The forest narrowed, but not unnaturally so. The path dipped slightly, winding between tall trees whose branches cast long, slow-moving shadows. Leaves rustled softly overhead—just enough to hide the quiet.

  There was no alarm.

  No sudden silence.

  Just… an oddness.

  Noticed first by no one—except her.

  Isolde’s pace slowed, but not noticeably. Her shoulders drew slightly higher, her steps angled softer. One hand drifted closer to the hilt of her sword. She didn’t say anything.

  She didn’t have to.

  Behind her, the others walked normally, though the conversation had died sometime after lunch. The forest looked the same, but the air… didn’t.

  Zafran glanced up. He frowned—not for any specific reason, just a tug behind the ribs. Karin rubbed her arms once. Ysar kept his hands free but didn’t joke. Elsha stayed near the center, eyes quietly alert.

  “Still no sign of anything,” Ysar muttered.

  “Maybe that’s the sign,” Elsha replied, tone even.

  They kept walking.

  Ahead, the trees parted—barely. A trail cut through a long ridge of low hills. At the end of it, faint outlines of rooftops peeked through the canopy.

  A village.

  Unassuming. Faint smoke in the air. Stone chimneys. Wooden fences.

  Quiet.

  Too quiet?

  Maybe not.

  Maybe it was just a quiet village.

  But Isolde hadn’t spoken for the last hour. And she hadn’t looked back once.

  Zafran moved closer behind her.

  “You’re leading us here, aren’t you?” he asked under his breath.

  Isolde didn’t stop. “Keep your hand near your sword.”

  That was all she said.

  And the rest of them, without thinking too hard about it, began walking just a little differently.

  Not ready.

  Not yet.

  But uneasy.

  And beneath it all, something patient waited.

  The village emerged like a mirage—half-real, half-remembered. Moss-covered roofs. Empty doorways. A shrine choked by weeds. The smell of smoke lingered faintly, as if something had already burned here long ago.

  But it wasn’t empty.

  Figures moved between houses. Slowly. Quietly.

  No greetings. No curiosity.

  Just stillness.

  Too still.

  Isolde didn’t pause.

  She crossed the invisible boundary like cutting through breath.

  The others followed—hesitant, uneasy.

  Ysar frowned. “Doesn’t feel right.”

  “No children,” Elsha murmured.

  Karin’s eyes narrowed. “No livestock.”

  Zafran walked closer behind Isolde. “Are you going to tell us what this place is?”

  She didn’t respond.

  But she slowed.

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  At the village center, a hunched man dipped water from the well, rhythmically. Behind him, a woman swept an already-clean porch. Another figure leaned in a doorway, eyes vacant.

  No expression. No blink. No life.

  Then—

  Her sword plunged into the man’s chest.

  One clean, silent motion.

  The bucket clattered. The body collapsed.

  Zafran’s hand caught her wrist mid-turn. “Isolde—what are you doing?!”

  Her eyes cut toward him, sharp as a blade. “Let go of me, Ocean Tide, or—”

  An arrow screamed through the air.

  Zafran didn’t see it in time.

  Isolde did.

  Her free hand flashed. A wall of ice burst upward. But the arrow punched through—and she shoved him back.

  It struck her shoulder.

  “Isolde!” Zafran scrambled up toward her, eyes wide.

  She gritted through the pain, blood soaking into her white cloak.

  A burst of lightning cracked from her palm, blasting Zafran back into the dirt.

  “Get out of my way,” she said.

  She tore the arrow out, blood gushing. Then sealed the wound with a hiss of frost.

  And the village erupted.

  The woman with the broom shrieked—not in horror, but fury. The broom dropped—replaced by a blade drawn from her sleeve. The man in the doorway vanished inside.

  Screams exploded from all sides.

  Doors flew open. Shapes surged from alleyways. Men and women—armed, fast, too organized. Some wielded blades. Others readied bows. A few raised their hands—magic flaring in their palms.

  This wasn’t a village.

  It was a nest.

  An ambush.

  Isolde’s eyes locked on the archer across the square—a tall figure standing on a roof, already turning away. His arrow had pierced her ice. That wasn’t ordinary.

  She moved to follow.

  But another man leapt in, axe raised.

  Isolde’s sword caught him mid-air—split him in two.

  Chaos followed.

  Flames burst. Stone spears erupted from the ground. Wind blades sliced through tree branches. A bolt of lightning whistled past Karin’s face.

  Another attacker lunged at Ysar with a curved blade.

  Karin threw up a firewall—newly learned, barely held—blocking the charge.

  “BE CAREFUL!” she yelled.

  “I KNOW!” Ysar ducked under a spear thrust, slashing across the attacker’s chest.

  Karin turned, fire bursting from both palms. One enemy went down screaming. Another hurled back a surge of water, dousing her flames—and nearly soaking Elsha, who had just reached Zafran.

  “Are you alright?!” she shouted.

  Zafran rolled to his knees, coughing hard. “I’m fine. Isolde—she’s bleeding—”

  “You’re the one who flew into a tree!”

  “She took the arrow,” he growled. “We need to help her.”

  More attackers swarmed in.

  Elsha pivoted, intercepted a twin-blade fighter. Steel clashed. Sparks flew.

  Zafran stood, eyes locked on Isolde.

  She was covered in blood, but still moving—ice sealing new wounds as fast as they formed. Her sword was unstoppable. But she couldn’t do this alone.

  “I’m going in,” he said.

  “Be careful!” Elsha shouted, catching another blade with her own.

  Zafran ran toward the heart of the storm.

  Karin’s fire raged again, catching two more enemies in a sweeping arc. But her breath was ragged now, fingers twitching.

  “WHAT ARE THESE PEOPLE?!”

  “ENEMIES!” Ysar bellowed, slamming his blade into another attacker. “Just—agh—so many!”

  Elsha leapt over a fallen foe, blade dripping, closing in behind Zafran as he charged toward the chaos Isolde was carving.

  The village had become a battlefield.

  After a long while, the village died down.

  Numbers of the enemy are now thinned, lower than ten, their formations scattered, some back away from all of them.

  Zafran drove his sword through another foe’s gut, spun, parried a desperate slash that came at Isolde and give a swift cut, he’s the only one in the best condition here.

  Elsha stood beside him, panting, a line of red running down her arm. Ysar leaned on his blade, gritting his teeth, his shirt scorched from a near-hit, some wound can be seen on hinm, Karin knelt behind a shattered fence, her fingers shaking.

  And Isolde—

  She was still on her feet, but only barely.

  Her shoulder bled through the frost-sealed wound. Her sword tip dipped with each breath. Yet her eyes—sharp, unblinking—never left the crumbling center of the village.

  Zafran walk right to her, about to say something.

  But Then—

  A sound.

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

  Slow. Lazy. Echoing through the flame-lit ruin like theater applause in a shattered cathedral.

  “Ah,” a voice drawled. “I expected one ice-born wolf cub. But it seems the little thing found herself a pack.”

  They all turned.

  From the far edge of the village—stepping through the smoke as if it parted for him—came a man.

  Tall. Slender. His cloak shimmered faintly, not from thread, but from enchantment—colors shifting like oil across water. His hair, silver-black, was tied loosely behind. A narrow grin curved his lips.

  And his eyes glowed faint violet.

  Isolde stiffened. Her breath stilled. “Kareth.”

  Two others followed him.

  One was the bowman—lean, sharp-eyed, dressed in grays that vanished into shadow. A black tattoo coiled around his left temple, glowing faintly with each step. The other, broader and heavier, carried a long curved sword over one shoulder. His armor was scratched and scorched, crimson sigils etched into the steel.

  Kareth gave a slight bow, mock-genteel. “How touching. You remember me, even after all these years.”

  He strolled forward, boots soft on scorched dirt. “You’ve been such a thorn in our side, Lady Isolde. And here I thought I could lure you into a neat little trap. But no—you never disappoint. Dragging three children and a stray swordsman in tow, even.”

  Ysar bristled. “Children?”

  Zafran stepped forward, planting himself between Isolde and Kareth. “Who the hell is that?”

  Isolde’s jaw tightened. “Kareth Val’raun. Warlock of the Crimson Hand. One of their inner circle.”

  Kareth spread his arms with a theatrical shrug. “Ah, titles. So weighty. So nostalgic. Let’s just say—I’m the one who keeps the rituals running, the gods whispering, and the blood flowing.”

  Zafran lifted his sword.

  Kareth didn’t flinch. “Careful, young man. I’m not here for you. Just the girl behind you.”

  Then he smiled—wide and cold.

  And the ground cracked.

  A surge of tendrils—black, writhing, unnatural—erupted toward them, faster than breath.

  Zafran didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, grabbed Isolde’s arm, and pulled her hard—twisting both of them away just as the tendrils struck the earth where she’d stood.

  The impact exploded in a wave of dark energy—cracking stone, hurling dust, and sending burning splinters into the air.

  “Kill them,” Kareth said softly, already turning away.

  The two men beside him surged forward—one with the roar of a beast, the other utterly silent.

  And the second battle began.