Malric moved with purpose, his skeletal form cloaked in tattered fabric and the growing shadows of the forest. The lingering traces of magic in the air were faint, but every now and then, they sharpened like a scent on the wind, guiding his path. His sharpened senses, bolstered by the goblin shaman's spine, offered him a perspective no mortal could hope to match—yet it was still imperfect. The trail was fragmented, broken by the subtle workings of nature and time.

He paused at a clearing, scanning the horizon. Somewhere, humans walked these roads, carrying news, goods, and perhaps whispers of Basilisk's Fang. They were a part of the web he needed to unravel, unwitting nodes in a network of information.

Malric crouched low, his eyes drawn to the dirt path winding through the trees. Deep grooves in the ground indicated the passing of wagons, and he saw faint boot prints trailing alongside. His sharpened perception of magic revealed faint traces of latent energy. It wasn’t the strong pulse of a spellcaster but something more mundane—perhaps tools imbued with low-level enchantments or wares meant to dazzle commonfolk.

"Merchants," Malric whispered to himself, a rasp of bone scraping against bone. He rose, the forest shifting around him as if aware of his intrusion.

He followed the trail, careful to keep his steps measured and quiet. The minutes turned to an hour, and his patience was rewarded when voices drifted toward him, faint and fragmented.

Ahead, a small group of humans moved along the path. Two wagons laden with goods trundled forward, drawn by tired horses. The merchants—three men and a woman—walked alongside, their conversation quiet but tinged with weariness. One of the men carried a bow, his wary gaze sweeping the treeline.

Malric kept to the shadows, observing. These people were cautious, their eyes darting into the forest as though sensing they were not alone. Their movements were routine, practiced. These were not brigands or criminals, but neither were they strangers to danger.

He contemplated his next move. Barging forward might spook them, but too much subtlety could invite suspicion. His skeletal visage would betray him if seen, yet his tattered cloak and hood might conceal enough for an initial approach.

Malric stepped forward deliberately, keeping his form partially obscured by the treeline. His bony fingers gripped the edges of his cloak as he let out a dry, hollow cough—a calculated sound to announce his presence without seeming too abrupt.

The woman was the first to notice him. She froze, her hand shooting up to alert the others. The man with the bow turned, arrow nocked in an instant.

"Who's there?" the archer barked, his voice steady but edged with tension.

Malric raised a hand in mock surrender, ensuring his movements were slow and deliberate. "A traveler," he rasped, pitching his voice to sound weary. "I mean no harm."

The archer’s eyes narrowed, his aim unwavering. The others gathered closer to him, forming a loose defensive line.

"A traveler, eh?" the archer said. "And what kind of traveler skulks in the woods like a thief?"

Malric chuckled dryly, a sound that came unnervingly natural to him. "One who knows the roads aren’t always safe. I merely sought to avoid trouble."

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The group exchanged wary glances. The woman stepped forward cautiously, her hand resting on the hilt of a dagger. "Why are you alone? No caravan, no companions?"

Malric hesitated. Lies were necessary, but they had to be plausible. "I was separated from my group when we were attacked by bandits. I’ve been wandering since, trying to find my way."

The woman’s eyes softened slightly, but the archer remained unconvinced. "Show yourself properly," he demanded.

Malric stepped into the fading light, keeping his hood low and his posture hunched to obscure his skeletal frame. The fading light worked to his advantage, casting deep shadows that concealed most of his unnatural features.

"Strange fellow," the archer muttered. "But not the first we’ve seen on these roads."

"Perhaps he’s telling the truth," the woman said, though her grip on the dagger didn’t loosen. "Bandits have been more active lately."

The group hesitated, their guard still raised. Malric saw his chance to gather information without drawing too much suspicion.

"I’ve heard of these bandits," he said, his tone cautious. "They say they’re connected to something larger. Have you heard anything of Basilisk’s Fang?"

The question was deliberate, pitched as idle curiosity. The woman’s brow furrowed, but she nodded slightly. "I’ve heard the name," she said. "Whispers, mostly. Dangerous folk, if you believe the stories."

The archer snorted. "Dangerous isn’t the half of it. They run half the black markets in the region, or so I hear. Best keep your head down if you know what’s good for you."

Malric inclined his head, as though taking the warning to heart. "Sound advice," he said. "Thank you."

The group began to move on, their suspicion lingering but their hostility fading. Malric watched them go, the shadows of the forest closing around him once more.

Section 5: Renewed Purpose

As their voices faded into the distance, Malric stood motionless, contemplating what he’d learned. Basilisk’s Fang was as elusive as ever, but the mention of black markets gave him a thread to follow. If he could find these markets, he might find the organization—or at least another piece of the puzzle.

He turned back toward the forest, his mind churning with possibilities. The hunt was far from over, but the trail was growing clearer.

Chapter 30: The Trail Unveiled

The forest was a sea of whispers and shadows as Malric moved silently among the trees, his senses heightened and his focus sharp. The faint magical trails he had followed since leaving the grove now felt distant, like a thread that might unravel at any moment. He needed something more direct—someone who could point him toward Basilisk’s Fang.

It wasn’t long before the crackle of a distant fire caught his attention. Moving closer, he saw a small campsite nestled in a clearing, three men seated around the flames. Their mismatched gear and the way they kept their weapons close spoke volumes: these were not ordinary travelers.

Malric watched from the cover of the forest as one of the men—a burly figure with a scar carved into his cheek—spoke in a low voice.

"...east docks tomorrow. No room for error this time."

The other two men nodded grimly.

Malric’s jaw tightened. These men were connected to Basilisk’s Fang. Perhaps smugglers or couriers, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the knowledge they held, and he would have it.

Malric waited, his skeletal form hidden in the shadows, until the fire began to die and the men’s chatter turned idle. The time had come. Stepping into the firelight, he let his presence be known.

"Who’s there?" barked the scarred man, leaping to his feet, sword already in hand.

Malric raised his hands in a mock gesture of peace, his hood obscuring his face. "A lost traveler seeking aid."

The men exchanged skeptical glances. One of them, a wiry man gripping a dagger, sneered. "You’ve got the wrong camp, friend."

"No," Malric said softly. "I believe I’m exactly where I need to be."

Before they could react, Malric struck. His clawed hands slashed the air, catching the dagger-wielding man across the chest. He collapsed with a strangled cry. The others lunged forward, but Malric moved with an unnatural swiftness, dodging their blows and countering with bone-rattling force.

The scarred man swung his blade with precision, the steel glancing off Malric’s reinforced ribcage. "You’re not human," he hissed, backing away.

Malric didn’t answer. He grabbed the remaining man by the throat, lifting him effortlessly before tossing him aside like a broken doll. Only the scarred man was left now, his defiance fading into fear.

The scarred man was on his knees, clutching his sword like a talisman. Malric loomed over him, his shadow stretching ominously in the dying firelight.

"You’re going to tell me everything about Basilisk’s Fang," Malric said, his voice low and cold.

The man spat blood onto the ground. "Go to hell."

Malric crouched, his skeletal fingers wrapping around the man’s jaw, forcing him to meet his empty gaze. "I’ve already been there. Speak, or you’ll wish for its mercy."

The man trembled, his defiance crumbling. "East docks...in the city. That’s where their deals go down. But you’ll never get close—they’ll see you coming."

Malric tilted his head, studying him. "That depends on how well they see."

Releasing the man, Malric turned his attention to the camp. He rummaged through their belongings, finding a crude map with a familiar coiled basilisk symbol marking a location. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Malric stood at the edge of the firelight, the map in one hand. The scarred man sat slumped against a log, his breath ragged.

"You’ve served your purpose," Malric said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But I can’t leave loose ends."

The man’s eyes widened as Malric stepped forward, his clawed hand descending with finality. The body slumped lifelessly to the ground.