The forest had not yet forgotten them.
Even days after the convoy raid, Arkan felt its echo carried in the silence between the trees, in the way birds startled too easily, in the way his own breath seemed louder than it should have been. The ambush had been perfect, disciplined, efficient. Yet perfection rarely went unnoticed. Somewhere beyond the ridges, the Templars were gathering their fragments, and fragments had sharp edges.
At camp, the Brotherhood moved with a tension that Arkan had not felt before. Malik, usually quick with humor, kept to his work with uncharacteristic silence. Lian sharpened her blades for the third time that morning, each pass of the whetstone a rhythm of unease. Even Sheikh Nasser, serene in most storms, had grown cautious with his words.
"They will come looking," he said one evening as the fire sputtered low. "And they will not look gently."
No one disagreed.
Shadows in the Hills
The next mission was meant to be simple: reconnaissance. Idris had sent a small party, Arkan among them, to trace the northern hills where smoke had been spotted. It could have been travelers, woodcutters, shepherds. Or it could have been something else.
They left at dusk, moving with quiet urgency. Yunus scouted ahead, his figure merging with the undergrowth. Saif al-Din walked near Arkan, muttering prayers beneath his breath, the words too soft to catch but weighted with fervor. Malik trailed behind, watching their backs, every sense alert.
The hills rose quickly, their slopes thick with pine and stone. The path was narrow, forcing them into single file. The forest floor smelled of damp moss and old secrets. For hours they climbed in silence, until Yunus raised his hand and froze.
Below, in a hollow between the trees, glowed a cluster of fires. The men crept forward, crouching behind a ridge. What they saw was no shepherd's camp.
Four tents stood arranged in a half-circle, their fabric marked with the Templar cross. Horses were tethered nearby, their saddles heavy with gear. Around the fires, armored men moved with the discipline of soldiers, not wanderers. And at the center of it all stood a cart—smaller than a convoy wagon, but reinforced, locked with iron bands.
A supply outpost. A hunting base.
"They're probing the hills," Yunus whispered. "Looking for us."
"And baiting," Malik added, his eyes fixed on the cart. "Whatever they carry, they want us to see it."
Arkan felt the air thicken around him. It was a trap—obvious, deliberate, inviting. And yet the Brotherhood had been raised to pierce traps, not shy from them. The question was not whether to strike, but when, and how.
The Whispering Dread
That night, as they withdrew to a vantage point, Arkan could not sleep. The stars above the ridge blurred in the cold air, and every crackle of branch beneath the trees below felt amplified. He thought of the young driver they had spared during the ambush, of his trembling eyes. Did the Templars interrogate him? Did he reveal faces, names, paths?
Sleep came in broken fragments. In one of them, Arkan dreamed. Or perhaps it was no dream.
He stood in the hollow of the forest, yet the fires were gone. In their place stood a single figure cloaked in shadow, taller than any man he knew, faceless beneath a hood. Its voice was not a voice but a vibration, felt in his bones.
The hunt is not yours. You are the hunted. Each echo you leave will be followed, each mercy you show will be exploited.
Arkan tried to speak, but no words left his lips. The figure leaned closer, its facelessness pressing into his vision.
And when the last shadow falls, who will remain to remember you?
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat though the night was bitter. Malik stirred beside him, but said nothing. Sometimes silence was the only answer between brothers.
Testing the Trap
By dawn, Idris had arrived with reinforcements. His presence alone steadied the group. He listened to their report without interruption, his gaze fixed on the ridge below. When Yunus described the cart, Idris's mouth tightened.
"They want us to bleed," he said. "But we decide where we bleed."
The plan he outlined was not one of direct assault. Instead, they would circle the camp, test its edges, force the Templars to reveal their hand. Arkan's role was once again pivotal: he would act as signal, the unseen tether that coordinated the strike.
They moved at first light. Lian slipped into the trees on the western flank. Saif took position near the stream that cut through the hollow. Malik and Arkan remained with Idris on higher ground. The forest grew still, as if the world itself held its breath.
The first move was subtle. A stone rolled from the ridge, clattering onto the camp's edge. A guard turned, raising his torch. Another followed, their formation shifting.
Then Lian's arrow cut the air. It struck the torch clean from the man's hand, embedding in the dirt. No kill—only a warning. The camp erupted in shouts.
Templars scrambled, swords drawn, shields raised. They scanned the trees, searching for enemies that refused to show themselves. Another arrow flew, this one thudding into a tent pole. A horse reared, snapping its tether.
Arkan signaled with a cloth tugged between branches. Saif moved in, overturning a cart of supplies into the stream, the water carrying away flour and grain. Panic spread, not from bloodshed, but from disruption.
The Templars roared their defiance, but their anger found no target. Each time they gathered in one direction, another strike pulled them elsewhere. They were being played like instruments, and Idris watched with a cold satisfaction.
Yet it could not last. From the locked cart came a sound—a low, metallic groan. Then the doors burst open.
The Iron Surprise
From within leapt not soldiers, but hunters of another kind: armored war-hounds, their bodies lean and brutal, their jaws capped with steel. Chains snapped as handlers released them, and with a chorus of snarls, they surged toward the forest.
Arkan's blood froze. He had heard of such beasts but never seen them. They were trained to kill silently, to track by scent, to obey only the Templar command.
The Brotherhood scattered. Lian loosed arrows, but the hounds moved too fast, weaving between trees. Saif met one with his blade, sparks flying as steel struck iron-capped teeth. Malik grabbed Arkan's arm, dragging him back up the ridge.
"Signal them!" he shouted. "Pull back!"
Arkan fumbled for the cloth, his fingers clumsy with fear. The dogs were on them, shadows of muscle and fury. Yunus appeared from nowhere, slashing one across the flank, buying precious seconds. Arkan raised the cloth and waved, a desperate motion more than a signal.
The Brotherhood withdrew, each man slipping into the forest's cover, drawing the hounds into a chaos of trees and cliffs. The beasts followed, relentless, but the terrain slowed them. One tumbled into a ravine; another was trapped when Lian felled a tree across its path. Still, two hounds pressed close, snapping at heels.
Arkan felt his breath tearing at his throat. His legs burned. Behind him, Malik stumbled, nearly falling. Without thought, Arkan turned, drawing his short blade. A hound lunged, its jaws wide, and he met it with steel. The impact rattled his bones, but the blade found a gap beneath its jaw. The beast collapsed, twitching in the needles.
The second hound leapt. Malik caught it mid-air, driving a dagger deep into its side. Both men fell in a tangle, but the beast went still.
The forest rang with silence again, broken only by heavy breathing.
Echoes Unresolved
By the time they regrouped at a hidden outcrop, dawn had broken fully. Idris counted heads—each man alive, though battered. The Templar camp below still smoldered with tension, their shouts echoing faintly up the ridge. They had not pursued; the hounds had been their thrust, and that thrust had been blunted.
But Idris's expression was grim. "They tested us," he said. "Measured us. And we barely held."
The men said little. Even Malik had no jest to offer. Arkan sat with his blade across his knees, staring at the blood that slicked its edge. He had killed again, but not a man—a beast twisted into weapon. It felt different, and yet the weight on his chest was the same.
As the Brotherhood made their way back through the hills, Arkan's mind lingered on the dream, on the faceless figure that had whispered of the hunt. He wondered if it had been a warning or a truth already unfolding.
For even as the sun rose high and the forest brightened, the echo of the hounds' snarls seemed to chase them still.
And somewhere, perhaps only a ridge away, the Templars listened too—measuring, waiting, hunting.