The caravan creaked into view through a gap in the undergrowth — a dozen wooden cages mounted on wagons, drawn by exhausted horses. Chains clinked in rhythm with each step.
Ren's eyes darted from one cage to the next, taking in the shapes inside. Some small, some curled into themselves. Yutu, crouched beside him, let out a sharp breath.
"Ren…" her voice cracked. "Those are… my people." Her green eyes locked on a cage packed with goblins — the faces of children pressed to the bars, women clutching them close, a few older goblins staring at the ground in silence. None of them bore weapons or the bearing of fighters. They were gatherers, foragers — the backbone of a village, not its shield.
Then Ghur's entire body went rigid. His claws dug deep into the soil, ears flat, tail bristled.Ren followed his gaze.
In the third wagon, shackled in reinforced manacles, was a she-wolf beastkin. Even in captivity she stood tall, the curve of her hips and the taper of her waist framed by her torn leather garb. Her hair, a cascade of silver streaked with black, caught the fading sunlight. Her face… almost human, but her amber eyes burned with a wild defiance that even chains could not dim.
"That's…" Ghur's voice was a low rumble, almost reverent. "…the Princess of the Ironfang Clan. My clan."
Ren tilted his head. "Princess?"
"She is Kaela. Daughter of the High Alpha. The one meant to lead us when my father's time is done." His voice darkened. "If the humans take her past the border, they'll break her… or sell her to the highest bidder."
Syrri's voice, a cold thread of logic, cut into Ren's thoughts:
[Strategic note: The caravan is guarded. High-value captives imply increased protection. A frontal assault risks total failure.]
Ghur ignored the warning, his golden eyes locked on Kaela's cage. "I will not let her vanish."
Yutu's fists trembled at her sides. "And I will not let my village die in chains."
The air between them felt heavy. The creak of wagon wheels and the groan of wood faded down the road, but the smell of fear and iron lingered like a wound in the forest.
Ren's mandibles flexed. "Then we hunt," he said at last.
The road cut a raw scar through the green heart of Oukra Forest, its dirt churned into mud by wagon wheels and bootprints.
The caravan moved without haste, a slaver's arrogance in every step. Men in mismatched armor lounged atop the cages, crossbows slung carelessly over their shoulders. Their laughter was loud, sharp — the kind that tried to hide the stink of fear with cruelty.
"Filthy mutts," one guard spat at Kaela's cage, his boot kicking the bars. "You'll fetch a fine price in the southern markets."
Kaela met his gaze without blinking, her tail low but her eyes burning. The man smirked, but there was a hint of unease as he turned away.
Other soldiers walked alongside the wagons, heavy cudgels in hand. Their armor was dented, stained — not soldiers of a kingdom, but hired muscle. The kind who drank hard and killed harder. The kind who didn't need orders to commit cruelty.
Ren crouched with Ghur and Yutu in the undergrowth, watching the slavers pass.
"Not mages," Ghur muttered, sniffing the air. "No scent of mana. Just men… but men who know how to break bones."
"They reek," Yutu said quietly, her eyes fixed on the cages of goblin children. Her voice carried a trembling heat. "They enjoy this."
Ren's mandibles clicked once, slow. "Then we'll take the enjoyment from them."
Syrri's voice hummed in his mind.
[Threat Level: Moderate. Estimated count: Nineteen humans. No mana-users detected. Light armor, close-range weapons. Primary danger: numbers and formation discipline.]
Ghur's claws flexed in the dirt. "Numbers won't matter once they're scattered."
Ren turned to them, his black eyes narrowing. "Then we split them. No noise, no survivors."
The last wagon creaked past, its wheels rattling over a rock. Ren could see the chains inside sway with the motion — could hear the faint jangle of iron and the muffled cough of someone within.
The slavers laughed again, their boots splashing through puddles, unaware that the forest around them had gone still.
It was the stillness of teeth about to close.
The three crouched in the shadow of a moss-draped oak, watching the caravan wind deeper into the forest. The slavers were loud, careless, but their boots kept tight formation around the wagons. They'd fought before — just not against this.
Ren's voice was low, a rasping whisper only they could hear."We don't fight them head-on. I'll take the ones at the rear first. My threads pull them in. Ghur—"
"—I finish them," the wolf beastkin rumbled. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim light, molten and unblinking, locked on the prey ahead. He flexed his clawed hands once, then stilled — the predator waiting for the kill.
Yutu leaned closer, her voice sharp with focus. "I'll loop wide, cut off anyone who tries to run. If they notice one's missing, we vanish before they can shout."
Ren's abdomen twitched, silk glands warming as he pictured the ambush. "The forest is mine now. My threads will be the snare… your claws, the kill."
They moved.
Ren scuttled low, his pale body blending into the roots and leaf litter, stringing near-invisible silk lines between trunks. The forest floor soon became a web only he could see, stretched tight across the slavers' path.
The first man never saw it. One moment he trudged behind the wagon, the next his ankle jerked back and his mouth filled with dirt as a line whipped him into the undergrowth. Before he could scream, Ghur's hand clamped over his mouth — and those golden eyes were the last thing he saw before the claws slid quick and deep.
The second vanished seconds later, yanked up into the trees. A quick twist of silk and Ren lowered the limp body into a shadow where no eyes would find it.
They moved like this, patient and surgical. A laugh here, a shout there — and then silence, as one by one the rear guards fell.
Syrri's voice hummed again in Ren's mind.
[Five down. No alert raised. Rear formation destabilizing.]
Ren's mandibles twitched in something almost like a smile. "Good. We keep cutting until the head is alone."
Ghur's golden gaze cut through the shadows like twin suns. "Then we take it."
The caravan rolled on, unaware that its tail had been eaten alive by the forest itself.
The slavers trudged forward, their boots sinking into the damp earth. The Oukra forest was silent — too silent. No bird calls, no insect hums, only the soft creak of wagon wheels and the muffled whimpers of chained beastkin and goblin captives.
Up in the trees, Ghur's golden eyes tracked every movement, unblinking. His silhouette was just another part of the shadows, but those eyes gleamed like molten gold coins, catching just enough light to prick the humans' instincts.
Down below, Ren waited. His eyes — twin pools of onyx — flickered. Mana coiled through him, hot and restless. The black was chased away by a deep, searing crimson that seemed to bleed into the world around him.
The threads at his side began to shimmer faintly. One by one, they drank in his mana, the color spreading outward — faint at first, then blooming into veins of glowing crimson that stretched from tree to tree like living veins under skin. In that moment, the forest felt alive, watching, breathing.
A guard froze mid-step, gaze catching a flicker of red webbing where there should have been nothing. He didn't have time to call out.
The thread around his ankle snapped tight, yanking him upward. The air left his lungs in a strangled gasp before Ghur's blade flashed once, clean and swift, the sound smothered by the forest's damp breath.
The crimson glow pulsed again. Another slaver looked over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of two red, predatory eyes beyond the nearest wagon. The glow swelled along the silk strands, a ripple of light guiding the next snare.
Ren's voice, low and layered with Syrri's echo, hissed through the dark:"[Thread snare.]"
The trap tightened, the forest answered. One by one, they vanished into the silk-choked shadows — golden eyes flashing, crimson threads tightening, silence following.
By the time the caravan realized they were being hunted, the rear was already gone.
The crimson threads shimmered across the Oukra forest like veins of light, each one humming faintly with Ren's mana. The slavers' laughter died the moment the first man was yanked screaming into the canopy, silenced by Ghur's blade flashing gold in the moonlight.
Panic broke their formation.
Steel scraped from sheaths.
Shouts became curses, curses became screams.
Ren's eyes burned crimson as he skittered along the silken lines, each thread singing with tension. A fire-haired slaver lunged toward one of the wagons — a strand snapped around his throat, hauling him off his feet. The glow pulsed once, twice, then went still as his body went limp.
Another charged Ghur, sword raised high, but the beastkin's golden eyes locked on him, and in a heartbeat, the man's head hit the dirt before his knees gave way.
Then the coward swordsman appeared — young, maybe barely out of boyhood, his blade trembling in both hands. He wasn't like the others. His movements lacked cruelty; his eyes lacked the hunger for domination. Still, he stepped between the captives and the chaos, shaking, but holding his ground.
Ren's silk coiled near his boots, ready to strike — but then he saw it. The boy's knuckles were white, not from aggression, but from the effort of holding himself there. His eyes flickered with pain, guilt… and a quiet plea.
A burly slaver, seeing him frozen, slammed a fist into his side. The boy stumbled, gasped, then was struck again, the blow splitting his lip."Move, coward!" the slaver spat, shoving him toward the fight.The boy didn't swing his sword — he only lowered it, shaking his head, whispering something too low to hear.
Ren's threads shifted their target.
The one who had struck the boy screamed as crimson silk whipped around his arms and yanked him backward into the trees, the glow swallowing him. Ghur stepped into the gap, cutting down another soldier in one fluid strike.
When the dust settled, the coward swordsman was on his knees, beaten and breathing raggedly, his sword discarded in the dirt. He stared at Ren's glowing eyes and at Ghur's looming figure, then down at his own bloodied hands.
"I… I hate them," he muttered, voice shaking. "But I don't have anywhere else to go…"
The forest was silent but for the hiss of Ren's silk retreating into the shadows.
Ren's silk hissed through the air, snapping around the boy's wrists and ankles before he could move. He didn't fight it — just let himself be bound, head lowered, breathing hard.
Yutu's ears flattened as she stepped forward, spear still slick with blood."Ren… he's a human." Her voice carried a note of warning.Ghur's golden eyes narrowed. "And humans brought chains here." His hand tightened on his sword hilt.
Ren glanced between them, threads humming faintly."I can smell wrath. I can smell aggression," he said evenly, mandibles twitching. "But not from this one."Neither beastkin nor goblin argued, but the air stayed taut with unease.
They turned instead to the chained wagons. One by one, Ren's silk unwound the bonds, the captives stepping forward slowly as if afraid the freedom wasn't real. Goblin women with frightened eyes clutched their children. Beastkin men limped forward, their bodies marked with bruises and welts.
The caravan was larger than expected — three wagons, each packed with misery. By the time the last chain fell, there were twenty-three freed in total:
Nine goblins — mostly women and children.
Eleven beastkin — fox, wolf, and hare-kin.
Three elderly beastkin, too weak to flee on their own.
And then she stepped forward.
Her presence was different — not in strength, but in bearing. Her hair, deep black streaked with silver, framed a face with sharp, human-like features. Her amber eyes locked onto Ren, unflinching. Around her neck, beneath the dirt and bruises, hung a small pendant in the shape of a fang etched with runes.
Yutu inhaled sharply. "That… that's a surname mark."
Ren tilted his head. "Surname?"
Ghur's tone shifted — almost reverent. "Those with surnames are of pure blood… an evolved form. Human-like in face, sharper in mind. They are the ones whose clans once ruled, before the slavers' rise."
The woman's voice was low, but it carried authority. "Kaela Ironfang. Princess of the Ironfang wolf-kin. You have my thanks, stranger."
Ren's gaze lingered on her — not out of reverence, but curiosity. Her mana was richer, more… refined. It wasn't just survival radiating from her. It was command. And that made her dangerous in a different way.