The victory from the Phantom Cascade was a quiet, cold thing. It hummed in the background of the keep, a low thrum of success that did little to calm the restless energy in Draven's mind. From the watchtower, the southern horizon looked no different, but he knew, with the certainty of a master strategist, that he had created a vacuum. His ghost army was pulling Voss's best troops eastward, leaving the warlord's main camp—his heart—exposed and vulnerable. A system with such a gaping flaw was not just an opportunity; it was an invitation.
He descended the steps, his mind already several moves ahead. The morning was a picture of their new, hard-won domesticity. Jaxon was reinforcing a section of the wall, his hammer blows a steady, rhythmic beat. Kara was in the Verdant Grove, the subterranean garden they had built, the Thornling happily helping her harvest glowing, high-energy fruits. The captured Rune-Hound, now a fully integrated member of their pack, was in the training yard with Grayfang, the two of them moving through synergy drills with a lethal grace. Rico, their defector, was diligently sketching a more detailed layout of Voss's camp from memory.
Draven gathered them at the central fire pit. He laid Rico's new, more detailed map on the stone. "The Phantom Cascade was a success," he began, his voice a low, focused instrument. "Voss has redeployed his elite hunters to the east. According to the Veil Network's projections and Rico's intel, his main southern camp is now operating at sixty percent strength."
Jaxon stopped sharpening his axe, his eyes gleaming. "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking."
"It's the logical next step," Draven confirmed, his finger tapping the map. "Voss has left his front door open. We don't knock; we walk in, take what we need, and leave before he even knows we were there. A deep reconnaissance strike. Our objective is his command tent."
The audacity of the plan hung in the air. This wasn't a peripheral strike on a supply line or a beast pen. This was a direct incursion into the enemy's headquarters.
"It's a deep run, Draven," Kara said, her expression serious, her hand instinctively resting on the bow at her side. "No easy exit if things go wrong."
"The risk is calculated," he replied. "Rico's intel gives us the path. The thinned patrols give us the window. The potential gain—confirming Voss's command structure, assessing his true strength, and potentially acquiring high-value intelligence—outweighs the probability of mission failure."
Rico pointed to a spot on the map. "Here," he rasped. "The tamers' barracks. After the beast pen raid, morale is at rock bottom. They're the weak link in his security. Their patrols will be the sloppiest."
The plan solidified. It would be a small, elite infiltration team: Draven, Kara, and Kael. Jaxon would remain to command the keep's defense, a vital and non-negotiable role. They would move under the cover of the approaching dusk, using their new knowledge to bypass the remaining patrols and slip into the heart of the camp.
The hours before they left were a blur of quiet, focused preparation. Kara used the Crystal Thread to craft a lightweight grappling line. Draven, using the last of the Jungle Vine Essence, created several smoke bombs, perfect for covering a hasty retreat. They packed light: potions, rations, and the tools of their trade.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Kara found him by the gate. She straightened the collar on his cloak, her fingers lingering for a moment. "You know," she said softly, "for a guy who thinks in flowcharts and probability, you've built a real home here."
He met her gaze, the slow burn between them a steady, grounding warmth. "A fortress is just stone and wood," he said, his voice softer than usual. "The people defending it are what make it a home."
She smiled, a brilliant, unguarded thing. "Bring yourself back, Draven," she whispered, and then she kissed him, a deep, lingering promise that he carried with him as he, Kara, and Kael melted into the twilight shadows.
The journey south was a tense, nerve-wracking exercise in stealth. Guided by Rico's map and Kael's senses, they moved like ghosts through the forest, a silent, three-person infiltration unit. They could hear the sounds of Voss's camp long before they saw it—the distant clang of a hammer, the shouts of men, the roars of caged beasts. It was a sprawling, chaotic place, a testament to the warlord's brute force.
They found the weak point Rico had described, a section of the palisade near the tamers' barracks that was poorly lit and irregularly patrolled. Kara's grappling line was a silent whisper in the dark, and in moments, they were over the wall and inside the enemy's den.
The camp was a hive of activity, but the patrols were indeed thin. They moved from shadow to shadow, their movements a synchronized, deadly ballet. They reached the command tent, a large, imposing structure at the heart of the camp. But as they crept closer, they saw something that wasn't on Rico's map.
A smaller, heavily guarded tent stood beside the main one. And from within, they could hear a high-pitched, unnatural screeching, a sound that made the hairs on Draven's arms stand on end. It was the sound of a rift-spawn.
This changed everything. Voss wasn't just a warlord collecting soldiers. He was tampering with the unstable, chaotic magic of the realms. He was weaponizing the very force the journal had warned against.
Their mission parameters had just shifted from simple reconnaissance to critical threat assessment. As Kara provided overwatch, Draven and Kael slipped closer to the guarded tent. He created a small, silent diversion, using a sliver of essence to knock over a stack of crates on the far side of the clearing. As the guards turned, he peered through a slit in the tent flap.
Inside, it wasn't gold or supplies. It was a cage, covered by a heavy, tarpaulin sheet. And inside the cage, something thrashed, something that was not of this world. On a table nearby lay scattered notes and diagrams, the frantic scribblings of a scholar trying to understand—and control—the creature.
Suddenly, a hand clamped down on Draven's shoulder. He spun, his dagger already in his hand, to find himself face-to-face with a grizzled, one-eyed man—one of Voss's elite tamers. The man's eyes were wide, not with aggression, but with a shared, terrified understanding.
Before he could attack, the tamer put a finger to his lips, his other hand pointing back toward the cage. "He's trying to breed them," the tamer whispered, his voice a panicked hiss. "He thinks he can control them. He's going to get us all killed."
The screech from the cage intensified, a sound of pure, dimensional agony. The war had just become infinitely more complicated, and infinitely more dangerous.