In the late afternoon, about an hour away from the camp where the group hoped to find the Elder's apprentice, Moira's so-called raven returned from the west. It brought her visions of Iskev, which had steadily and seriously advanced in cleansing the blighted lands of specters.

Due to the harsh conditions along the coastline, the area was not the most desirable refuge for fleeing migrants. Even so, small groups could be seen traveling toward the city along the roads. Their numbers appeared modest, as there were no significant temporary camps visible in the city, making it indistinguishable from its usual rooftops and bustling market stalls.

Throughout the raven's journey there and back, it encountered no armed groups moving southward from the north. However, the city of Iskev seemed to have announced a conscription, as considerable activity was evident within its garrisons.

Moira ended the connection with her minion vision and shared the positive news with the rest of the group. The encouraging updates lifted everyone's spirits, renewing their determination as they prepared for the final leg of their mission.

The rest stop was brief, so they settled for dry rations and cold water. It was their final meal before the confrontation.

“We should ask your, uh, raven,” began the young road warden hesitantly, the same one who had cooked the morning stew, “to take a look at that camp. Our target might have moved, or they could be hosting a grand gathering of Last Tribe enthusiasts from every nearby town and village tonight.” He finished and glanced around at the group.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Tex commented, turning to Moira with a questioning look.

“Sure, I can do that. Give me a moment,” Moira replied. She set aside her food and patted her knee with an open hand. The raven hopped onto it carefully, ensuring its talons didn’t damage the fabric. Once it was comfortably perched, she began murmuring instructions to it. After a few moments, the bird gave a caw, almost like a soldier confirming orders, before taking flight.

By the time they finished eating, the raven had returned. Thanks to that it could just fly there in a straight line and its remarkable speed, the reconnaissance was swift. However, the vision it brought back wasn’t particularly revealing, though it ruled out the worst-case scenarios.

Moira relayed the findings to the group: there were two long, large tents, a central fire pit, a small herd of yaks nearby, and a few people moving about the camp. From such a high vantage point, it was impossible to determine if anyone matched their target’s description. There were no groups of people approaching the camp from any visible direction, either.

Like the previous gathering of the Last Tribe they’d encountered, this one looked like a typical nomadic camp, indistinguishable from others in the region. These camps were common, as many people in the area lived by herding, hunting, or foraging. This lack of apparent danger or distinction put the group somewhat at ease—but only slightly.

“We need to be cautious, but let’s not assume that everyone there will be ready to fight,” Ashan stated, summarizing the plan before they set off. “Our primary goal is to capture Larkan.” He paused, then added pointedly, “Alive,” casting a meaningful look at Otan.

The older man merely shrugged in response.

The rest of the ride passed in tense silence, with Moira’s raven circling high above, ready to protect her. As they crested a hill, coming into view of the camp, it seemed for a brief moment that they might approach without trouble. One of the herders even waved friendly and called something toward one of the tents.

Then, abruptly, a young man burst out of it, glancing toward the approaching guards. With a hurried motion, he signaled the others. Three more emerged, one of whom roughly matched the description of Larkan.

“The one in the green coat,” Ashan said sharply to the group.

The man in green barked orders to his companions. People began spilling out of the second tent as well, some scrambling for weapons. Larkan and three others had already seized bows.

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It was clear: there would be no negotiations.

Tex and Otan wasted no time, loosing arrows as they charged without slowing their pace. Mounted archers held the advantage here, their movement making them harder to hit. But amidst the chaos, the young guard, too focused on his target, failed to notice a man who had hidden behind one of the yaks.

Berk saw the ambush but reacted a heartbeat too late. His arrow found its mark, striking the attacker in the chest, but not before the man drove his spear under Vark’s arm. The young guard reeled back, blood gushing from the wound, and fell from his horse with a heavy thud onto the grass.

Moira spurred her horse toward him, signaling her raven. The bird dove at the now-wounded Spearman, finishing him with merciless efficiency. She dismounted swiftly, kneeling beside Vark, and turned him over. His eyes were already dimming. Blood poured from what looked like a severed artery—perhaps even a wound to the heart.

Moira clasped his blood-slicked hand and gently stroked his hair, whispering softly, “Easy, Vark. I’m here with you.” With each shallow breath, his life ebbed away, his voice lost forever.

The skirmish ended quickly. While Moira knelt beside the young guard’s lifeless body, the others closed in on the now-isolated Larkan. An arrow jutted from his leg, and he was desperately wielding a spear, pointing it from one mounted adversary to another in a futile attempt to defend himself.

“Surrender, Larkan!” Ashan shouted. “You’ll be taken as a prisoner by the forces of Kardum. It’s over!”

Larkan paused, taking a deep breath before exhaling slowly. With a bitter chuckle, he dropped the spear to the ground.

Ashan dismounted, preparing to bind him, but Larkan’s hand darted inside his coat, drawing out an ornate, long dagger. A grim, bitter smile crossed his face as he shouted, “No, this is only the beginning.”

With one swift motion, he dragged the blade across his throat. The gathered group watched in stunned silence as he gurgled a harsh, wet laugh. His hands fell limply to his sides, the dagger dropping to the dirt. He spread his arms wide and sank to his knees.

Ashan noticed it first. A faint magical glow around Larkan began to intensify, twisting violently within him. “Get back! Now!” he roared.

Before anyone could react, Larkan’s chest expanded grotesquely, an unnatural transformation rippling through his body. His shirt tore apart, revealing dense, rune-like tattoos that pulsed and stretched as his flesh twisted and swelled.

His limbs grew thicker, muscles and bones grotesquely distorting. Jagged, bony protrusions burst from his shoulders, and his face warped into something unrecognizable. His eyes, lifeless and hollow, swept across the stunned group. With a shriek that defied comprehension, the creature tore the remnants of its clothes from its body, revealing its monstrous, scarred form.

The shriek sent the horses into a frenzy. Riders struggled to keep their mounts from bolting as the nightmare that was once Larkan stood, towering and snarling, ready to strike.

The creature gave them no time to regroup. With horrifying speed, it lunged at a guard whose horse had reared in panic. A grotesque hand swept out, knocking the man to the ground like a rag doll. He crumpled and lay motionless.

Moira was already drawing on the currents of magic, weaving her spell. Ashan’s earlier shout had warned her, and she had seen the transformation. To her trained eye, this was the result of a ritual—a sacrificial act igniting a cascade of runic spells etched into the student’s body, likely by his master. The result was a monstrous transformation into something akin to a massive ghoul.

She brushed away tears for Vark and, still kneeling by his lifeless body, pressed her hands into the grass. The spell neared completion as blood from the fallen—except for the two guards—began streaming toward her, defying gravity, surging faster and faster without soaking into the ground.

The thing that was once Larkan seemed to sense something. It broke free of the group’s encirclement in a single bound and charged at Moira. The guards fired arrows at its back, but the bolts only thudded uselessly against its warped flesh. It crossed more than half the distance in mere moments, its massive strides unstoppable.

Just as the blood stopped flowing toward her, as if the pool before her had gathered enough, the surface trembled. With a sickening splat, a spear-like projectile of blood shot forth. The impact was immense, halting the beast mid-charge as if struck by a ballista.

More projectiles followed in rapid succession, a relentless barrage of bloody spears hammering into the creature, pinning it in place and driving it toward the ground. The final strikes shattered what little remained of its monstrous form, leaving it broken and still.

When the pool was drained of its energy, the blood dissolved, leaving behind a horrific sight. The creature’s grotesque body, once human, was now an unrecognizable heap of destruction.

Moira rose slowly, brushing dirt and blood off her skirt, her face set in a grim mask. Berk and another guard dismounted to check on the fallen comrade, but their efforts were in vain. The man’s body was a ruin, as if trampled by a runaway carriage. He showed no signs of life.

The group stood in silence, absorbing the heavy losses. Two comrades had fallen, and they had uncovered something deeply sinister about the Elder’s students. Whatever foul magic the Elder had taught, it was designed to leave devastation in its wake.