Chapter 20 – Where the Body Staggers, The Mind Unravels

The Forest After the Ambush

Blood hung thick in the air, mingling with acrid smoke and damp earth. What remained of the mercenary unit staggered in desperate retreat, boots crunching over fallen branches and their own dead.

The commander strode ahead, his breaths controlled but heavy. His grip on his sword was tight—too tight—as he scanned the treeline, every flicker of movement putting his already-worn instincts on edge. They had been butchered. What should have been a swift strike had turned into a humiliating rout.

Behind him, Havrin hacked away at thick underbrush with his axe, his frustration evident in every unnecessary swing. “Bastards,” he muttered. “Fucking ghosts in the trees.”

Someone gagged. Another mercenary coughed wetly, limping with a crude bandage wrapped around his leg. The sound of pain and exhaustion filled the quiet spaces between their movements.

Then they found him.

A rustle ahead drew their attention. One of the younger recruits—his nerves already frayed—stumbled backward, his face pale as a corpse.

“Shit,” someone whispered.

They found Faris crumpled against a tree trunk, neck bent at an impossible angle. Vyn's arrow jutted from his throat, its shaft gleaming wet and dark. His fingers had carved final desperate furrows in the earth, mouth frozen in an eternal scream.

The group went eerily still.

Korvan crouched beside the body, staring at the way the arrow had hit its mark perfectly, as if it had been meant for him. A warning shot for the rest of them.

One of the mercenaries broke the silence with a shaky breath. “They knew we were coming…”

Another scoffed, but there was no real confidence in it. “We knew they had defenses. But this? This wasn’t some panicked village defense—this was warfare.”

Havrin kicked at a fallen branch, his teeth bared. “They set us up,” he growled. “Those little brats led us right into a fucking slaughter.”

Korvan slowly rose to his feet. He had no argument against that.

A heavier mercenary, blood still dripping from a gash across his temple, wiped his face with a trembling hand. “So what now?” His voice cracked. “We can’t just go back empty-handed—”

“Unless you want Raekor’s blade at your throat,” another snapped. “He doesn’t tolerate failure.”

The name sent a ripple of unease through them all.

Korvan didn’t flinch. His voice, when it came, was quiet but absolute. “Then we push forward.”

The brute scoffed. He shifted where he sat. “What, march right into the next damn trap they’ve got set?”

“We adapt,” Korvan said. “We find another way in. We don’t stop until that village is ash.” His voice darkened, his fingers twitching as if something beneath his skin was stirring.

The others were silent, but none argued. Retreat wasn’t an option. Raekor wouldn’t allow it.

Korvan exhaled sharply, forcing the simmering heat in his veins to cool. Not yet.

“We move at first light,” he said. “Get some rest.”

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Mercenaries Regrouping

As the mercenaries gathered what little supplies they had left, one of them—lean, gaunt, with eyes that were already hollowed from the Catalyst’s pull—remained separate from the group.

He stood near the treeline, his form subtly blurring at the edges, his skin shifting to match the gnarled bark behind him. His breathing was erratic, his fingers twitching in slow, unnatural patterns.

Korvan noticed.

He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened. The Catalyst was taking hold. Some men gained strength. Some speed. Some control.

And some?

Some lost themselves completely.

The camp was eerily quiet, but not with the silence of rest. The kind of quiet that settled over dying men who hadn’t realized they were already corpses.

At the edge of camp, Denn stared at his hands, watching veins pulse with an unnatural glow. His skin had begun hardening in patches, forming crystalline scales that caught the firelight. He flexed his fingers experimentally, and a soft crackling sound followed, like ice fracturing.

Havrin sneered as he passed by. “What the fuck is that?”

Denn swallowed, curling his fingers into a fist. “Strength,” he muttered, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

Nearby, another mercenary rocked back and forth, muttering under his breath. His pupils had blown wide, the faint blue glow of Catalyst exposure leaking from the edges. He flinched at every movement, his breath ragged.

“I can hear it,” he whispered. “I can hear everything.”

Melo watched from the shadows, keeping his expression unreadable. This wasn’t strength. This was something else.

Korvan acted like they were getting stronger. But looking at the hollowed-out man staring into his own hands and the trembling soldier whispering to himself, Melo wasn’t so sure.

He flexed his own fingers, feeling the faint pulse beneath his skin. For now, he could still control it.

For now.

“Scout the perimeter,” Korvan ordered, turning away. For now, he was useful.

The chameleon-like figure tilted his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his shifting eyes. Then he disappeared into the dark.

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Ny’Kelos

The scent of damp earth clung to the air as Taren stood at the village’s perimeter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed against the dimming light. The battle had ended—or at least, the worst of it had—but the quiet felt unnatural. It wasn’t the kind of peace that followed victory, just the absence of noise after something had been broken.

The treeline was still, save for the occasional flicker of movement between the leaves. Taren barely blinked, his stance rigid, watching the path that wound through the underbrush. The warriors had scattered during the ambush, but they would return. They had to.

The first figures appeared—a slow-moving group, their steps weary but deliberate. Vyn emerged first, shoulders squared despite the exhaustion weighing him down. His bow was slung across his back, one end dark with something that might’ve been blood. Daelin and Elda followed, their blades still in hand, grips slack but not loosened completely. Ren stumbled slightly, catching himself against a wooden post near the perimeter, breath heavy.

“We’re back,” Ren muttered, voice rough.

Taren didn’t reply. He let his gaze sweep over them, cataloging the fresh wounds, the torn fabric, the haunted expressions. None of them spoke at first. There was nothing to say yet.

A few of the villagers hurried forward, offering water and bandages. Vyn waved them off with a shake of his head, muttering, “Not mine,” when a woman gestured toward the blood on his sleeve. Elda accepted a waterskin but kept scanning the path behind them.

“They were regrouping,” Vyn finally said, his voice quiet but certain. “They’ll come again.”

Taren gave a slow nod. He had expected as much.

Daelin exhaled through his nose. “We left the traps armed. If they follow, they’ll regret it.”

“They won’t stop,” Elda murmured. “Not unless we give them a reason to.”

Taren’s jaw tensed. “Then we’ll give them one.”

The words hung between them, weighted and heavy, but before anyone could respond, movement flickered at the edge of the trees.

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Another group.

The air shifted.

Kai stepped forward first, her expression unreadable in the dim torchlight. Behind her, Nyri and Orinai moved cautiously, their small forms pressed close together. The sight of them sent a ripple of murmurs through the gathered villagers.

Taren let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

They were late.

A man behind him whispered a quiet prayer, barely audible over the crackling torches. Someone else muttered, “Thank the spirits.”

Nyri’s eyes darted around as they stepped fully into the clearing, like she was still expecting danger to lunge from the shadows. Orinai kept close to her side, his usual calm frayed at the edges. Kai, though visibly exhausted, held her posture firm, scanning the gathered faces as if measuring how much had changed in the time they had been gone.

Taren didn’t say anything. He simply nodded, and Kai returned the gesture, a brief moment of understanding passing between them.

The relief was short-lived.

A sound.

A whisper of movement, barely audible—a footfall near the edge of the treeline.

Taren’s body went taut. His hand hovered near his blade, eyes snapping toward the source. A branch shifted. A shape lurked behind the bark, just beyond the reach of the torches.

The gathered warriors stilled, senses sharp.

exhaled slowly. One step forward. Another. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

And then—

A squirrel darted out from the underbrush.

The tension shattered in an instant, a few quiet exhales breaking through the silence. Someone let out a quiet curse. Taren didn’t react. He kept staring at the place where, just for a moment, something had felt off.

It was nothing.

But it didn’t feel like nothing.

He glanced back at Vyn and the others. “We’ll discuss inside.”

And with that, they turned toward the village, the weight of what was coming pressing against their backs.

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Inside The Village

An uneasy quiet gripped the village. Contained fires cast writhing shadows against earthen walls and wooden barricades, while returned warriors huddled in clusters—binding wounds, sharpening blades, trading whispers of what was to come. There was no celebration—only the grim understanding that this wasn’t over.

Taren stood near the center of the village, arms crossed as he listened to the scattered reports. Daelin and Elda were discussing the remaining traps, their voices low and clipped. Vyn was adjusting the fletching on his arrows, his movements precise, methodical. Kai lingered near the edge, watching over Nyri and Orinai as they ate small portions of dried meat and fruit, their bodies still tense despite the safety of the village walls.

Ren, ever restless, exhaled sharply. “We should burn their bodies.”

A few heads turned toward him. Murmurs amongst the crowd.

“They’ll rot otherwise,” he continued, rolling his injured shoulder with a wince. “And the smell will bring scavengers. Or worse.”

Taren considered this for a moment before shaking his head. “We don’t have time.”

The words landed heavy, pressing into the space between them.

“They’ll return,” Elda muttered, wiping a smear of blood off her blade. “Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But they will.”

“We need to be ready,” Ren added. “The outer perimeter traps were used up in the fight. We can reset some, but if they push in force…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Daelin’s gaze flicked toward the villagers who had gathered near the longhouse, listening anxiously. They were fighters, yes, but they were also farmers, craftsmen, mothers, and fathers. Some of them had never seen war.

He exhaled. “Then we’ll fortify what we can.”

Vyn exhaled, his gaze drifting toward the treeline. “If they push in force, they’ll be walking into a nightmare.”

Daelin gestured toward the thick brush beyond the perimeter. “See the way those trees lean? That isn’t natural. We’ve shaped them over years, made them part of our defense. There’s a drop beyond that ridge—anyone who doesn’t follow the right path goes straight into a deadfall.”

Kai nodded toward the treetop walkways, where figures moved between the shadows. “The canopy’s woven together. Not just for movement—if we need to, we can collapse sections. Force them into bottlenecks.”

Further in, villagers worked without rest. The older children sat in a line, deft fingers tying and retying thick rope knots under the supervision of a wiry woman with sharp eyes.

“The youngest tend the rope lines,” Kai said. “Their hands are quick, and they’re light enough to reset the mechanisms without triggering them.”

Across the fire, a group of women wove large baskets, their movements practiced, effortless.

Elda raised an eyebrow. “What are those for?”

Kai smirked. “Oil-soaked reeds. They burn clean and fast.”

Elda gave a slow nod, understanding. “Controlled burns.”

“We use everything,” Kai said simply.

The village wasn’t just surviving. It was ready.

Across the fire, Varis—the merchant who had stayed behind—lifted a hand slightly. “I’ve been keeping stock of supplies. We have enough for another night, maybe two. After that, we’re going to be rationing hard.”

“Noted,” Taren said.

Varis hesitated for a moment, then added, “I have some other materials. Oils. Powders. If we need something…creative.”

Ren grinned. “Creative is good.”

“We’ll use whatever we have,” Taren replied.

The crackle of the fire filled the silence, but the village itself felt hollow.

No one celebrated. No one even spoke.

The dead hadn’t been retrieved, but their absence was a weight that settled over the village like a thick fog. The warriors sat in small groups, sharpening blades that had already been dulled from use, binding wounds that would leave permanent scars. But the villagers—those who had lost sons, daughters, fathers—stood in silent mourning.

A woman knelt beside a small shrine made of gathered stones, her hands pressed together as she whispered a prayer. A young boy, no older than ten, clutched at the hem of his mother’s tunic, his tear-streaked face pressed into her side.

Somewhere, a quiet sob broke the silence.

Kai stood with her arms crossed, watching from a distance. Her jaw was tight. She didn’t approach, didn’t offer words of comfort. What could she say? She had barely made it back herself.

Elda stood nearby, her hands resting on the hilts of her twin daggers. “They’ll want their bodies back,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Daelin, crouching as he adjusted the wrappings around his forearm, exhaled heavily. “And they’ll die trying to get them.”

A cold wind stirred the fire’s embers, sending a brief spray of sparks into the dark. The air smelled of sweat, blood, and something deeper—something bitter.

Taren watched from the longhouse steps, his expression unreadable. He had fought in wars before, but this? This wasn’t just a battle. This was survival.

The villagers weren’t soldiers. They weren’t fighters. But their grief was turning into something heavier—something sharp-edged.

Not despair.

Anger.

Another pause. The moment of decision lingered heavy in the air. Then, a quiet voice broke through.

“We should retrieve our dead.”

Orinai.

His voice wasn’t loud, but the weight behind it was undeniable. Nyri looked up at him, her expression unreadable. She placed a hand on his wrist. A few of the warriors shifted uncomfortably.

Daelin exhaled. “It’s not safe.”

The conversation was settled.

For now.

As the village worked to prepare, the forest beyond remained still. Too still.

Near the edge of the village, where the trees pressed close to the hidden entrances, something shifted in the darkness. A shadow moved—silent, deliberate.

The air barely stirred.

No one noticed.

Not yet.

“It’s not right to leave them,” Orinai pressed. “We honor our own.”

Silence.

Elda ran a hand over her face, looking at Taren. “What do we do?”

Taren’s jaw tightened. “We don’t have the numbers to go back out tonight. The risk is too high. We recover them after the next battle—if we survive.”

Orinai’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t argue. He only looked away, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. Nyri placed a hand on his wrist, her expression soft with understanding.

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The village hummed with tension. Firelight flickered against mud-brick walls, casting long, wavering shadows as warriors and villagers alike moved about in hushed urgency. Despite the temporary lull in battle, the air was heavy with anticipation—they all knew this wasn’t over.

And so did he.

Melo moved through the village like smoke, his form rippling against walls, crates, and trees. Something made him hesitate.

Melo had spent years working in the shadows, slipping in and out of places unnoticed, unremembered. It was what he did. It was what he was good at.

But this—this was different.

He had seen plenty of villages like this. People who had lost everything. People who clung to whatever they had left, knowing it wasn’t much. Normally, he didn’t think about it. He did his job, got paid, and moved on.

But standing there, hidden in the slivers of moonlight, something in him wavered.

A woman sat near a fire, staring blankly at the ground in front of her, her hands folded in her lap. There was a scar on her palm—a warrior’s mark—but the way she held herself was not like a soldier. She looked tired. Defeated.

Across from her, a man was rewrapping his arm, his fingers fumbling with the bandages. The wound wasn’t deep, but the exhaustion in his posture made it clear—he had nothing left to give.

Melo let out a slow breath.

If Korvan attacked now, these people wouldn’t last long.

But they’d fight anyway.

He could already see it in their eyes—the same way he had seen it in Havrin, in Korvan, in the other mercenaries. People backed into a corner always fought the hardest.

His grip on the hilt of his dagger tightened, but he forced his hand to relax.

It didn’t matter.

These weren’t his people. This wasn’t his war.

He was here to do a job.

His body flickered for a second, the camouflage struggling under the strain of his stillness. He forced himself forward, away from the firelight, away from the things that made him think too much.

His breathing was shallow, his heartbeat a rapid thrum beneath his ribs as he pushed his Catalyst-enhanced body to its limits. Every step risked exposure. Every breath was calculated.

He moved through narrow alleyways between longhouses, past warriors tending to wounds and sharpening blades, past Taren standing in quiet discussion with Vyn and Elda. He memorized their faces, their numbers, their movements. This was what Korvan needed—where their defenses were weak, where their strongest stood, where the next strike would hurt the most.

Then he saw them.

Nyri and Orinai sat together near a small fire, their expressions a strange mix of exhaustion and defiance. The boy’s hands were clenched into fists, frustration clear in his posture. The girl, though younger, had sharp eyes—eyes that were watching everything.

Kai stood nearby, speaking with one of the older warriors, her own stance guarded, her body ready to move at a moment’s notice.

Melo stilled.

He had been focusing so much on gathering tactical information that he had nearly missed something far more valuable.

The children.

They were important. He could see it in the way the villagers moved around them, in the way Taren’s eyes kept flicking toward them protectively even while speaking to his warriors. They weren’t just survivors—they were something key.

A smirk twitched at Melo’s lips.

Maybe he had just found something better than defenses and weapons to report back on.

Then—

Nyri’s eyes flicked toward him.

For a split second, Melo was sure she saw him.

Her dark gaze narrowed. Her fingers twitched. A hunter’s instinct.

Orinai noticed her shift. His own head turned, his eyes scanning the darkness.

Melo didn’t breathe.

Too long. He stayed too long.

His Catalyst wavered, his outline flickering against the light of the fire. He could feel it—his body resisting the unnatural camouflage, his muscles trembling from the strain. If he didn’t move now, they’d see.

Nyri stepped forward.

Melo spun away.

And disappeared.

The night swallowed him whole as he pressed against the wall of a nearby building, forcing his body to merge with the surroundings. The children hesitated, glancing around in uncertainty. Nyri’s gaze lingered on the space he had just been, suspicion clear in her face.

Orinai frowned. “Did you see something?”

She hesitated.

“…No.”

The moment passed.

They turned away.

Melo barely held his form together as they walked right past him. His vision swam, the Catalyst’s toll clawing at his lungs, at his skin. He could feel himself slipping. His fingers twitched against the wall. The moment they were gone, he let out a slow, shuddering breath, his form flickering back into visibility.

He barely survived that.

A slow grin spread across his face.

But he had everything he needed.

Slipping back into the shadows, he made his way toward the trees.

It was time to deliver some intel.

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Mercenary Camp

The camp wasnt at rest. It was holding its breath, waiting for something to break. The men sat around dwindling fires, tending to wounds with makeshift bandages, sharpening blades that had already tasted too much blood.

Melo emerged from the treeline like a ghost, his Catalyst-drained body trembling, breath uneven. He barely kept his form stable as he stepped forward, forcing his skin to stop flickering between colors.

Korvan stood near the central fire, his expression unreadable as he watched the flames. He didn’t turn.

“Well?”

Melo exhaled sharply, taking a moment to steady himself before responding.

“They think they have time.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Korvan finally turned, meeting Melo’s gaze. The firelight flickered in his darkened eyes.

“Go on.”

Melo straightened. His exhaustion faded under the weight of his report. This was why he had been sent—this was his purpose.

“Their warriors are tired. The best of them—Daelin, Elda, even the archer—are still standing, but they’re slowing down. They’re tending wounds, conserving energy. They know we’ll come again.”

“Their defenses?”

“Traps are reset. I noted the placements. They’ll be useless now.”

“Supplies?”

“Running low. Two, maybe three days before they have to ration. If we apply pressure, we starve them out.”

Korvan considered this. His fingers twitched against his sword hilt, but otherwise, he didn’t react. His mind was already working ahead.

Melo licked his lips, letting his next words carry more weight.

“Their morale is cracked.”

That got Havrin’s attention. The brute shifted where he sat, his interest piqued.

Melo continued, voice steady.

“They lost people. The bodies are still out there. Some of them want to retrieve their dead, but they’re too afraid to leave their walls.”

“We can use that.”

Korvan didn’t nod, but something in his posture shifted—a confirmation.

Melo hesitated for only a moment.

“One more thing.”

Korvan waited.

“The children. Nyri and Orinai. They just returned from the stronghold. The villagers keep them close.”

“Why?”

“They’re survivors. That’s it. But they’re protected. Too much.”

Korvan’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if considering something.

“They’re connected to Makori.”

That earned a reaction.

Havrin scoffed. “So what? They’re kids.”

Melo shrugged.

“I don’t care about the brats. But their presence shifts things. Their return is the only thing keeping the village stable right now. They think it’s a win. They think it means they still have hope.”

A beat of silence.

Korvan exhaled through his nose, turning back toward the fire.

“Then we take that hope away.”

The flames crackled.

Korvan's words cut through the night like steel.

“Before dawn.”

“Their dead will be our weapons.”

”Silent. Precise. No waste.”

Each command fell like a hammer strike.

Korvan stepped away from the fire, his next words sending a final chill through the air.

“Tomorrow, the village falls.”