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Shrouded Light. The air, thick with the stench of iron and rot, scraped Deynfif's lungs like coarse clay. The Miers soldiers around him gasped, each breath a struggle. Groans, sharp and sudden, punctuated the silence. He flinched with every sound. The metallic tang of blood hung heavy, twisting in his gut.

He shivered. The cold bit through his stolen armor, the edges digging into him like a guilty conscience. A cold sweat, slicker than anything familiar, trickled down his temple despite the chill. His gaze snagged on the battlefield. Bodies twisted at wrong angles, eyes staring blankly at the sky. Each sight was a stone added to the pit forming in his stomach.

Joining the mercenaries had felt like a righteous act, a way to push back against the encroaching darkness of the Empire. He'd envisioned strength, cunning maneuvers, perhaps even a thrill. Not this shambles. The air itself seemed to rot, thick and sour, each rasping breath from the Miers' wounded like a stone grinding on his own bones.

Hirua shifted his weight, a foot tapping against the packed earth. The armor they'd scrounged fit him poorly, too. Einntyr hummed under his breath, something rambling and off-key.

He wished he could find some sound soothing right now. His fingers tightened on his scarf. The fabric was rough, the only familiar thing in a world gone jagged. The campfire stories, the bravado of veterans – none had prepared him for this grim reality.

Here, amidst the dead and the dying, the weight of his decision pressed down on him like a physical weight. Each shallow gasp from a fallen soldier, each splatter of blood staining the hard-packed earth, chipped away at the idealism he’d carried into this battle.

Hirua caught his eye, a subtle nod passing between them. Einntyr, as if sensing the shift, fell silent, his usual carefree tune dying on his lips. Hirua, a flicker of movement against the firelight, melted into the shadows that clung to the edges of the encampment. Einntyr, a pale blur, drifted away, his steps soundless even on the packed earth.

Each step he took felt like wading through mud, the air thick and resistant. The soldier's contorted face, a grotesque mockery of peace, twisted something inside his gut. Was this the price of their stand? This charnel house of shattered limbs and vacant eyes?

His stomach churned, the urge to retch warring with the need to move. Focus. One step at a time. He slammed into something solid, the breath knocked from his lungs. Pain, sharp and immediate, ripped through the fog of his thoughts.

"Watch it, shrimp." The words scraped against his ears like stone on stone. He looked up, flinching at the glint of a canine tooth – a shard of bone in a sneer. His fingers tightened on his scarf, a calming gesture in the face of the unexpected.

The man, with upturned eyes and white hair, shouldered past, disappearing into the darkness of a nearby tent.

- - - > xox K•A xox < - - -

Kleinnard sauntered in, a smirk plastered across his face. He kicked a stray pebble, sending a spray of dust dancing around his dusty boots. Each step was a swagger, a predator back from a pointless hunt.

"So you return at last," Vadorecht's voice boomed. A vein throbbed above the old man's eye. "Report, Lieutenant. What troubles have you unearthed?"

"Bah! Boring!" He drawled, baring a canine in a sneer.

"Hold your tongue, whelp!" Vadorecht's fist slammed down on the table, rattling the figurines on the map. "War is a grim dance, not a spectacle! We fight for the Empire, yes, but also for the honor of Empress Inaya! Do not forget the weight such conflict carries!"

Honor? The old boar actually believed that crap? “Cut the cackle, old man,” he snorted. “Let the weaklings chase glory. Me? I crave the hunt, the clash of blades against those actually worth fighting."

Vadorecht’s face twisted.

Heh. His smirk widened, a predator enjoying the first tremors of its prey's fear. The old suid's knuckles cracked against the wood, a sound as satisfying as snapping a twig underfoot.

A low growl rumbled in Vadorecht's throat, the scent of his rage thick in the close air.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He leaned closer, almost tasting the old boar’s fury. "Oh yeah!" He tossed the words out, a predator with a fresh kill. "Sneaky little vermin. One of those sword-for-coin canines." His grin stretched, "scurrying about the camp."

The old swine choked on the words. "Treachery!" The tent flap trembled with the force of it. "Explain yourself, Kleinnard Argus! By the Empress' blood, how did this happen?"

He threw his head back, "Wahahaha! A juicy little slaughter, that's what I call it! Let them see the Empire's claws in all their glory! It'll be a right laugh watchin' those fools squirm, realizin' just how outmatched they are!"

"Imbecile!" Vadorecht lunged, the old boar. Lamplight made his face all fangs and shadows. "What madness is this? Have you forgotten your sacred duty? The Empress placed her trust in you, and you squander it like a careless squire! Find this whelp now!"

Vadorecht's face contorted, a snarl ripping through the old suid's beard. His veins in the neck bulged, hands clenching so tight his knuckles pop.

Yeah, the old boar was fuming – music to his ears. He'd hooked him good. "Move it or lose it, old man!" he barked, shoving Vadorecht aside with a laugh. "Trackin' down prey ain't my game anymore. Besides, that lumbering hippopotamid ain't exactly hard to miss."

Vadorecht collapsed onto a stool, bones creaking like a rotten floorboard. The old suid's hand balled into a fist, tendons like snapping wires, then went slack just as fast. His eyes narrowed, a hawk eyeing a mouse. No fear there, just that look... the one that comes before the kill.

A grin split the old swine's face, all teeth and bad news. "This...infiltrator, keep it quiet, Kleinnard. Let not a whisper of his presence sully the air. We may yet turn this misfortune to the Empire's advantage."

“Whatever, old man. Like I care about some vermin. That Zevas, the old ursid... now there's a challenge worth my time.” He stretched, all joints popping like a cage door opening. A smirk stretched across his face.

The old boar's brows were knitting together, a knot that didn't loosen even as his hands fell away. Back went ramrod straight. Even the air in the tent felt different now - like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to pounce. The lamplight flickered, making the old man's shadow jump. For a second there, it looked like it had fangs. "So, their skirmish was a prod, as I suspected. Uncertain of our motives for this encampment."

Vadorecht threw back his head and let out a sound that was more bark than laugh - "Waugh ha ha ha!" It ended in a choked gasp, and for a heartbeat, those watery eyes darted around like trapped things.

He scoffed. Old boar trying to imitate? Pathetic. He's more scruffy swine than bear.

Vadorecht sucked in a breath, jaw snapping shut like a bear trap. Whatever light show was in his eyes before, now it was all steel. The old suid summoned a handful of poor bastards and barked out orders, snapping at them to go do... whatever the old boar thought was clever. Shadow the enemy… Feed lies…

"You're dismissed, Lieutenant." Vadorecht snapped, hand flicking like he was swatting flies.

"Yeah, yeah," he scoffed, flicking a stray thread from his sleeve. “This rabble is barely sport. Catch ya later, old man!" He sauntered out of the tent.

He shoved through the tent flap, the reek of fat and something vaguely meaty making his gut twist. A knot of soldiers were hunched around their bowls, scrabbling like canines over a bone. He shoved past, their armor clinking like rusted bells—nothing like the clean whisper of his Wind Hanger against his side. Vadorecht could keep his rules, his stupid sense of honor. His nostrils flared. The hunt, the chase—that was the only law that mattered. And this time, he'd be the one to decide the kill.

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Einntyr, cloaked in borrowed shadows, crept closer to the firelight. Gruff voices, hushed but close, drifted from the huddle of soldiers shoveling down their food. "...transporting supplies...Lord Acer...northeast passage..." His pulse quickened. A grin tugged at his lips. Big win!

He weaved through the camp, each rustle of canvas, every muttered curse, amplified in his ears. A prickle danced between his shoulder blades—the certainty of unseen eyes on his back. They followed him, these shadows, but made no move to grab him. Not yet, anyway.

The flickering firelight painted the soldiers' faces in shifting hues of orange and red. Each laugh, each muttered aside – were they talking about troop movements, supply lines? His grin felt stiff, like dried glue on his lips. Don't blow it now. A burly soldier, his face scarred like a battlefield, shot him a look that could curdle milk. He swallowed, forcing his grin wider. Just another harmless oaf. Each flicker of the torches sent the shadows leaping, twisting familiar shapes into lurking beasts.

He crept closer, catching snippets of conversation. This group – their faces were grim, voices low. Could be it. He held his breath, ears straining. "Fluffy Fleogols... juggling balls... pet rock collection... Beagwog family..." He blinked. Then blinked again. He glanced around, bewildered. His brows knitted together, his mental gears grinding to a halt. Was he going daft? Or were these Miers touched in the head? "Beagwog family...?" He muttered under his breath, the words stank like dirty socks. Is this their code?