The fire finally caught after three tries, sparks licking against kindling until orange light spread into the twilight. It should have felt like relief. Fire meant warmth, food, safety. But tonight the flames only painted our faces with deeper shadows.
No one spoke at first. The silence stretched, thick and uneasy, until the crackle of burning wood was the only sound.
Borgu was the first to break it. Of course he was.
"Why we run?" he grunted, hunched over, tusks gleaming in the firelight. His axe rested across his knees, fingers drumming against the haft like a man itching to fight. "Five cultists, one ugly altar. Orc smash, problem gone."
Sylvara's sharp gaze cut across the fire at him. "And when the shadows tore your body apart before your axe even fell?" Her tone was cool, but there was an edge under it. "You saw them, Borgu. Those weren't men. They were tethered things. Wrong things. You'd have been food for their ritual before you even swung."
The orc bared his teeth. "Better to fight than crawl back with tails between legs."
"Better to live and fight when it matters," I said, voice low but firm.
Borgu met my eyes across the fire, unflinching. He wasn't defying me—yet—but he wanted blood. That much was clear.
Sylvara leaned forward, bow resting at her side, voice steady. "We can't afford rashness. The cultists aren't simply praying in the woods anymore. They're binding the land. That's systematic. That's deliberate. If they're left unchecked, the entire forest will rot."
Lorian shifted uncomfortably, his pale face made paler by the fire. He'd hardly spoken since we left the clearing. Now his lips trembled before he forced words out.
"They're… not just binding. They're feeding." His voice was a whisper, but we all leaned in. "That altar wasn't just a focus—it was a conduit. The shades, the tethering… it's all linked. They're funneling essence, life itself, into something else. Something deeper."
The silence returned, but heavier now.
Borgu frowned. "Essence? Bah. Fancy words. What it mean?"
"It means," Sylvara said grimly, "that they're digging roots. The longer they're allowed to chant and bleed the land, the harder it will be to cut them out. Think of a tree. Easier to fell when it's a sapling. Harder when its roots twist under the earth for miles."
"Then we cut fast," Borgu snapped.
"No," I said.
All eyes shifted to me. The old soldier. The one who walked away from war only to find another creeping at his doorstep.
"We don't cut fast," I continued. "We cut smart. You saw their numbers. Five at the altar, shades circling. But how many more, waiting out of sight? How many other altars? We don't know the scale yet. If we rush, we die. If we wait, we die slower. That's the truth."
The words sat heavy in the air. Sylvara didn't argue. Borgu didn't speak. Even Lorian stayed quiet, eyes cast downward as if afraid of the firelight itself.
Finally, Sylvara asked, "Then what do you suggest?"
I rubbed at the stubble on my chin, staring into the flames. Memories of battlefield councils flickered back—maps spread across tables, commanders shouting, men and women making decisions that sealed the fates of thousands.
Back then, I was just a soldier carrying orders. Now… somehow, I was the one giving them.
"We scout further," I said. "Not just one altar. Not just one clearing. We learn their pattern. Their spread. How many they've got and how far they've anchored the forest. If we strike, it has to cripple them, not scratch them."
Borgu snorted. "Scout, scout, scout. Always hiding, never killing. Orc's axe grows dull."
"Then sharpen it," Sylvara snapped, her patience fraying. "Kael's right. Without knowledge, all the axes in the world are useless."
Borgu growled low in his throat, but didn't push further.
It was Lorian who spoke next, so quietly we almost missed it. "There's another way."
We turned to him. His hands trembled in his lap, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something new.
"They're feeding essence into their master. If we could disrupt that flow—if we could cut it off, sever the tether—the shades would unravel. The altars would weaken. They'd lose everything."
Sylvara leaned in. "How?"
His lips pressed tight before he whispered, "Counter-ritual. A weaving to unbind what they've done. But it's dangerous. Very dangerous. If I fail…"
He didn't finish the thought. He didn't need to. We all understood.
Borgu barked a harsh laugh. "Elf prays to bow, man swings sword, orc smashes, and now frail one mutters spells. Bah. Maybe it work. Maybe not. Orc prefers axe."
But I caught the flicker in Lorian's eyes. Fear, yes. But also resolve. The kind of resolve that doesn't come cheap.
I met his gaze. "If we consider that path, we prepare you. Protect you. But not yet. Not until we know more."
He nodded shakily, relief mixing with dread.
Sylvara finally leaned back, exhaling slowly. "So. Scout further. Learn their spread. Decide on counter or strike. That's the path?"
I nodded. "That's the path."
The fire popped, sparks dancing upward into the dark.
No one cheered. No one smiled. But slowly, one by one, they each nodded.
A decision had been made.
Later, when the fire had burned low and the others slept, I sat awake. Sword across my knees. The weight of command pressing heavy on my shoulders.
I had walked away from war to find peace. Now I was leading a war again. Smaller, quieter, but war nonetheless.
Only difference this time was the faces. Not soldiers, not comrades hardened by endless battlefields. But a mismatched orc with more heart than sense, an elf scarred but proud, and a fragile man carrying more power than his frame seemed to allow.
A strange little band. My band.
And gods help me, I would keep them alive.