Rain hammered the forest in steady sheets—cold, needle-sharp.
Fog clung to the trees like gauze over a wound, thick and unmoving.
The woods closed in from all sides—tall, skeletal things with bark like blistered skin.
Shadows moved through it slowly. Cautiously.
Dozens of them.
Armed. Armored. Trained.
Second Glyphwork.
Scattered formations crept through the underbrush, mana-lamps glowing a faint, uneasy blue in the mist.
Circuits hissed under their armor, a quiet, constant crackle beneath the drumbeat of the rain.
"How many now?" someone muttered from the rear—grizzled, soaked to the bone, breath steaming in the cold. "Eight? Nine?"
"Nine," came the reply. "Ten if you count the one we couldn't find all of."
A sharp curse. Then silence again.
Boots squelched in the mud—heavy with water, heavier with dread.
Some carried wand-staffs tight to their chests. Others gripped repeaters, thumbs hovering over trigger-glyphs.
Every eye flicked through the fog, every shadow a threat.
"This is bollocks," one of the younger ones snapped. "This shouldn't be happening. They're just two girls."
"Tell that to Farrow. Or Bren. Or Kess. You saw what was left of them."
"Eyes open," another said flatly. "Unless you want to join them."
From the front, a voice cut in—low, rough, final. A squad leader with a scar down his throat.
"Keep your heads. Watch the fog. They're not running. They're bleeding us."
The forest groaned. Rain tapped like nails against the canopy.
Mist curled low over the earth, slipping into boots, into gloves, under armor—wet and cold as fear.
"The rain's not letting up, boss," someone said, quieter now. "And this fog—it's like walking blind. You sure we keep going?"
A pause.
Then a different voice—dry, steady, resigned.
"Orders are orders."
They pushed forward.Slower now. Tighter.
The line bent between gnarled trunks and moss-slick stones.
Somewhere distant, thunder rumbled—deep and hollow, like a beast stirring underground.
Then—
"Stop."
The column froze.
A soldier knelt, mana–lamp casting a cone of pale light over the soaked ground.
The beam wavered in the rain, but the sign was there.
Blood in the mud.
Another crouched beside it. "Still fresh."
"They're close," the squad leader said, fingers flexing around his wand-staff.
And up ahead, in the deeper fog… something shifted.
They moved again—but something had changed. The air. The silence. Them.
Quieter now. Weapons shouldered, eyes sharp. Every bootstep placed with care.
Breaths came slow and shallow, barely stirring the mist.
Rain hammered down in relentless sheets, seeping into armor seams, pooling in gauntlets, trailing down necks in icy rivulets.
The forest around them was a hushed cathedral of black trunks and bone-pale fog, muffling sound like snow—yet every branch creaked too loudly, every leaf crunch felt amplified.
It was like the woods were listening.
Watching.
A twig snapped up ahead.
Instant reaction—three rifles turned in perfect unison, fingers tightening near the safeties.
Nothing.
Only the fog, curling thick and low around the roots of a tree like smoke from a dying fire.
A grizzled veteran near the rear muttered a ward, voice hoarse.
His fingers brushed the etched protection runes along his collar plate, lips trembling with habit and fear.
One of the younger troopers shook his head. "This feels wrong," he whispered. "Like the fog's watching us."
A pause.
"And the trees too," someone else added. "This place is cursed. I can feel it."
Up ahead, the squad leader raised a clenched fist.
They halted.
He dropped to one knee, boots sinking into the muck.
Mud caked his armor as he swept his gloved hand across the ground.
Tracks.
Two sets—light impressions half-swallowed by rain.
Small feet.
One set lighter than the other.
He stood slowly, eyes narrowing. "They're moving uphill."
"Why the fuck would they go up?" came a voice behind him. Quiet. Fraying at the edges. "They could've vanished into the trees."
"They want us to follow," the scarred man said. His voice was low but sure. "They're drawing us in."
He didn't turn to explain.
"Keep formation. Don't break line."
Unease rippled through the ranks like static across a wire.
Someone muttered, "Feels like bait."
Another answered with a grim shrug. "We're already hooked."
They pressed forward, the trail winding into a narrow throat between stone outcrops and clawing tree roots.
Moss slicked the rocks. Thorns snagged at their cloaks and plates.
The fog here was different—thicker, heavier, as if the forest was exhaling around them.
Thunder rolled again overhead—low, guttural, close. Too close.
The squad leader's voice cut the gloom. "Eyes open. I can feel it. We're being watched."
They moved in single file now, the passage too narrow for a line.
Each step echoed, absorbed by the dripping stone and breathing trees.
The fog thickened into a veil.
Rain slammed like nails against their armor.
And then, without warning, the forest changed.
The trees no longer stood still—they loomed.
Their limbs twisted overhead like ribs, their bark split and bleeding sap that looked too much like blood.
The ground underfoot felt wrong, spongy, too warm.
The air shifted. Thick. Metallic.
Tasted like old blood.
Smelled worse.
Iron. Rot.
And something chemical. Sharp, like old acid and burnt mana.
A soldier near the middle gagged, pulling his collar over his nose. "Smells like a slaughterhouse—"
A voice cut him off. Not loud. Not shouted.
A whisper—calm and close. Unfamiliar.
"It is."
They spun, rifles raised. Mana circuits flared blue-white for a heartbeat.
Nothing.
Only mist.
Then—
Snap.
A body fell from the canopy.
Limp. Armor dented. Neck opened like paper.
One of theirs.
"What the fuck—" The scream came sharp and panicked—someone young.
And then, as if the forest had been holding its breath—
It screamed back.
With a dull thum—deep, resonant, wrong.
A tremor rippled underfoot.
Then came the sound: a low grinding rumble, like the earth itself was waking.
CRUNCH.
Something massive shifted above them.
A rock—huge, slick with moss and rain—broke free from the ridgeline and hurtled downhill, tearing through underbrush like a beast unchained.
"Move!" Someone shouted.
They scattered.
Orders forgotten, formation broken—panic cracking discipline like ice beneath a boot.
Mud sucked at their feet as they stumbled, crashed through wet ferns and briars, slipping over roots.
The boulder smashed through a tree trunk, splintering it with a thunderclap.
Two men didn't move fast enough—one vanished beneath it with a sickening crunch, the other caught a glancing blow that shattered his leg and hurled him down the slope.
Screams followed.
And out of the fog—Celine.
She moved like a blade drawn from silk.
No armor. No warcry. Just precision.
Her silhouette emerged from the mist behind a broken stump, daggers in hands.
The first trooper barely saw her—he turned, breath ragged, and she was there.
A clean slash—arterial. His throat opened. Blood spilled a crimson halo.
He dropped without a sound.
Another turned to fire—Celine ducked, rolled, came up beneath his shot.
A flick of her wrist and a throwing blade embedded in his temple. He twitched once, then slumped into the mud.
By the time the rest realized where she was, she was gone again—vanished into fog like a ghost.
Her boots barely touched the earth. Just a shape between trees. A whisper of movement. A glint of steel.
And then—Freya.
Not as fast. Not as silent.
But just as deadly.
She emerged through the mist with her sword drawn—the Reinhart blade.
The first rifleman raised his repeater.
Freya cut through it—and the man behind it. Sparks. Screams. Steel sang.
The next trooper jabbed with a bayonet—she stepped inside, parried low, and drove the hilt into his jaw, shattering bone.
Then spun, blade arcing in a full circle, cleaving clean through a third man's breastplate. Mana sparked where metal met metal—Reinhart steel won.
Another one charged her—desperate.
But Celine was already dropping from the top, boots slamming into the attacker's shoulders.
He buckled. She landed, slid off his back, and drove a dagger up through his gut before he could scream.
The fog swirled.
Gunfire echoed—wild, blind.
Screams followed.
Then silence.
Broken only by the rain.
Celine and Freya stood back-to-back for a breath, the bodies of Second Glyphwork scattered around them like broken dolls.
"How many?" Freya asked, breathing heavy. Exhausted.
Celine's eyes flicked over the shapes. "Too many. We need some rest, my lady. We burned too much mana, especially on moving that rock."
Freya turned her face to the trees. "The woods seem cozy."
Celine hesitated. "That might not be a good idea, my lady."
Freya turned. Face puzzled.
Celine's eyes narrowed. "The woods are too quiet. As if there's—"
A click echoed from the fog.
Behind them. Something big stepped out from the trees.
White. Striped. Breathing steam.
A tiger.
But not just any tiger. A magical beast!
Massive. Head high as a horse's shoulder. Muscles like rippling stone.
Its fur shimmered—not just with water, but with mana-threaded strands, glowing faintly under the stormlight.
Its eyes burned gold. Unblinking.
It stood in the rain as if the storm didn't touch it. As if the world had parted for its arrival.
Celine's mouth twitched, but her blades stayed low. "...Shit."
Freya's eyes never left the tiger. "No sudden move. Don't look away."
She took a slow step back. The mud sucked at her heel.
"Into the trees. Slow and easy. There's a buffet in front of it. No reason it wants us too."
The white tiger didn't move.
It stood half-shrouded in mist, massive and silent, its breath pluming in the rain like smoke from a furnace.
Muscles coiled beneath fur like braided rope. Its eyes tracked them—intelligent, intrigued.
Freya took another step back, careful not to lift her blade. Celine matched her, silent as shadow.
One pace. Then another.
Behind them, the trees yawned open like a mouth waiting to swallow them whole.
The tiger watched.
Rain pattered over its back, sliding down fur that looked almost silver under the mana-lamp's dying glow.
Celine's fingers twitched near her daggers. Freya gave the smallest shake of her head.
"Not a threat," she whispered. "Not unless we make it one."
They eased through the underbrush, branches rasping against their clothes.
The tiger's ears twitched. Its head followed them—watchful, calculating—but it didn't move.
Ten paces.
Then fifteen.
The fog thickened again, coiling around their legs, swallowing their silhouettes.
Still, they backed away. Slow. Quiet.
Only when the trees finally veiled the clearing between them—when the sound of cracking bone and wet tearing drifted through the mist—did Freya allow herself a breath.
"Nice kitty," she said under her breath.
Celine gave a tight, nervous grin. "You can say that again, my lady."