focus stayed on Krixi as she moved like a shadow stitched from mist, her limbs low, vents hissing soft green breaths into the damp air.
She stopped before the Tarnak'hul scout. The soldier's head lolled forward, blood trailing his jaw, eyes hazed with exhaustion. Then… he stilled. Slowly, painfully, his gaze crawled up to her face.
Sid crouched deeper in thought, guiding her arm toward the soil. He needed to speak. Somehow. He extended a claw, hesitating over the damp earth.
What if they can't read this? He wasn't from this world. His letters would mean nothing.
But then his hand moved—without conscious thought. The claw etched shapes that weren't his own, yet felt natural, flowing from some deep, unspoken bond. Curves and slashes forming glyphs that gleamed faintly under the mist's breath.
> It's me. Sid. We're here.
---
The Tarnak'hul's dull eyes widened. For an instant, hope flickered—before fear crushed it.
His muscles coiled with what little strength remained. His lips peeled back over bloodied teeth as he rasped, voice breaking into a raw snarl:
> "No… No… Comrade… escape… Tell the Chief—"
He convulsed, dragging breath from broken lungs, and forced the last words out like venom:
> "The Talaruk… are here."
---
The fog answered.
Not with words—but with motion.
It thickened in the clearing like breath drawn slow and deep, coiling around roots and broken trunks until the firelight drowned in a pall of white. The silence bent—smothered every crackle, every whisper.
Sid's threads quivered. Pressure slammed against the link, cold and deliberate—like fingers stroking along his senses.
And then—
A glow.
Faint. Orange.
Pulsing through the haze like a dying ember.
Sid focused—and saw it.
A figure stood at the mist's heart.
Half-hunched. Draped in tattered hides and woven vines.
Skin pale as drowned stone. About seven feet tall. Etched with black sigils that crawled like living ink.
One hand clutched a long, bone-carved pipe, its ember flaring as the creature inhaled slow, deliberate. The other hand gripped a crooked staff, its length wrapped in braided roots and hung with strings of cracked fangs. Tiny bone charms clicked softly as it moved, each piece etched with runes that bled faint orange when the ember flared.
It exhaled.
Smoke spilled in ribbons, curling like fingers across the soil.
Then it smiled.
A mouth too wide. Teeth too many.
Eyes like molten amber drowned in shadow.
When it spoke, the voice wasn't loud. It was soft—mocking, like a whisper sliding against bone.
> "Caught you… little mouse."
The mist behind it shivered.
Shapes rippled within—tall, lean, hunched silhouettes moving without sound.
Two. Maybe three.
Their tattoos flickered once, then vanished back into white.
Sid's breath stalled. The scouts' warnings crashed in his ears like distant thunder.
The snare was tightening.
And then—
SWWISSSH
The connection tore like a thread snapping in fire.
One heartbeat, Krixi was there—woven into Sid's mind, her senses humming like green-lit veins. The next, everything went dark. Empty. Silent.
His breath hitched. Fingers clawed at the soil as threads recoiled violently, whipping back into him like stinging wires. The sudden void hollowed him out, cold and raw.
"Sid?" Ethan's voice cracked through the fog of his thoughts.
Dianna's eyes were sharp, cutting across the low firelight. "What happened?"
The Tarnak'hul watched him like predators sensing a shift in the wind—still, but coiled, waiting for his word.
Sid opened his mouth. "I—"
The word strangled halfway.
Because something was wrong.
Mist crept between the roots around them—not drifting lazily from the river, but rising behind their backs. Silent. Intentional. It crawled like a living thing, curling around ankles, licking at the damp earth.
Sid's eyes swept the treeline—and his pulse plunged. Shapes pulsed faintly in the fog. Not across the river. Here. Among them.
He didn't need to speak. His face said everything.
Ethan stiffened. "Sid? What—what is it?"
The Tarnak'hul scout leader caught his expression and rose like stone breaking from the earth. "Speak," he demanded, voice low as a growl.
Sid swallowed shards of breath. "They're not on the other side anymore."
CREEEAAKK
The mist broke.
Figures bled from the white in silence, one by one—until there were many. Nine… ten… eleven, fanning out in a crescent of pale blue skin and black-swirled tattoos. Their bodies were lean and angled, spines bent like branches under weight. Some dragged the ember glow of pipes between their teeth, exhaling ribbons of smoke that draped them in phantom veils. Others let the smolder hang from cords tied to ragged loincloths and root-woven wraps.
Weapons gleamed against the haze: spears etched in bone patterns, bows strung with gut, hooked daggers blackened by soot. A few bore curved blades like slivers of moonlight—steel that spoke of precision, not brutality.
And then—the one who mattered stepped forward.
The leader.
Taller, heavier in presence, hunched like an old tree. his long black hair curl to his back and covered half his face. His bare chest was carved in inked sigils, roots and teeth strung from his belt like grim trophies. In one hand, a long pipe glowed at its embered tip. In the other—a blade.
Not crude. Not savage. A katana, its curve gleaming like liquid silver under the fog's pall. The hilt was wrapped in dark cord, worn smooth by years of use, and charms of bone and fang hung from the pommel like a hunter's prayer.
His voice slid through the mist like smoke over oil.
> "You've trespassed in our home, Tarnak'huls from the peaks of Ashenfrost…"
A pause. His eyes shifted—sharp, gold as a predator's, locking on Sid, Dianna, and Ethan.
"…and humans?"
The word tasted like something rare. Strange.
He straightened a fraction, the blade tilting in his grip. A tigth snare.
> "Lay down your weapons… you war-mongering, barbaric, and lowly beasts."
The words fell heavy as stones.
The Tarnak'hul scout leader's jaw flexed, his fist clenched but he moved first—slow, deliberate. He crouched and laid his spear on the damp soil, eyes never leaving the katana's mirrored edge. His gaze flicked sideways—sharp, a silent command.
Sid caught it. The smallest shift of a glance that said: Follow our lead.
He nodded once, then looked at Ethan and Dianna. His hand brushed low, a gesture sharp enough to cut through their panic: Do it. Now.
Reluctant steel whispered from scabbards and straps. Broadsword. Blades. All placed on the ground like offerings to a vengeful god.
The Talaruk moved in without hurry, smoke trailing from pipes like lazy serpents. They gathered each weapon and wrapped it in coarse black cloth, knotting the bundles tight before handing them off to the shadows at their backs.
For a moment, the clearing was only mist and breath.
Then a voice broke it. Hoarse. Bitter. A Tarnak'hul scout spat words that stung like flint striking stone.
> "What are the Talaruk of the far north doing in these lands?"
The leader's grin cut like a scar. He exhaled slow, ember flaring at his pipe's edge before his voice spilled out like a drawl of smoke.
> "We are not dwellers of the north… only the blood of those who walked from it. Our ancestors came here. Built roots here. Our home."
The katana shifted in his grip, its curve catching the faint orange glow.
"And you are trespassers."
The words lingered like frost on bone.
The captured Tarnak'hul scout—bruised, bound—looked up at his brethren. His gaze flicked sharp as a blade. Then to Dianna. Then to Sid. Not random. Measured. A silent rhythm passed between them like a war drum only they could hear.
Dianna's jaw clenched. Her shoulders rolled once, casual—masking the tension spiking in her muscles. Ethan's fingers twitched near his empty belt. Sid's pulse pounded in his ears like a drum.
The scout's lips barely moved. Now.
He lunged first.
A flash of raw motion—his battle-hardened body exploding into fury, arms snapping like iron chains as he crashed into the nearest Talaruk, sending smoke and bone charms scattering through the fog.
The others ignited like dry tinder—Dianna ripping her broadsword from the cloth bundle before the knot fully gave, steel flashing pale fire. Ethan surged in her wake, fist hammering a jaw, ripping his axe-cleaver free as his boot found a rib. Sid moved without thought—threads unspooling in a storm of silver arcs.
The mist shattered into chaos.
The leader's roar tore through the night, his katana screaming from its resting grip in a single fluid draw. Bone charms clattered against steel as his voice thundered over the din:
> "SEIZE THEM!!!"
Shadows lunged from every angle. The clearing became teeth and steel and smoke.
And then—everything stopped.
Because a blade heavier than hunger pressed cold against the leader's shoulder.
The fog behind him split like a wound, and a voice rolled in—deep as an avalanche, final as the grave.
> "Lay down your weapons… or your lives, Talaruk. Your call."
The Warlord stood like a god of ruin, broadsword gleaming with mist and bloodlight. And with him—ringing the clearing in iron and sinew—came the rest of the Tarnak'hul warband, their silhouettes burning like coals in the fog.
Among them, the two scouts sent to warn—fatigued, breathing hard, but alive—blades drawn and ready.
The crescent had closed.
Not around Sid.
Around the Talaruk.