The morning mist clung to the earth like a shroud, pale and heavy. The forest stretched before us, quiet but far from still. Every shadow seemed to ripple with unseen breath, every rustle in the underbrush carried more weight than mere wind.
We had agreed the night before: we could not afford blindness. If we did not learn what stalked us, then sooner or later, it would strike when we were least ready.
So we set out at dawn.
Sylvara led, light-footed, ears keen to every sound. I walked behind her, hand never far from my sword. Lorian followed me, carrying his spear like a walking staff, though his knuckles were white where they gripped the shaft. Borgu brought up the rear, broad-shouldered and loud enough to crush stealth on his own, but at least reliable with an axe.
The stockade and its half-built huts vanished quickly behind us, swallowed by trees. It was only then I realized how small our home really was. Out here, the forest dwarfed us, its ancient boughs rising like towers. We were trespassers. Prey, maybe.
"Stay sharp," I muttered.
Sylvara glanced back once, her green eyes unreadable, then turned forward again. She moved like water through the undergrowth, her steps silent where even I cracked twigs.
Borgu grumbled behind me. "Orc doesn't like quiet. Too much quiet means something's listening."
"Then maybe don't shout," Sylvara whispered without turning.
Borgu bared his teeth but quieted.
Hours passed. The deeper we went, the stranger the forest became.
At first, it was only the silence—birdsong fading, no small animals darting through brush. But soon the trees themselves began to change.
The bark blackened in patches, as though burned but still alive. Roots twisted together unnaturally, tangling like knotted rope. Some trees leaned toward each other, their trunks bent and warped until they formed crooked arches that loomed over the path like gateways.
Lorian slowed beside me, his face pale. "Kael… these woods weren't like this before. I've hunted here. The trees… they shouldn't look like this."
I kept my voice low. "Then whatever's spreading corruption is moving fast."
Sylvara stopped suddenly, crouching low. Her hand went up—silent signal. We froze.
A faint sound carried through the mist. Not animal. Rhythmic.
Chanting.
Low, guttural syllables, spoken in a tongue I didn't know. They rose and fell like waves, echoing strangely between the trees.
Sylvara's lips tightened. "This way," she breathed, barely audible.
We crept forward, careful as shadows, until the trees opened into a clearing.
What we saw froze me in place.
In the center of the clearing stood a stone altar, half-buried in roots. Old—ancient, maybe—its surface was cracked, but lines of black ichor pulsed through the fissures like veins. Runes burned faintly along its edges, the same jagged spirals we'd seen carved into the wolf's ribs.
Around it knelt six figures, cloaked and hooded, their voices weaving together in the same unearthly chant.
At their center, tied to the altar, lay a deer. Still alive. Its eyes rolled wildly, but it couldn't move—the ichor seeped into its flesh, spreading through its veins like black lightning. Its body twitched, spasming, as though fighting something crawling beneath its skin.
One of the cloaked figures raised a hand. The chanting grew louder. The deer convulsed, its bones cracking audibly. Its body warped before our eyes—antlers twisting into jagged horns, legs bulging with unnatural muscle.
Borgu's breath hissed through his teeth. "They're making monsters."
Sylvara's hand gripped her bow so tightly her knuckles went white. "Not just monsters. Servants. War-beasts."
Lorian shuddered, pressing closer to me. "We… we should stop them."
"Not yet," I whispered. "We don't even know how many more there are. Look."
Beyond the altar, more figures lingered at the edge of the clearing—watchers, silent sentries, their hoods turned outward as though guarding against intrusion.
If we attacked now, we'd be surrounded.
Still, every instinct screamed at me to move. To cut the deer loose before the ichor consumed it. To break the ritual.
But Sylvara's hand brushed mine, subtle and firm. Her eyes met mine. She shook her head.
Not yet.
We pulled back, hearts pounding. Only when we'd put distance between us and the clearing did Borgu speak again.
"Coward's move," he growled under his breath. "We could've cut them down. Six? Ten? Orc kills more before breakfast."
"Ten there," I countered, "but how many more in these woods? How many altars? You want to charge blind into a nest?"
Borgu grunted, but he didn't argue further.
Sylvara walked in silence for a time before speaking. "Those were not demons. Their magic is wrong, but it isn't born of demonkind."
Lorian frowned. "Then who?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. But the runes—they reek of the old ways. Forbidden things. Whoever they are, they've found a way to twist nature itself."
I tightened my grip on my sword hilt. "Then this isn't just about survival anymore. This is a war being built in the dark."
We scouted further, careful not to draw attention.
Here and there, we found more signs.
A fox carcass, half-eaten, its insides crawling with black ichor worms. A grove where every tree leaned inward unnaturally, their branches knotted into a cage overhead. Even stones were marked, spirals etched deep into their surfaces, filled with dark resin that gleamed wetly in the light.
Sylvara muttered incantations under her breath, tracing protective sigils in the air. Lorian stayed close, his fear plain but his jaw set with determination. Borgu grew quieter, which unsettled me more than his bravado.
The further we went, the more certain I became: this wasn't spreading at random. It was deliberate. Someone was building something here, piece by piece, altar by altar, beast by beast.
And if left unchecked, it would grow.
By dusk, we returned to the stockade, weary but alive.
The fire was already burning when we arrived. Borgu dropped heavily onto a log, muttering about food. Lorian set his spear aside, his hands trembling as he tried to hide them.
Sylvara and I stayed apart from the others, speaking low.
"They're building an army," I said.
"Yes," she agreed. Her eyes flicked toward the forest. "And those cloaked ones—they were not beast, nor wholly human. Their presence… it chilled me."
"Then we need to know more. Who they are. Where they came from."
Her lips pressed thin. "And how to stop them."
I nodded. "Tomorrow, we decide. But for now—we watch. And we prepare."
That night, as I lay staring at the rafters of my unfinished hut, I couldn't shake the memory of the deer.
Its body breaking. Its eyes pleading.
The way the cloaked figures watched, as though it was nothing more than clay in their hands.
It wasn't the corruption that haunted me.
It was the laughter I thought I heard in the chanting.
Like something in the dark was amused by us.