Ch 15: Into the Wolf’s Den
The jungle finally began to thin as the group climbed higher, the dense canopy giving way to open skies. The faint glow of torchlight shimmered through the trees ahead, marking their destination. Hours of trekking through the underbrush, avoiding traps and signs of patrols, had brought them here—to the edge of the bandits’ hidden stronghold.
Makori, leading the way, held up a hand, signaling for them to stop. He crouched low, pointing to a rocky outcrop overlooking the clearing below. “It’s just ahead,” he whispered, his voice steady but laced with apprehension. “We’ll get a better look from up there.”
“Good work,” Soren murmured, his eyes scanning the terrain. “Take us up.”
The group followed Makori in silence, their movements quiet and deliberate. The jungle’s nocturnal symphony masked their steps, but every member of the team remained acutely aware of their surroundings. The tension in the air was palpable, each of them knowing how close they were to the enemy now.
Finally, they reached the ridge. Makori knelt first, motioning for the others to follow. “Here,” he said softly, gesturing to the rocky outcrop that overlooked the camp. “We’re above them. They won’t see us from here.”
Soren crouched beside him, sweeping the camp below. It was larger than expected—rows of makeshift tents sprawled in a loose formation, the perimeter lined with crude barricades. Three watchtowers rose from the outer edges, their guards armed and alert, though the rotations seemed uneven. In the center of the camp stood a reinforced tent, larger and sturdier than the others, with a group of bandits unloading crates into it under the watchful eyes of heavily armed mercenaries.
Ayola knelt nearby, her notebook already out. Her pencil scratched against the paper as she began sketching the camp’s layout, her eyes darting between the tents and guards. Ishar remained standing, his spear resting lightly in his hand as he scanned the scene with a critical eye.
“Three watchtowers,” Ayola murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “North, west, and south. Two guards each, but the western one’s light is dim. Either they’re running low on oil, or that guard’s asleep.”
Makori squinted toward the western tower. “He’s slouched. Probably sleeping.”
Soren gave a slight nod of approval. “Good eye.”
“What else do you see?” Ayola asked, her voice calm but encouraging.
Makori hesitated, his brow furrowing in concentration. “The southern side… there’s a gap in the barricades near the tree line. Patrols don’t seem to cover it much.”
“That’s an entry point,” Ayola said, sketching quickly. “Anything else?”
“The prisoners,” Makori said, his voice tightening. He pointed toward the south, where a cluster of smaller tents stood, guarded by pairs of bandits. “They’re in those tents. Two guards rotate every ten minutes. Their paths overlap near the middle tent.”
Soren’s gaze shifted to the central tent, where the crates were being moved. His sharp eyes narrowed. “That’s where the leader is operating. The mercenaries guarding it aren’t bandits—they’re professionals.” His focus lingered on two figures among the mercenaries—distinct from the rest.
The man’s black hair, streaked with gray, was tied into a neat knot, contrasting with the sharp, angular planes of his face. His armor was immaculate—a blend of dark leather and steel that suggested precision rather than brute strength. Besides him was a smaller figure whose pale, bluish skin seemed to shimmer in the torchlight. Silver hair jutted out in wild, electrified spikes, matching the faint arcs of energy that danced between the jagged javelins he spun idly in his hands.
Ishar grunted in agreement. “Look at their stances. They’re alert, watching everything, not just the perimeter.”
Makori frowned. “Why would mercenaries work with bandits?”
“Money,” Soren said flatly. “Or something worse.”
Ayola’s pencil paused as her eyes flicked toward the crates. The bandits handling them moved with unusual care, their caution standing in stark contrast to the chaos of the rest of the camp. She bit her lip. “Whatever’s in those crates, it’s important.”
“Or dangerous,” Soren added grimly.
Makori’s voice lowered, tinged with unease. “Do you think it’s connected to the beasts? The catalyst?”
Ayola’s eyes darted back to the crates, her expression unreadable. “It’s possible. But we won’t know for sure until we get a closer look.”
“We can’t rush in blind,” Soren said, his tone decisive. “We focus on the prisoners first. Whatever’s in those crates can wait.”
Makori’s lips pressed into a thin line. “But if it’s connected to the beasts—”
Soren cut him off, his voice calm but firm. “Focus on what we can control. The prisoners come first.”
Makori didn’t look satisfied, but Ayola placed a hand on his arm. “Soren’s right. If we don’t get the people out, nothing else matters.”
Ishar shifted beside them, his voice low and steady. “What’s the plan, then? We’ve seen enough to know we’re not going to sneak in undetected.”
Soren’s expression darkened as he studied the camp. “We split up. Ayola and Ishar, take the eastern side. Get a closer look at the central tent and those crates. Makori and I will handle the western edge and keep eyes on the prisoners.”
Ishar’s head snapped toward Soren, his dark eyes narrowing. “You’re taking Makori?”
“Yes,” Soren replied evenly. “He’s quiet, fast, and sees things others miss. He’ll be with me.”
Ishar stepped forward, lowering his voice to a near growl. “If anything happens to him—”
“It won’t,” Soren interrupted, his tone steady and assured. “I’ll keep him safe.”
Makori bristled, his hand tightening around his sword. “I don’t need anyone to babysit me. I can handle myself.”
“Enough,” Ayola interjected, her sharp tone cutting through the tension. She looked at Ishar, her expression softening. “This is the best way to cover ground quickly. And you know Soren wouldn’t put Makori in unnecessary danger.”
Ishar’s glare lingered on Soren for a moment before he exhaled heavily, stepping back. “Fine. But keep your word.”
Soren nodded, his focus already shifting back to the camp. “Thirty minutes. Then we regroup here. If anything goes wrong, pull back immediately.”
The group exchanged nods, and without another word, they moved into the shadows, splitting into their assigned pairs. The jungle seemed to hold its breath as they disappeared, the weight of the mission pressing down on them all.
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The western edge of the camp was more quiet than expected, save for the occasional clink of a distant patrol’s armor. Soren led the way, his movements deliberate and smooth, leaving no trace on the jungle floor. Makori followed closed behind, his breath steady but shallow as he mirrored Soren’s steps.
Soren paused suddenly, motioning for the young boy to halt. The boy froze, eyes flicking toward a lone guard ambling along the fence, the dull glow of his torch swaying.
“Relax,” Soren whispered. “Let the fear keep you sharp, but don’t let it take it over.”
Makori exhaled sharply, his shoulders dropping slightly. “You don’t seem scared.”
Soren’s eyes scanned the camp ahead, his voice calm and steady. “Because I’ve felt it before. Fear’s not new to me. I just learned how to carry it.”
Makori stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his breathing evening out as he followed Soren’s advice.
They continued forward, moving in silence until they reached a cluster of low bushes near the camp’s perimeter. Soren crouched again, his sharp eyes studying the patrol routes. Makori knelt beside him, glancing at the camp before stealing a look at Soren.
“How did you get this good?” Makori asked softly.
Soren didn’t look at him, his focus still on the camp. “Experience.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
Makori scowled but didn’t push further. Instead, he followed Soren’s eye, trying to see what he saw. After a moment, he spoke again, his tone quieter. “Do you ever… I don’t know, miss who you were before all this?”
Soren stilled for a fraction of a second before replying. “Who I was doesn’t matter anymore.”
Makori studied him, his expression thoughtful. “I think it does.”
Soren turned to look at him, his eyes briefly meeting Makori’s. There was a flicker of something unspoken there—an acknowledgment, perhaps, or a reluctance to delve deeper. Before he could reply, a faint rustle in the camp drew their attention.
Soren motioned for silence, and they both turned their focus back to the task at hand. But the question lingered, unspoken, between them.
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On the eastern side, Ishar moved with practiced grace, his spear held at the ready as he scanned their surroundings. Ayola followed close behind, her notebook tucked away for now, her dagger gripped loosely in her hand.
They stopped near a clearing where the eastern edge of the camp was partially visible. Ishar crouched low, his sharp eyes taking in the mercenaries’ movements. Ayola knelt beside him, her focus shifting between the camp and Ishar’s profile.
“You’re good at this,” Ayola said, her voice low.
Ishar didn’t look at her, his focus on the camp. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “Just… curious. You’re disciplined. Strategic. That doesn’t usually come from mercenary work.”
Ishar’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he pointed toward the central tent, his voice calm and measured. “They’re focused inward. Their job’s not to patrol—it’s to guard the core. That’s their priority.”
Ayola nodded, watching the mercenaries for a moment before speaking again. “You were military, weren’t you?”
Ishar’s eyes flicked toward her, sharp and assessing. “And you weren’t.”
Ayola smirked faintly. “Not exactly.”
“You think differently,” Ishar said after a moment. “Like someone who plans five moves ahead.”
“Someone has to,” she replied. “You’re good at reading the moment. I’m good at reading what comes after.”
“That’s useful,” Ishar admitted, his tone grudging. “But don’t let your future thinking get you killed in the present.”
Ayola’s smirk widened slightly. “Noted.”
They lapsed into silence again, their eyes fixed on the camp. After a moment, Ayola spoke again, her tone softer. “Makori looks up to you, you know.”
Ishar’s shoulders stiffened slightly. “He shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” Ayola asked, genuinely curious.
Ishar exhaled slowly, his voice low. “Because it makes him reckless. He tries too hard to prove himself. And that gets people killed.”
Ayola studied him, her expression thoughtful. “You’re worried about him.”
Ishar didn’t reply, but the slight clench of his jaw said enough. Ayola’s smirk faded, replaced by a more serious expression.
“He’s tougher than you think,” she said quietly. “But I get it. He’s young. Too young for this.”
Ishar’s grip on his spear tightened. “It’s not about toughness. It’s about knowing when to fight and when to walk away. He hasn’t learned that yet.”
“And you think Soren can teach him?” Ayola asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ishar hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “If anyone can, it’s him.”
They returned their focus to the camp, the quiet between them no longer tense but thoughtful. There was a growing respect between them, born from their mutual understanding of the stakes and their shared determination to see the mission through.
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When the two pairs regrouped at the rendezvous point, there was a subtle shift in their dynamic. The tension from earlier had lessened, replaced by a quiet understanding.
Ayola reported first, detailing the mercenaries’ movements and the possible significance of the central tent. Ishar added his observations about the patrols, his voice calm but firm.
Soren listened carefully, nodding as he processed the information. Makori, standing beside him, spoke up more confidently than before, pointing out the gap in the western fence and the rotations of the guards he had observed.
As they discussed their next steps, there was an unspoken acknowledgment among them. They were a team—not perfect, not without flaws—but united in their goal.
Soren glanced at Makori, his expression unreadable but his voice steady. “Good work.”
Makori blinked, startled by the praise, but quickly nodded. “Thanks.”
Ayola exchanged a look with Ishar, her smirk returning briefly before fading. “We’ve got what we need. Now we act.”
Soren nodded. “We split again. Same pairs. Thirty minutes, then we regroup.”
They moved out once more, each pair slipping back into the shadows. But now, there was a sense of cohesion—a trust forged not just by necessity but by the bonds they had begun to form.
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The western edge of the camp was quieter than Soren expected, with fewer patrols but more natural hazards. Loose underbrush and uneven terrain made moving silently a challenge. Soren led the way, his movements deliberate and fluid, barely disturbing the jungle around him. Makori followed closely, mimicking his steps as best he could.
Soren held up a hand, signaling Makori to stop. They crouched behind a large tree, their eyes fixed on the camp’s perimeter. A lone bandit patrolled lazily near the fence, his torchlight swaying erratically.
“Keep your breathing steady,” Soren whispered, his voice low but firm. “Watch him, but don’t move until I do.”
Makori nodded, gripping the hilt of his short sword tightly. He watched the guard with intense focus, his muscles taut with tension.
“You’re too stiff,” Soren added, his tone softer. “Relax. Stay ready, but don’t let the tension control you.”
Makori exhaled slowly, easing his grip on the sword. “It’s just… a lot to take in.”
“It always is,” Soren replied, his eyes never leaving the camp. “But fear sharpens you. Use it, don’t let it use you.”
The guard moved further away, and Soren motioned for Makori to follow. They crept closer to the edge of the camp, stopping behind a cluster of bushes. Soren pointed to a section of the barricade where the wooden stakes were crooked and uneven.
“What do you see?” Soren asked quietly.
Makori squinted, scanning the area. “The fence is weak there. Easy to get through if we need to.”
“Good. And?”
Makori hesitated, as he peered over to the nearby tents. “The patrols don’t overlap much. There’s a gap when that guy turns the corner.”
Soren nodded, impressed. “Exactly. Gaps are what we look for.”
Makori’s lips quicken into a hesitant smile. “You’re good at this.”
Soren met his gaze briefly, a flicker of amusement softening his otherwise stoic expression. “It’s what keeps me alive.”
Makori’s expression turned more serious as he watched the camp. “How did you get this good? Were you always like this?”
Soren’s smirk faded, replaced by a contemplative look. “No one starts like this. It takes time, mistakes… loss.”
Makori glanced at him, noticing the shift in his tone. “Loss?”
Soren’s hand brushed the small ring on a chain around his neck, a habit he didn’t seem to notice. “You lose things—people—along the way. It shapes you. Makes you sharp. Cold, sometimes.”
Makori frowned, his voice softer now. “Do you regret it?”
Soren didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained on the camp, his grip tightening on the hilt of his katana. “Sometimes.”
Before Makori could ask more, Soren motioned for him to stay low. Another patrol was passing, their footsteps crunching faintly against the dirt. They waited in silence until the guards moved out of sight.
“We keep moving,” Soren said, his voice returning to its usual calm. “Stay close.”
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Makori nodded, his grip steady on his sword as they slipped further into the shadows.
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The eastern side of the camp was more fortified, with a watchtower looming above the tree line and several mercenaries patrolling near the central tent. Ishar moved with precision, his spear angled low as he scanned their surroundings. Ayola followed a few paces behind, her notebook tucked away but her mind racing with observations.
Ishar crouched near a thicket, motioning for Ayola to do the same. “They’re disciplined,” he said, nodding toward the mercenaries. “Not like the bandits.”
Ayola studied the mercenaries, noting their measured movements and sharp focus. “They’re not here to protect the camp. They’re here to protect what’s inside.”
Ishar’s grip tightened on his spear. “The crates?”
“Maybe,” Ayola replied. “Or whoever’s running this operation.”
Ishar frowned, his eyes narrowing. “They don’t look like they trust the bandits.”
“Why would they?” Ayola muttered. “Bandits are unpredictable. Mercenaries work for coin, not loyalty.”
Ishar glanced at her, his expression curious. “You think like them.”
Ayola raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”
“I think like a soldier,” Ishar said simply. “Discipline, strategy, honor. That’s what matters.”
Ayola smirked faintly. “Honor doesn’t pay the bills.”
“No,” Ishar admitted. “But it keeps you alive.”
They lapsed into silence, their eyes locked on the camp. After a moment, Ayola spoke again, her tone more thoughtful. “Makori looks up to you, you know.”
Ishar’s shoulders stiffened slightly. “He shouldn’t.”
“Why not?” Ayola asked, genuinely curious.
“Because it makes him reckless,” Ishar said, his voice heavy. “He tries too hard to prove himself. And that gets people killed.”
Ayola studied him for a moment before nodding. “You’re worried about him.”
Ishar didn’t reply, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes.
“You think Soren can keep him safe?” Ayola asked.
Ishar hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “If anyone can, it’s him.”
Their attention shifted back to the camp as the faint sound of crates being unloaded reached them. Ayola’s eyes sharpened, and she pulled out her notebook, quickly sketching the layout.
“They’re moving those crates toward the central tent,” she murmured. “Whatever’s in them, it’s important.”
The amber eyed tactician stopped, her pencil hovering above the page as an idea took shape in her mind. “If we’re careful, we could use them against each other.”
Ishar glanced at her, one brow raised. “What do you mean?”
“The bandits and the mercenaries,” Ayola replied, her voice measured but tinged with urgency. “They don’t trust each other—it’s obvious from their movements. If we can play on that tension, we might create enough to buy ourselves time.”
The spear wielder frowned, considering her words. “You’re suggesting we sow distrust between them?”
“Exactly,” Ayola said, a faint spark of excitement in her eyes. “The traps we’ve set—their recruit enough that the mercenaries might assume the bandits were planning to double cross them. All we need is the right push.”
Ishar’s grip tightened on his spear as he scanned the camp. “It’s risky. If it backfires, we’ll have both groups united against us.”
“It’s a calculated risk,” Ayola admitted. “ but if we pull it off, they will be too busy tearing each other apart to notice us freeing the hostages.”
Ishar studied her for a moment longer before nodding slowly. “Fine. But we set the traps with precision. No unnecessary chances.”
“Agreed,” Ayola said, already sketching out the locations of the trap on her map. “If it works, the explosion will draw their attention—and suspicion. The rest will handle itself.”
Ishar’s jaw tightened. “Then we need to move fast.”
Ayola nodded, tucking her notebook away. “Let’s finish setting the traps first. Then we regroup.”
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The jungle seemed to hold its breath as Ayola and Ishar moved carefully through the camp’s perimeter, setting the traps with deliberate precision. Each device was placed with the intention of sowing confusion and mayhem, rigged to ignite the tension already bubbling within the camp.
Ayola knelt behind a cluster of crates near the eastern barricade, her hands deftly securing the last trigger mechanism. The faint click of the trap locking into place brought a small, satisfied smile to her lips. She glanced over her shoulder to where Ishar stood, keeping watch with his spear at the ready.
“That’s the last one,” she whispered. “Let’s see if the bandits are as paranoid as they seem.”
Ishar nodded, his eyes scanning the shadows for movement. “The smallest spark will set them off. If they’re already on edge, this will push them over.”
Ayola smirked as she rose to her feet, her movements fluid and quiet. “That’s the idea. Now let’s get into position.”
The pair retreated into the shadows, taking up a vantage point overlooking the section of the camp where the first trap had been set. From here, they could see the crude barricades and the flurry of activity among the bandits and mercenaries. The air was thick with tension, the uneasy alliance between the two groups on full display.
Two bandits strolled into view, their voices carrying faintly through the night air. Ayola and Ishar pressed closer to the cover of the underbrush, their ears straining to catch the conversation.
“I’m telling you, the mercenaries don’t trust us,” one of the bandits hissed, his tone laced with fear. “They’re planning something. Why else would they keep meeting in secret?”
The other bandit scoffed, though his clutch on his weapon betrayed his unease. “You’re being paranoid. They’re here for the same reason we are—coin.”
“Then why are they sending groups to the village?” the first bandit pressed. “You think they’re just going for supplies? They’re hiding something.”
The first trap went off with a muffled click, followed by a burst of sparks that caught instantly on a pile of dried wood. Flames roared to life, their glow flickering against the surrounding tents. The shouts came seconds later—bandits scrambling towards the blaze, their confusion spiraling into panic.
Ayola crouched in the shadows besides Ishar, her lips curling into a grim smile. “Right on cue.”
Ishar’s expression remained stoic, though his hold on his spear tightened. “The fire’s spreading fast. We need to move now.”
Across the camp, voices rose in anger and accusations flew. “It’s them!” A bandit shouted, pointing toward the mercenaries. “They’re trying to burn us out!”
A mercenary snarled in response, drawing his own blade. “You fools set your own damn fires!”
The tensions snapped. The first blade swung wide, sparking a clash of steel that quickly engulfed the camp in a frenzy.
Ayola nodded, already pulling out her map. “We head toward the hostages while they’re distracted. If this keeps up, they’ll be too busy fighting each other to notice us.”
The pair slipped further into the shadows, weaving through the mayhem as the flames spread and the sounds of battle echoed through the camp.
Ayola paused, her eyes darting toward the central tent, now barely visible through the haze of smoke. “This is our chance,” she said, her voice low but insistent.
Ishar frowned, his grip on his spear tightening. “To do what?”
“To find out what’s in there.” Ayola gestured toward the reinforced tent in the center of the camp. “The crates—whatever they’re guarding in that tent, it’s the key to understanding why this is happening.”
Ishar’s grasp on his spear tightened. “Into the center? Are you mad?” His voice was low, but his frustration seeped through. “The hostages are priority—this isn’t the time to chase theories.”
“I’ll be fast,” Ayola interrupted, already moving toward the chaos. “Cover me.”
Before Ishar could protest, she vanished into the thickening smoke, leaving him cursing under his breath as he scanned the camp for threats.
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The central tent loomed ahead, its reinforced walls casting sharp silhouettes in the fiery glow. Ayola crouched low, her footsteps muffled by the din of shouts and clashes outside. She paused near the entrance, her sharp eyes scanning for guards. The turmoil had drawn most of them away, but she knew better than to assume she was unseen.
Sliding into the tent, she immediately noticed the contrast inside. It was orderly—almost pristine—compared to the rest of the camp. Tables lined the edges, stacked with maps, ledgers, and hastily scrawled notes. A large crate, partially pried open, sat in the center, vials of an iridescent liquid glinting under the dim lamplight.
Ayola’s breath caught as she recognized the liquid from the reports on the beasts. “Catalysts,” she muttered under her breath. She slipped a vial into her pouch before turning her attention to the papers.
Inside the central tent, Ayola moved quickly, her eyes darting between the papers and crates scattered across the space. Smoke seeped faintly through the fabric, the chaos outside muffled but present. It was the perfect cover—if she could find anything useful.
Her hands shook slightly as she opened a crate, revealing vials of shimmering liquid nestled in protective casing. A faint glow pulsed from within, cold and unnatural. She stared at it for a heartbeat before shifting her attention to the central table.
There, an open ledger displayed a collection of coded transactions, paired with maps marked with routes and red circles—villages that had been attacked and others still at risk. Her breath caught as she recognized one of the circles. Scribbled notes along the margins detailed logistics for moving the catalysts and a reference to something ominously labeled the Awakener.
Ayola’s heart raced as she flipped to another set of documents. These mentioned the Gray Blade Guild, a name she recognized as linked to mercenary groups far more dangerous than the bandits here. Listed beneath it were names—some she knew, most she didn’t. One name, however, stood out like a dark mark: Raekor.
She stashed the papers into her satchel, her mind racing. Whatever this operation was, it was bigger than she’d feared. If these bandits and mercenaries were working together to target villages, there was no telling how far it could reach—or what this Awakener was.
As she turned, another document caught her eye—a map pinned to a board. At the center of it was a marked location labeled the Relic Site. Beneath the map, a hastily scrawled note read: “The catalyst must be prepared before the Awakener arrives. No delays.”
A faint crackle brought her attention to a crystal receiver sitting on the far table. A distorted voice buzzed from it: “If extraction isn’t complete by sunrise, burn it all. No loose ends.” The voice was cold, calculating, and final.
Her chest tightened. Whoever was behind this operation planned to leave nothing behind—including the hostages.
She reached for her crystal receiver to warn Vyn’s group, but before she could activate it, a sudden rumble shook the ground beneath her. One of the traps outside had detonated, sending sparks and smoke through the camp. Ayola froze as the wildfire outside intensified, faint embers glowing through the fabric of the tent.
Her elbow brushed against a lantern perched precariously on the table. The lantern tipped, hitting the floor with a loud crash that echoed in the chaos.
The tent flap flew open, and Ayola barely had time to turn before a shadow loomed over her. A mercenary—tall, lean, and radiating menace—stepped inside.
His pale blue eyes gleamed unnervingly in the dim light, his blond hair falling in untamed waves around a face that seemed to carved for cruelty. A faint smirk twisted his narrow jawline as he stepped closer, his black leather armor creaking faintly with each step. Twin daggers hung loosely from his belt, their hilts etched with strange, shimmering runes. He moved with the precision of a predator—fluid, silent, deadly.
“Well, what do we have here?” His tone was light, almost amused, but there was a razor edge to it. “A little bird who flew too close.”
Ayola darted toward the far side of the tent, her fingers brushing her crystal receiver. If she could just send a signal—
But he was faster. He lunged, his hand catching her wrist in an iron clasp. The crystal slipped from her grasp, shattering against the floor. Its glow flickered once, then died.
“Too slow,” he drawled, his smirk widening. “But I’ll give you credit—this was bold. Stupid, but bold.”
Ayola twisted in his grasp, her free hand darting toward the dagger at her hip. His other hand caught her wrist mid-motion, squeezing until the blade fell from her fingers.
He had a smirk curled like a predator savoring the chase. His fingered closed around her wrist, his ironclad grasp cold and unyielding. “You’re clever, I'll give you that,” he drawled, dragging her closer. “But cleverness won’t save you.”
Smoke billowed into the tent, thick and choking. Flames licked at the edges of the fabric, casting flickering shadows across his sharp features. Ayola struggled harder, kicking and twisting, but his hold was unyielding. With a single motion, he threw her over his shoulder.
“Time to go,” he said, stepping out of the burning tent.
The camp dissolved into a maelstrom of destruction. Flames devoured the tents, casting monstrous shadows across the clearing. The roar of distant steel rang out as bandits and mercenaries, once uneasy allies, tore into each other with savage abandon. Aedor moved through it all with unsettling calm, carrying Ayola as though she weighed nothing.
Ayola thrashed against him, but her efforts only made him tighten his grip. “Save your energy,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”
He stopped in a clearing near the edge of the camp, away from the worst of the chaos but still within sight of the fire-lit camp. Aedor moved through it with unsettling ease, as if the inferno and bloodshed were merely background noise. Ayola, slung over his shoulder, thrashed against his grasp, her struggles growing more frantic the closer they got to the edge of the camp.
His lips curled into a smile, sharp and humorless. “Go ahead, fight,” he said, his tone light and mocking. “Makes it more fun.”
Ayola’s elbow caught the side of his neck, earning a sharp hiss from him. Without breaking stride, he seized her arm, twisting it painfully behind her back. Her gasp of pain only deepened his grin.
“That’s better,” he murmured, his voice low and almost tender. “You scream, I win. You fight, I win. See how this works?”
The clearing came into view, dimly lit by the flickering glow of the flames behind them. They reached it and he unceremoniously dropped Ayola to the ground. She landed hard, her breath knocked from her lungs, but before she could recover, his boot slammed down on her check, pinning her in place.
He crouched slowly, the weight of his boot pressing harder. The sharp edge of his grin glinted in the firelight as he leaned closer, his voice a low, venomous purr. “Do you know what I like most about moments like these?”
Ayola glared at him, her chest heaving beneath his boot as she struggled to breathe. “Let…me go,” she rasped.
The man chuckled, the sound hollow and cold. “It’s not the fighting, though that’s fun. It’s not the screams, though I’ll enjoy those too.” His fingers reached out, brushing a strand of her hair back from her face with a mockery of tenderness. “It's the breaking.”
Her body tensed, but he didn't give her time to react. His hand darted out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look at him. His smile wasn’t one of amusement—it was a predator’s expression, cold and devoid of empathy.
“You’re already strong,” he mused, tilting her head as if inspecting her. “That makes it more satisfying when it shatters.”
Before she could retort, his free hand moved to her shoulder, twisting it cruelly. Pain exploded through her arm, and she cried out despite herself. His grin turned almost euphoric at the sound.
“There it is,” he purred his voice thick with satisfaction. “A good start.”
The sound of her cry carried faintly over the chaos of the camp. He tilted his head, his smile faltering for a moment. Then he leaned closer, his tone dropping to a chilling whisper “Oh we’re just getting started.”
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Far across the burning camp, Ishar froze at the faint but unmistakable sound of Ayola’s cry. His focus sharpened, cutting through the chaos as he began moving with determined precision.
Ishar moved through the chaos with practiced precision, his spear cutting through any who crossed his path. Smoke stung his eyes, and the roar of the inferno made it hard to hear, but his focus never wavered. He scanned the camp, searching for Ayola.
When he spotted her, his heart dropped. She was being dragged across the clearing by a man.
Ishar began moving toward her, his grip on his spear tightening. He was halfway there when a massive figure stepped into his path, blocking his way.
“Well, well,” a gravelly voice rumbled, its owner stepping fully into the firelight.
He towered over Ishar, his broad shoulders casting a shadow even in the blaze. His shaved head gleamed, the flickering flames highlighting a jagged scar that ran across his scalp. Steel plated gauntlets encased his massive hands, and a great axe rested casually against his shoulders. Tattoos wound up his muscular arms.
“Looks like you’ve been busy.” The behemoth stated, his grin revealing uneven broken teeth.
Ishar stopped, his eyes narrowing. “Let her go.”
The man grinned, resting his greataxe casually on his shoulder. The flames behind him cast his hulking silhouette in an almost demonic light. “Not a chance. She’s got a date with someone… special.”
He gestured toward the clearing where the mercenary stood over Ayola. Her struggles had lessened, exhaustion beginning to show.
“You, on the other hand…” his grin widened, his teeth gleaming in the firelight. “You get to dance with me.”
Ishar didn’t wait for him to make the first move. With a sharp exhale, he lunged forward, his spear aimed for the chest.
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The camp’s dim torchlight flickered against the canvas of the hostage tents as Soren and Makori crept closer. Every step was calculated, their movements blending with the shadows. Despite the muffled tension in the air, the camp still buzzed with activity—guards patrolling, bandits barking orders, and the occasional laughter from drunken conversations.
Soren stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. He motioned for Makori to crouch lower. The boy obeyed, though his breathing was quick and shallow, the tension clear on his face.
“Two guards ahead,” he whispered voice barely audible. He gestured toward the first hostage tent, where the flickering torchlight revealed two armed figures chatting idly. “Stay here. Don’t move until I signal.”
Makori’s grip tightened on his weapon. “I can—”
“Don’t argue,” Soren cut him off, his tone firm but calm. “Stay sharp, and stay quiet.”
Makori gave a reluctant nod, his knuckles white around his weapon. Soren moved like a shadow, slipping between the patches of darkness that surrounded the camp. The guards remained oblivious until it was too late—Soren’s blade flashed in the dim light, the strike precise and silent. One guard crumpled to the ground before he could make a sound.
The second guard turned, his eyes wide in alarm. He opened his mouth to shout, but Soren was already on him. A swift strike with the hilt of his blade sent the man sprawling, unconscious.
Soren turned and waved Makori forward. The boy darted to his side, his eyes darting nervously to the fallen guards.
“They didn’t sound the alarm,” Makori murmured, relief evident in his voice.
“They didn’t get the chance,” Soren replied curtly, already moving toward the tent flap. He paused, observing the area before stepping inside.
Inside the tent, a handful of villagers sat huddled together, their eyes wide with fear. A young woman gasped, clutching a small child to her chest, while an older man struggled to his feet, his hands bound.
“We’re here to get you out,” Soren said quietly, his tone firm but reassuring. He turned to Makori. “Cut their bonds. Quickly.”
Makori nodded, unsheathing his dagger as he moved toward the captives. His hands trembled slightly, but he worked efficiently, slicing through the ropes that bound the villagers.
As Makori worked, Soren moved to the tent’s entrance, his hand resting on the hilt of his katana. The camp’s usual noise had taken on a strange undercurrent—tension rippled through the air, punctuated by the distant sound of raised voices. Something was brewing.
Suddenly, a distant crack echoed through the camp, followed by a low rumble. Soren’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his weapon. The first explosion hit a heartbeat later, the shockwave rattling the ground beneath them. Shouts erupted, followed by a chorus of confusion and panic.
Makori froze mid-motion, his eyes wide. “What was that?”
Soren didn’t respond immediately, his mind already calculating. He stepped out of the tent, scanning the camp. Smoke began to curl into the air from the eastern side, and the faint glow of blaze lit up the dark sky. Bandits and mercenaries shouted at one another, their confusion quickly turning to aggression as accusations flew.
Soren ducked back into the tent, his expression grim. “Move faster,” he ordered. “We don’t have much time.”
“What’s happening out there?” one of the villagers asked, their voice trembling.
“A distraction,” Soren replied curtly. “One we’re going to use.”
Makori finished cutting the last of the bonds and stood, his posture tense but determined. “Where do we take them?”
Soren glanced toward the tent flap again, his mind racing. The smoke was spreading quickly, and the flames would soon engulf more of the camp. “The tree line,” he said, pointing west. “Stay low and move fast. I’ll cover you.”
The villagers hesitated, fear etched on their faces. Soren’s sharp gaze swept over them. “Now,” he barked. “Go.”
Makori took the lead, guiding the frightened villagers out of the tent and toward the shadows of the western edge. Soren followed close behind, his katana drawn and ready. The chaos outside was their shield—bandits and mercenaries were too distracted by the growing inferno and their own infighting to notice the fleeing captives.
They were halfway to the tree line when another explosion rocked the camp. This time, the blast sent a fiery ember into a stack of supplies, which erupted in a fresh wave of flames. Smoke billowed thicker, choking the air and adding to the confusion.
Soren motioned for Makori to keep moving. “Get them to cover!” he shouted over the roar of the inferno.
Makori hesitated for a brief moment, glancing back at Soren. “What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Soren said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Makori nodded reluctantly and continued leading the villagers toward the safety of the trees. Soren turned, his sharp eyes scanning the camp. The chaos had reached a boiling point—bandits fought mercenaries, the flames consuming everything in their path.
Suddenly, two figures emerged from the smoke ahead of him, their silhouettes framed by the fiery glow. One was tall and broad, carrying a massive polearm that glinted ominously in the light. The other was smaller but radiated an unsettling energy, his hands crackling with barely contained power.
“You’ve caused quite the mess,” the smaller one sneered, his voice sharp and mocking.
Soren’s grip tightened on his katana. These weren’t ordinary mercenaries. Their presence exuded danger, and the timing couldn’t have been worse.
“Your little distraction ends here,” the smaller one snapped, his voice buzzling like static. The larger mercenary said nothing, his polearm shifting as though testing the weight of the air.
Soren’s gaze flicked toward the villagers disappearing into the tree line, then back to the two mercenaries blocking his path. He exhaled slowly, centering himself. “You’re in my way.”
The tension thickened, the roar of the inferno and mayhem around them fading into the background as the fight began.
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Ayola’s mind raced, desperate for an escape. Her satchel dug into her side, a reminder of the documents she’d risked everything to retrieve. She had to survive. For the villages. For the group. For herself.
The sea of flames seemed to grow louder, the ground beneath them trembling faintly. The man stood, dragging her feet with a sharp yank. She stumbled, barely able to keep her balance as he pulled her closer.