The fire crackled in the center of our camp, sparks drifting skyward into the dark. Beyond the thin wall of our stockade, the forest loomed, silent and watchful. The memory of what we'd seen that day—the altar, the chanting, the twisting of flesh—hung over us heavier than the night air.
None of us spoke at first. We ate in silence, if one could call it eating. Borgu tore meat with more aggression than appetite, Sylvara picked at her bowl without tasting, and Lorian just stared into the flames, his food untouched.
It was me who finally broke the quiet.
"We need to talk," I said.
The words felt heavy, final, like the beginning of something none of us could step back from.
Sylvara's eyes flicked to me, sharp and weary. Borgu grunted, chewing slower. Lorian blinked, dragged from his thoughts, and straightened like a boy caught dozing during lessons.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "We've seen enough to know this isn't random. The corruption's being spread, built, shaped. Those cloaked figures—whoever they are—they're making beasts into weapons. If they're allowed to keep going, it's only a matter of time before the forest spits out an army."
Silence again, save for the crackle of fire.
Borgu was the first to answer. He slammed his bowl down, licking grease from his tusks. "Then we kill them. Smash altar, cut throats, burn whatever wriggles. Orc's answer simple."
Lorian flinched but didn't protest. He looked almost relieved at the directness of it.
Sylvara's expression hardened. "And die for it? There were watchers at the clearing, Kael. If we had moved, if we had even loosed one arrow, we'd have been surrounded. And that was only one altar. How many more lie hidden in these woods? How many cultists gather in shadows?"
Borgu scowled. "Elf's afraid."
"Elf's alive," she snapped back.
I raised a hand before it turned into one of their usual spats. "Sylvara's right. We can't rush in blind. But Borgu isn't wrong either. Doing nothing only gives them time."
Lorian finally spoke, his voice thin but steady. "Then… what do we do? We can't just pretend we didn't see it. But if we fight them now, we'll lose."
The boy's question hung in the air. I could feel their eyes on me, waiting, expecting an answer I wasn't sure I had.
For years, soldiers had looked to me the same way—squads in mud and blood, waiting for orders that meant life or death. I'd left that behind. Or so I thought.
I drew in a slow breath. "We do what soldiers do when they're outnumbered. We prepare. We watch. We learn. And when the time comes, we strike where it hurts most."
That opened the floodgates.
Sylvara leaned forward, hands clasped. "Preparation means more than sharpening swords. Our stockade is half-built. If the cultists send even a pack of their warped wolves, it won't hold. We need stronger defenses. Traps. Barriers. Places to retreat if the wall falls."
Borgu snorted. "Bah. Orc builds wall thick, strong. No wolf break it."
"Wood rots. Fire burns," Sylvara countered, her tone sharp. "A wall is only as strong as the minds behind it."
I rubbed at my temple. "Both of you have a point. The stockade is good for now, but it's not enough. We'll need traps around the perimeter. Pits. Spikes. Noise alarms."
Borgu perked up. "Spikes good. Orc makes spikes. Big ones. Bigger than elf's ears."
Sylvara rolled her eyes.
Lorian spoke up again, hesitant but clear. "And food. If the forest's turning, hunting will get harder. We'll need stores if we're going to hold out."
That, at least, earned him nods from all of us. Even Sylvara.
"Agreed," I said. "We'll need a stockpile. Dry meat, grains, whatever we can grow in the garden."
Sylvara added, "And herbs. Not just for food—if their corruption spreads through wounds, we'll need remedies ready. I can prepare poultices, but I'll need supplies."
Borgu grunted, thoughtful for once. "Orc hunts. Brings back skins, meat. Boy helps. Elf… does elf things."
Lorian shot him a look but didn't argue.
The fire burned lower as we went back and forth. For every plan made, three more problems rose. Our walls weren't finished. Our numbers were too few. We didn't know the cultists' strength, or even what they truly were.
But the more we spoke, the more the fear shifted. It wasn't gone—no, it coiled still in our guts—but it became something else. Resolve.
We weren't four strangers anymore. We were a council. A fragile one, yes, but one tied together by the choice to fight for this place.
When the voices finally faded, and the fire sank to embers, I spoke once more.
"We can't win this war tomorrow. But if we're clever, if we prepare, if we watch for our moment—we can bleed them. Make them fear coming near us. Maybe even drive them back."
I looked at each of them in turn.
"At dawn, we start. Borgu, you and I will reinforce the stockade, set traps outside the walls. Lorian, you'll help with the hunting, but stay close. No wandering. Sylvara, start your garden, and your remedies. Every root and leaf might save us later."
Sylvara inclined her head, solemn. Lorian nodded quickly, determination bright in his eyes. Borgu cracked a grin, tusks gleaming.
"Good plan," he rumbled. "Good enough. Orc will build spikes sharp enough to skewer gods."
I couldn't help but chuckle, weary though I was. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The council ended there, but none of us slept easily.
As I lay staring into the dark, listening to Borgu's snores, Sylvara's soft breathing, and Lorian's restless shifting, my thoughts circled the clearing we'd left behind.
The chanting. The runes. The deer's breaking body.
And the figures, silent and patient, watching the woods as if they knew we were out there.
This wasn't just about our little village anymore.
War had a way of finding me, no matter how far I ran.
And it had found me again.