The night after Borgu declared himself "Supreme Warden of the Spikes" should have been like any other.
The fire crackled, the stew filled our bellies, and the echoes of our laughter clung to the air long after we retired to our huts. Borgu's snores shook the walls, Sylvara's breathing was soft and measured, and Lorian muttered in his sleep as though still reenacting the cultists' shrieks.
And yet, I couldn't rest.
Something in my gut stirred uneasily. The kind of quiet that wasn't peace but a knife drawn across skin, waiting.
I slipped from my bed and stepped outside, sword sheathed but hand resting on the hilt. The night was dark, the moon veiled by clouds, and the only light came from the dying embers of our fire pit.
The forest loomed beyond, trees like silent sentinels. But the stillness was wrong. No owls, no rustle of small creatures, not even the chirp of insects.
A soldier learns to listen not only to sound, but to the absence of it. And right now, the silence pressed on me like a weight.
"Kael."
Sylvara's voice was a whisper, sharp as an arrowhead. She emerged from the shadows by the wall, bow already in hand, eyes scanning the treeline.
"You feel it too," I said.
She nodded once. "We're being watched."
It wasn't the blundering idiocy of the cultists from before.
No tripping, no muttering, no pots clanging by accident. Whoever—or whatever—was out there now was patient. Disciplined.
My skin prickled as my gaze swept the treeline. At first, there was nothing. Then—movement. Just a flicker, a darker shape within the dark, too still to be animal.
A hooded figure stood between the trees. Watching.
The moment my eyes locked on him, he melted back into the shadows, leaving nothing but the memory of his presence.
Sylvara's grip on her bow tightened. "Not scouts. Hunters."
Behind us, a groggy voice muttered, "What's happening?"
Lorian stumbled out of his hut, rubbing his eyes. Borgu followed a moment later, still half-asleep, clutching his axe.
I raised a hand for silence. "Quiet. Don't speak loud. They're here."
Borgu blinked. "Who?"
"Not the fools from before," I murmured. "Different ones."
The orc's tusks gleamed faintly as his grin spread. "Good. Stronger fight."
Sylvara shot him a look that could have frozen rivers. "Orc, if you roar right now, I will shoot you in the foot."
He grunted, but stayed quiet.
We held our vigil until the fire guttered low. The forest never stirred. But the sense of eyes never left me.
Then I noticed something. Carved into the nearest tree, just beyond the reach of firelight, was a mark.
I stepped closer, careful not to cross fully beyond the wall, and crouched. My stomach tightened.
The bark had been cut with sharp, deliberate strokes. A crude symbol: a spiral of lines converging into a jagged cross. The resin still wept from the wound in the wood.
Fresh.
Sylvara's face was pale as she joined me. "Ritual mark."
Borgu tilted his head. "Ugly drawing. Orc children carve better."
"It's not meant to be pretty," Sylvara snapped softly. "It's a claim. A warning. Or both."
Lorian's voice wavered. "What… what does it mean?"
I stood slowly, hand tightening on my sword. "It means they want us to know they're here."
Sylvara's jaw clenched. "They didn't attack because they didn't need to. Fear is a weapon."
We returned to the huts, but sleep was impossible. The four of us stayed close to the dying fire, weapons at our sides, eyes never leaving the tree line.
Hours passed. Shapes flickered now and then in the dark. Too far to strike, too faint to count. But enough to keep our nerves wound tight as bowstrings.
Once, Borgu stood, axe in hand, ready to charge. I caught his arm and shook my head. "That's what they want. Leave the shadows to them."
He growled low, but sat.
The waiting was worse than any battle. At least in a fight you could act. This… this was poison drawn out drop by drop.
At some point, the clouds parted. Moonlight spilled into the clearing. I scanned the trees again—nothing.
The figures were gone.
Dawn came muted, the camp cloaked in exhaustion.
Sylvara rubbed her temples, her bow still clutched tight in her hand. Borgu stomped around muttering about cowards. Lorian, pale and hollow-eyed, tried to keep his hands from shaking as he cooked breakfast.
I chewed the dry bread mechanically, eyes fixed on the tree line.
"They tested us," I said finally.
Sylvara looked up. "And?"
"And they saw we're not easy prey. But they'll be back. With more."
Lorian's voice was small. "What… what do we do?"
For a moment, silence fell. Borgu's eyes were eager, ready for the fight. Sylvara's were grim, calculating. Lorian's held only fear.
I exhaled slowly. The soldier in me knew the answer. But saying it aloud made something inside me twist.
"We can't just wait here to be hunted," I said. "We need to know what we're up against. Who they serve. How deep their claws go."
Sylvara nodded once. "You mean scouting."
I met her gaze. "I mean finding out if we're fighting shadows in the trees, or if this is the edge of something much larger."
The fire popped softly between us.
None of us said it, but we all knew: the bumbling fools who'd run screaming before Borgu's wall of spikes were just the beginning.
Now the real enemy had arrived.
And we weren't ready.