The alpha's corpse still lay where it had fallen, a mound of fur and shattered bone. The firelight glistened across its ribs, the faint ember-glow within slowly fading, but not gone. Every breath of wind carried the acrid stench of rot and burned flesh.
Borgu spat on it with a grunt. "Ugly mutt. Should've died faster."
He tried to sound triumphant, but his voice was hoarse, strained. The fight had drained even him, and though he stood tall, blood still oozed from a gash across his forearm.
Sylvara crouched by the body, her bow hanging from her shoulder, eyes narrowed. She didn't touch the carcass—her hands hovered above it like a priestess reading omens. Her face was taut with something between revulsion and fascination.
"Something's wrong," she murmured.
Borgu barked a laugh. "Wrong? Look at it. Everything wrong."
"No." Her tone cut sharper than her arrows. "Not just the corruption. Look here."
She pulled back the fur along the beast's ribcage, and my stomach tightened.
The bone beneath wasn't just cracked or burned. It was carved.
Lines gouged deep into the surface, forming jagged spirals and hooked sigils that twisted unnaturally in the firelight. The runes pulsed faintly, as though still clinging to some power even after death.
"Runes," Sylvara said, her voice low. "Old ones. These aren't scars from battle. They were etched, deliberately. Someone marked this creature. Shaped its corruption."
Lorian paled, staggering back a step. "Someone did this to it?"
Sylvara nodded grimly. "No beast marks itself."
I crouched beside her, studying the bone. The cuts were too clean, too precise. Not the wild scribbles of madness—purposeful. A soldier's scars told you what battles he'd fought. These runes told me the wolf hadn't just been born corrupted. It had been made into a weapon.
I straightened slowly, my sword still sticky with ichor. "Then it wasn't a hunt. It was a test."
Borgu tilted his head. "Test?"
"They sent these things at us to learn how we'd fight. To measure us. Like scouts."
The orc's grin faltered. His axe lowered slightly, though his eyes still burned. "Hrrn. Don't like that."
"Neither do I," I said.
We burned the corpse that night.
Sylvara insisted the runes couldn't be left to rot. Borgu argued that fire was a waste of fuel, but one look at her face shut him up. Together, we piled logs high, dragged the alpha's body onto the pyre, and set it alight.
The flames roared tall, sparks spiraling into the night. The smell was choking, thick and greasy, clinging to hair and clothes. We stood around it in silence, watching the ichor bubble and hiss, until nothing was left but blackened bone.
When the last ember died, the silence returned. Too complete. Too heavy.
I kept watch while the others tried to rest.
Borgu sprawled in his bedroll, snoring even through exhaustion. Lorian tossed and turned, muttering softly in his sleep. Sylvara sat upright again, her cloak tight around her, eyes fixed on the treeline though they glimmered faintly with fatigue.
The fire burned low, and the woods pressed close. I strained my ears for the sound of paws or claws, but heard nothing.
Nothing—until a flicker of movement caught my eye.
Beyond the stockade posts, just at the edge of firelight, a figure stood.
Not beast.
Tall. Humanoid. Cloaked in shadow, the face hidden beneath a deep hood.
My hand went to my sword before my mind caught up. I blinked once, and the figure was gone—swallowed whole by the forest.
I rose, heart hammering, scanning the dark. Branches creaked softly, leaves rustled, but nothing stirred.
Sylvara's voice cut the silence. "You saw it too."
I turned to her. She hadn't moved, but her gaze hadn't left the treeline. Her fingers tightened on her bowstring.
"You saw?" I asked.
She nodded. "Not the first time tonight. I thought the dark played tricks, but now…" She exhaled, sharp and shallow. "They watch us."
I clenched my jaw. "Why not attack?"
"Because they're patient." Her voice was colder than the night air. "They're learning."
Morning came gray and muted. None of us had slept well, and even Borgu was subdued, grumbling quietly as he sharpened his axe.
We didn't speak of what we'd seen. Not yet. But when the fire had burned down to coals and breakfast was done, I gathered them.
"They're not beasts alone," I said, keeping my voice steady. "The runes on the wolf, the figure in the trees—this is guided. Someone shapes the corruption. Someone intelligent."
Lorian's face went pale. "The Demon Lord's army?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "But maybe not. Sylvara?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "The runes… they're older. They don't belong to demonkin or their magic. This is something else."
Borgu grunted. "Doesn't matter who. Matters that they're close."
"Exactly," I said. "Which means we can't just sit behind walls and wait. If we don't know what's out there, we're already dead."
The boy's eyes widened. "You mean we go after them?"
"Scout," I corrected. "Not charge headlong. We need to know what hunts us. Where it comes from."
Borgu's grin returned, teeth flashing. "Finally. Orc was getting tired of fences."
Lorian swallowed, but he nodded. "If we stay blind, we'll never be safe."
Sylvara's gaze lingered on me, searching, weighing. At last, she inclined her head. "Then we move cautiously. But yes. We need answers."
The decision settled like a stone in my gut. Every soldier knew the difference between defense and offense. To scout meant to risk exposure. To step into the dark willingly, with no guarantee of return.
But waiting was worse.
That night, as we prepared packs and sharpened weapons, I found myself staring into the treeline again. The woods whispered softly, branches shifting like unseen figures slipping between them.
I thought of the runes carved into bone, the glowing embers within the wolves' ribs, the hooded silhouette watching from the dark.
We weren't alone out here.
And whatever walked in the shadows—it already knew we were here.