The morning mist clung to the valley like a stubborn veil, but inside the keep, the air was clear and sharp with purpose. Draven stood on the watchtower, his cloak fluttering in the breeze, his eyes fixed on the southeast. The intel from the prisoners was a raw, unfiltered data stream, and his mind had been processing it all night. Voss's beast pens were a critical logistical asset for the warlord—a ready-made cavalry of claws and fury. They were also a peripheral, high-value target, perfect for a surgical strike. To hit them was not just to wound the warlord; it was to turn his own weapon against him.
He descended the timber steps, his boots making a soft, rhythmic thud. The courtyard was a hive of quiet, focused activity. Kara was meticulously inspecting a fresh batch of Essence Fang arrowheads, her dark hair tied back, her movements a study in a coder's precision. Jaxon, ever the pragmatist, was doing a maintenance check on the main gate's new iron reinforcements. They were no longer just survivors; they were a functioning garrison, and this was their morning muster.
Grayfang met him at the base of the tower, the ancestral guardian's silver eyes gleaming with an unspoken understanding. The Thornling scampered at the wolf's heels, a spiky, energetic glitch in the otherwise serious atmosphere. Draven knelt, offering the small creature a scrap of dried meat. It wasn't sentiment; it was an investment in a growing asset. Loyalty, like any other system, required input to generate output.
"You've been up there since before first light," Kara said, her voice a low, familiar melody. She looked up from her work, her smile warm but her eyes sharp, already reading the strategy forming in his. "Plotting something spectacular, I assume?"
"Something efficient," he corrected. "The beast pens. Diego's map gives us a clear infiltration route. We hit them at dusk."
Jaxon joined them, wiping grease from his hands. His grin was a flash of white in his dark beard. "Heard the plan from the prisoners' whining. They think we're insane to even try."
"Good," Draven said. "Overconfidence is a vulnerability we can exploit. Theirs, not ours."
The day was a long, methodical preparation for a few minutes of brutal, decisive action. They gathered around the map, a council of war. Draven laid out the plan in cold, hard layers. Phase one: infiltration. They would use the dense woods to the east for cover. Phase two: setup. Jaxon would create a structural weakness in the fence. Kara would take an overwatch position. The Thornling would burrow inside to plant disruptive barbs. Phase three: execution. On his signal, they would trigger a collapse, creating a stampede directed not away from the camp, but directly into it. Phase four: extraction. They would melt back into the forest before the chaos even peaked.
"We're not killing the guards unless absolutely necessary," Draven concluded. "We're not even the primary weapon. The beasts are. We just have to aim them."
They moved out as the sun began its descent, a small, lethal team swallowed by the forest. The journey was tense, the air growing heavy with the musky scent of penned beasts. Grayfang was a ghost on point, his Scent of the Ancients ability filtering the air, flagging the trails of a two-man patrol with leashed hounds.
Draven signaled a halt. The patrol was an unexpected variable. A direct confrontation would alert the entire camp. He looked at Kara, then at the Thornling on her shoulder. A silent, tactical exchange passed between them. The little guardian dropped to the ground and tunneled into the earth without a sound. A minute later, a loud, aggressive chirping erupted from the brush fifty yards to their left. The hounds went wild, straining at their leashes, dragging the cursing handlers off the path. The window was open. The team slipped past, a perfect execution of a non-lethal bypass.
The pens were a crude, fenced clearing, the stench of dung and fear thick in the air. A dozen beasts—Thornbeasts and Rune-Hounds—paced restlessly. Four guards, lazy and bored, were gathered around a fire.
The setup was a masterpiece of silent, coordinated effort. Kara scaled a massive, ancient tree, a silent angel of death with a bow. Jaxon crept to the fence's blind side, his saws muffled by strips of hide, and began the slow, arduous task of weakening the main support posts. Draven moved along the perimeter, threading Stun Wires through the undergrowth, while the Thornling burrowed under the fence, a tiny sapper scattering sharpened spikes in the dirt to agitate the beasts at the critical moment.
The close call came when one of the guards, a burly man with a crossbow, wandered over to relieve himself just yards from where Jaxon was working. Every muscle in Draven body tensed. He gave another silent signal. Grayfang, hidden deep in the brush, let out a low, spectral howl, a sound that seemed to come from the earth itself. The guard froze, his head snapping up, his eyes wide with superstitious fear. He fumbled with his crossbow, muttered a curse about the woods being haunted, and scrambled back to the relative safety of the fire.
Jaxon finished the cut. The trap was wired. Draven signaled the retreat. From a safe vantage point, he watched the scene, his finger hovering over the remote trigger in his System interface. He gave Kara a final look. She gave a single, sharp nod.
He pressed it.
The result was pure, weaponized chaos. The weakened fence posts snapped. The fence collapsed. The Stun Wires erupted in a shower of arcing, blue energy, shocking the guards and sending the beasts into a screaming, panicked frenzy. The Thornling's burrowed spikes did the rest. The sharp pain turned their panic into rage. The stampede was a tidal wave of horns, claws, and fury, and it was aimed directly at the heart of Voss's camp. They could hear the screams and the sounds of splintering wood from half a mile away.
[Disruption Success: Beast Pens Breached.]
[Estimated Impact: Voss Forces Thinned, Camp Morale Critical, Significant Structural Damage.]
[Experience Gained: +200]
"That," Jaxon said, a deep, satisfied chuckle rumbling in his chest, "is what I call a masterpiece."
They were back at the keep by midnight, the adrenaline slowly fading, replaced by a deep, bone-weary satisfaction. They sat by the fire, sharing a meal, the tension of the day giving way to a warm, defiant camaraderie. Kara leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand finding his. The slow-burn between them had become a steady, reliable flame, a quiet anchor in his world of cold, hard strategy. He was no longer just a survivor, and she was no longer just an asset. They were partners. And their war against Voss had just been escalated, entirely on their terms.