Chapter 27 – Expedition
Crouch. Crouch.
The muffled thud of boots pressed into the damp earth, thirty sets of footsteps carrying across the hushed forest. Armor clinked and shifted, a metallic rhythm beneath the whisper of leaves.
They moved with purpose. With focus.
The air around them felt heavy, charged with the weight of thirty powerful warriors marching as one. Each step pressed tension deeper into the silence, as if even the wind had grown cautious.
At a glance, the thirty were not one unit but six. Each cluster of five bore identical armor and emblems, the insignias of their city lords stitched across breastplates or cloaks. The differences marked their division as clearly as banners on a battlefield.
One group stood apart. Their pace never faltered, but their distance from the others spoke of quiet disdain. They did not care. Pride walked before them, sharp as drawn steel.
The company pressed deeper into the forest.
⸻
They halted at a clearing where gnarled roots broke through the soil like skeletal hands. Each group fanned slightly apart, standing within sight but never too close, as though the air itself demanded separation. The leaders stepped closer to the middle to have a discussion before they proceeded.
Eyes shifted. Perceptions brushed. The atmosphere grew taut—like a bowstring drawn, buzzing with restrained hostility. Even the trees seemed to hold still, their branches swaying less as though sensing the pressure of clashing wills.
"So how are we going to do this?"
The first to break the silence was a woman. Iris, her long hair pale as seafoam, the faint glimmer of scales tracing her neck. A merfolk, her voice carried a ripple of calm despite the tension.
"I say we all go our separate ways," a man rumbled, broad shoulders encased in heavy black armor. His golden eyes gleamed faintly, betraying his bloodline. A werewolf. His tone left no room for doubt—he was the leader of his group.
"That would be—"
The vampire leader's smooth voice was cut short. His words clipped off, his expression twisting in irritation as another voice cut clean across him.
"No."
Austin stood firm, his posture rigid, face carved in stone. The human leader didn't even glance toward the vampire as he spoke. His aura was like iron—unyielding, straightforward, sharp.
"Why?" Paul, the werewolf, pressed, a trace of surprise in his voice. "Not only would it be faster, but it would also remove the risk of a falling out." He swept his gaze across indicating the tension between each group.
"Because it also means one group could make a discovery—and bury it from the rest," Sylvia, the elven leader, interjected. She stood serene, her presence soft yet radiant, as though the very nature bent to her.
Austin nodded slightly. "Exactly. So I suggest we split up, but mix the groups. One from each race."
The proposal hung in the air like smoke.
It made sense. It was fair. But fairness was not the same as trust. Each leader felt the same unspoken thought coil in their minds: what if the others turn on mine?
Their pride bristled. Their silence stretched.
Patric, the vampire, broke it with a hiss under his breath. "Bastard." He held his composure outwardly, but his narrowed crimson eyes betrayed his disdain for being silenced earlier.
Still, none outright rejected the idea.
Their attention shifted toward the only group yet to speak.
The zombies.
Five of them stood motionless in emerald-green armor, strange masks covering their faces. Silent from the beginning, their arrogance leaked into the air as though it were a tangible scent.
Finally, one moved. A figure stepped forward, armor creaking as they came to the center. The mask tilted slightly, voice muffled but steady.
"Fine. But the zombies lead."
The words struck the air like flint.
Narrowed eyes met the declaration. A dozen silent glares weighed on the speaker, yet she stood unmoved.
"Why should we let zombies lead?" Patric asked sharply, his tone bristling. "The werewolves would also like to claim that right." His words earned him another round of sharp stares. Even his own companions shifted faintly, discomfort in their gaze.
Clicking his tongue, he quickly amended, "then… perhaps no leader. Either that or we divide command—each group led by a different race."
It sounded reasonable, but beneath the surface lay another thorn. To take orders from another race was unthinkable. To cede pride was unpardonable.
The debate fizzled into silence. The first choice—no leader—was all that remained.
The zombie exhaled sharply, a faint tsk escaping through her mask before she retreated back into line.
And so, without a leader, the thirty split once more. Groups dissolved, replaced by a tighter circle of the five leaders keeping near each other, their gazes cold with unspoken calculations.
Then they scattered—vanishing into the trees, dispersing across the forest in different directions.
The mission had begun.