Kael, his four-legged early-warning system, was a silver streak of condensed worry, pacing the perimeter with a low growl humming in his chest. At his heels, Ember's fiery tail was a single, nervous flame, a barometer of the camp's mood. Over by the fire pit, Lila was stirring a pot, her movements efficient and tense. Tariq was on a stump, whittling, carving his fear into something useful—another alarm whistle. Everyone was acting busy, which is how Ethan knew they were all counting the seconds.
The warlord they'd robbed wasn't going to send a strongly-worded letter. He was going to send killers.
Ethan flexed his aching hands, the ghost of Lila's touch from the night before a strange warmth in his memory. It was a stupid thing to focus on when he should be plotting, but it was the only thing that didn't feel like a prelude to a fight. He shoved it down. Time to work.
"Lila, walk with me," he called, his voice rough in the quiet. "Tariq, how are those whistles coming?"
She glanced over, a tired smirk playing on her lips as she grabbed her bow. "Careful, Carver. You're starting to sound like you have a plan."
"We're with you, Ethan," Tariq grunted, not looking up from his work. The vote of confidence felt heavier than a shield.
They moved past the splintered gate and into the Gloomwood, the canopy so thick it swallowed the morning light. Ten minutes out, the forest went dead quiet. Bad sign. The kind of silence that comes right before the screaming starts. Kael froze, a statue of silver fur and bared teeth.
"See that?" Ethan whispered, stopping Lila with a hand on her arm. A flash of polished metal. A shadow that detached itself from a tree trunk.
"Yeah," she breathed back. "Too close."
"Take him."
Lila didn't wait. An arrow was nocked, drawn, and gone before the scout could blink. The thump was sickeningly final. They found him with a map clutched in his hand. A map that had their little slice of hell circled in charcoal.
The mood back at camp went from tense to toxic. The map also showed a rendezvous point a few klicks north.
"They're grouping up," Tariq said, his face ashen. "That's a staging ground. Could be a full war party by nightfall."
The options were simple: wait here to be surrounded and slaughtered, or go out there and maybe get slaughtered.
"We can't let them mass," Ethan said, the plan forming from sheer, desperate logic. "We don't wait for the storm to hit. We hit the storm. Ambush the rendezvous. Hard and fast."
Lila's hand found his, her grip tight. "It's crazy," she said, her eyes glinting. "Let's do it."
That was all he needed. The afternoon was a blur of motion—reinforcing the back escape route with deadfall, packing clean claws and herbs, testing the shrill notes of Tariq's new whistles.
Dusk found them perched on the edge of a ravine overlooking the enemy camp. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed men and cookfires. This was it. Ethan gave the signal.
Ember lit the fuse. A roiling ball of flame shot from the undergrowth and detonated in the center of the camp. It wasn't a battle. It was a demolition. While fire and chaos reigned below, Lila's arrows became whispers of death from the shadows. Ethan and Kael hit the panicked flank like a landslide of steel and fang, driving survivors toward the ravine edge before melting back into the smoke. They hit, they broke, and they ran.
Hours later, they collapsed by the spring inside their stockade, lungs burning, bodies screaming. The outpost was quiet, safe for another night. Lila slumped against him, her fight gone, her head resting on his shoulder.
"That worked," she managed, her voice ragged. Ember curled up by their feet, a warm, pulsing light in the dark.
Ethan wrapped an arm around her, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his ribs. The warlord was still out there. More men would come. But not tonight.
"Yeah," he said. "Together."
They were exhausted, battered, and alive. For now, alive was plenty.