The moon had slipped behind the jungle canopy, leaving only filtered starlight and the occasional flicker of torch resin to guide their way.

  Fifteen volunteers moved like shadows beneath the leaves, their steps measured, breaths shallow. The jungle was silent, save for the rustle of leaves, the click of insects, and the occasional low hoot of a nightbird.

  They were not warriors.

  They were hunters.

  And tonight, they moved for something greater than food.

  Kaelen crouched by a shallow print in the damp earth. The bootmark of one of the Alkandor soldiers—deep, worn, bleeding slightly around the heel.

  “Three of you,” Kaelen whispered, not looking back, “double back and sweep this trail. Erase everything. Every print, every blood drop, every snapped branch. If we leave even a single clear trace, they’ll find us.”

  Senna, along with two younger men, nodded and peeled off silently into the brush, reed brooms and mud scoops in hand.

  The rest of the group began unpacking strips of leather, cloaks bearing Alkandor’s sun-and-sword, and spare boots worn thin at the soles.

  “Don’t just wear it,” Kaelen murmured. “Become it. Limp. Drag one leg. Fall if you must. Bleed if you can stomach it. They must believe you’re desperate.”

  One of the men chuckled nervously. “Don’t worry. I already am.”

  Kaelen didn’t laugh.

  He led the remaining group down a sloped ridge into thick vines, past the eastern hunting trail, and onto the false path he’d selected earlier—one that curved away from Veleth and toward the dense bramble hollows beyond the ridge basin.

  They walked in staggered steps, dragging old cloaks through mud, laying false bandages, even dropping rations that looked hastily discarded.

  Rehn, wearing a soldier’s belt and bent bow, walked beside Kaelen the entire time, saying nothing.

  When they had reached far enough—well beyond any direct line of Veleth—Kaelen stopped them at a narrow clearing flanked by ancient, thick-rooted trees.

  Here, the jungle narrowed.

  Here, the Krothmaar would be funneled.

  Kaelen turned, eyes sharp in the dark. “Circle up,” he said.

  The volunteers gathered around, catching their breath.

  “We’re not done.”

  Jarek—lean, wild-eyed—tilted his head. “What now?”

  “Traps,” Kaelen answered. “If this fails. If they don’t take the bait fully. If they suspect something. We leave something behind to buy us time.”

  Senna nodded. “Deadfall traps?”

  “Yes,” Kaelen said. “Pitfalls. Spiked thickets. Snare vines. Any slow-down works. But place them in blind spots—behind curves, near waterroots. If they’re easy to spot, we fail.”

  He knelt and quickly drew in the dirt again.

  “But most importantly—when we fall back... we don’t run.”

  He looked around the circle. “We take to the trees.”

  He stood. His voice lowered, calm but direct.

  “You’re not warriors,” he said. “You’re hunters. You were born in the trees. You breathe moss and fog.”

  Some of them straightened as he spoke.

  “You’ve taken down jungle cats with one arrow. You’ve watched your prey for hours, unmoving. This is no different. But you aim not for meat tonight. You aim for shadows.”

  He stepped into the center of the group now.

  “If they catch the lie—if they double back—don’t panic. Get to the trees. Watch. Wait. And if they charge our way…”

  Kaelen’s voice dropped into steel.

  “You shoot.”

  He raised his hand and pointed to the side of his neck.

  “Here.”

  Then pointed to his own underarm. “And here.”

  “They wear heavy armor. Ironwood chestplates. But these places—they don’t guard well. If you miss, reload. Don’t aim wide. Don’t waste movement.”

  The volunteers were utterly silent.

  Kaelen’s voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t commanding in the way war leaders shouted over battlefield winds.

  But it moved through them like fire licking dry leaves.

  Even Jarek, who had questioned him before, found himself nodding.

  And Senna whispered, “Spirits guide you, boy… you speak like someone who’s bled kingdoms.”

  Kaelen ignored it. He simply turned to his father.

  “Positions.”

  Harun gave one look to the group—then nodded.

  “Move out.”

  Like a single shadow, they scattered—into vines, into tree hollows, onto branches slick with dew and moss. The jungle swallowed them like old friends.

  Kaelen stayed back only a moment longer.

  He looked toward the trail they’d laid.

  Then whispered to Rehn beside him:

  “If they believe what we’ve shown them, they’ll never see Veleth.”

  Rehn gave a single, quiet nod.

  Kaelen stepped into the dark, the first leaves whispering across his shoulder as the trap waited to be sprung.

  The jungle was holding its breath.

  Mist hung low between the trees like ghosts waiting for permission to speak.

  Kaelen crouched near the edge of the clearing, the false trail stretching behind them like a broken thread in the underbrush. The traps were ready—concealed pits, snare loops, sharpened vine-spikes hidden beneath dead leaves. Everything was set.

  But they were still blind.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “We need eyes,” Kaelen said quietly. “If they’re close… we can’t wait for them to find us.”

  He turned to two volunteers—young, no older than seventeen, both of them hunters from the west ring of the village. Quiet feet, quick hands. But their eyes… they weren’t ready.

  “You two,” Kaelen said. “You’re going to scout.”

  They blinked in unison. One swallowed hard. “Scout… the Krothmaar?”

  Kaelen didn’t soften.

  “Yes. Quiet as fog. Find them. Count them. Then vanish. Nothing more.”

  “And if they see us?” the second asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Kaelen didn’t hesitate. “You run.”

  He stepped closer, voice lowering even further.

  “But not toward Veleth. Never toward the village.”

  They nodded slowly. But their hands were shaking. Their eyes darted like birds trying to find the edge of the storm.

  Before Kaelen could speak again, Harun appeared behind him.

  His father placed a firm hand on each scout’s shoulder.

  “Think of your families,” Harun said. “Think of what happens if those monsters walk into our home. What happens to your sisters? To your mothers? To the old? Do you want to see our walls burn?”

  The two volunteers stiffened.

  Their fear didn’t vanish. But it shifted—into duty.

  They stood straighter.

  “We’ll find them,” the first said.

  “We’ll be back,” the second added.

  Kaelen nodded once. “Good. Nothing more than a number and direction. Then return. Quickly.”

  They ran—low, fast, and silent.

  The jungle swallowed them.

  Kaelen turned back toward the group.

  The others had nearly finished. The traps were laid in the places he marked—one at the gorge mouth, two at the slope’s curve, and one at the narrow choke point where the false trail doubled back through thick vine-choked ground.

  Harun approached again, brushing mud from his hands. “The men are ready. Arrows notched. Branches cleared. Visibility’s poor—but that may be to our favor.”

  Kaelen looked up through the leaves.

  It was still dark—but not for much longer.

  Dawn was coming. The sky at the edges was graying, like the world was waiting for a verdict.

  “We’ll lose our advantage when the light hits,” Kaelen said. “But that’s not the worst part.”

  Harun frowned. “What is?”

  “If they suspect.”

  Kaelen looked at the ridge behind them—the slope that would be their escape if things turned.

  “If they sense we led them here, they’ll turn back toward Veleth.”

  “And the village is less than an hour south.”

  Kaelen turned to the others now.

  “Everyone to the trees. Now. I want you in your posts before the sun touches the tops.”

  The volunteers moved.

  Ropes were climbed, bows lifted. Bark creaked under shifting weight as the jungle above came alive with hidden eyes. The volunteers found perches in the canopy—behind vines, in forked limbs, above trap zones. Quiet returned.

  Harun paused before climbing. He looked down at Kaelen.

  “And you?”

  Kaelen checked the spear slung over his back.

  “Here. On the ground. In the shadows.”

  Harun’s brow furrowed. “It’s not safe. If something goes wrong—”

  “I’ll know first,” Kaelen said. “I’ll signal you.”

  Harun hesitated. His fingers twitched—wanting to grab his son’s arm, to pull him upward into the trees.

  But Kaelen met his gaze calmly.

  “I’m not a child,” he said. “Not anymore.”

  Harun said nothing.

  Then, from the side—Rhen’s voice cut the tension.

  “He won’t be alone.”

  Kaelen turned to see his friend standing a few paces away, already crouched low beside a tangle of thick roots. His bow was across his lap. His face unreadable.

  Harun stared at him for a long moment.

  Then gave a slow nod.

  “Guard him well.”

  Rhen nodded once.

  Harun climbed into the trees.

  Silence fell again.

  Kaelen crouched low behind the brush, heart steady, mind racing.

  Every sound mattered now. Every breath. Every shift of the jungle.

  He checked the trap trigger nearest to him—tight, hidden under a tangle of moss.

  He whispered, “Come into my story, Krothmaar.”

  Hours passed like dripping water.

  The stars faded. The mist pulled back like a sheet. The air grew warmer. Light crept along the leaves in broken shafts.

  Then—

  Footsteps.

  Kaelen’s hand moved slowly toward his spear.

  Rhen did the same.

  Another step. Two. Soft. Controlled.

  A flash of movement—leather tunics. No armor.

  Kaelen exhaled.

  The scouts.

  They emerged low and fast, kneeling beside him in the underbrush. Faces pale with effort.

  Kaelen leaned in. “Report.”

  The first scout gasped for breath. “Twenty-five to thirty. Ten mounted. Rest on foot.”

  “They followed the trail,” the other whispered. “They’re loud. Confident. No shields up. They think they’re chasing wounded.”

  Kaelen nodded slowly.

  “How long until they’re here?”

  The first scout wiped sweat from his brow.

  “Maybe fifteen minutes. Maybe ten.”

  “Good,” Kaelen said. “Get into the trees.”

  The scouts vanished upward, joining the ranks above.

  Kaelen and Rhen remained in the brush.

  Kaelen leaned his back to the trunk, eyes on the far slope, breath low and steady.

  “Now,” he whispered, “we see if they believe in ghosts.”+

  The jungle no longer breathed.

  It held its lungs tight.

  Kaelen crouched low in the shadow of a root-twisted rise, a veil of wet leaves draped like a curtain before his eyes. Every sound became louder in the silence—the creak of vines, the twitch of moss beneath his boot, the quiet tension of a bowstring in Rhen’s fingers.

  Then the noise came.

  Boots. Metal. Grunting voices that sounded more beast than man.

  The Krothmaar.

  They came through the underbrush like a creeping avalanche—slow, heavy, unstoppable. Some rode on black-furred jungle horses, hooves wrapped in leather and ash to muffle their approach. Others stomped forward on foot, armored in patchwork iron and beast hide, their weapons slung across broad backs or dragged lazily through the dirt.

  They did not move like soldiers.

  They moved like predators.

  And at the head of them, riding a monstrous black warhorse with leather-wrapped hooves and cracked tusk ornaments braided into its mane, came their captain.

  He was a mountain in motion.

  His armor was a mosaic of black steel and bone, each piece seemingly torn from the battlefield rather than forged. His arms were bare save for spiked gauntlets, revealing scarred muscle and red war paint slashed from shoulder to wrist. His face was thick with braids and blood-stiffened hair, bone charms hanging from his ears.

  And his eyes—those yellow, sunless pits—gleamed with something older than rage.

  He raised a hand.

  The Krothmaar halted.

  A deathly quiet fell, like the jungle itself feared him.

  “Borrkar, halt.” His voice cracked like a whip over stone.

  One of the warriors beside him stepped forward, resting a great cleaver across his shoulder. “What is it, Varkuun?” he asked.

  Kaelen’s blood chilled.

  Varkuun. That was their word for war-captain.

  The Varkuun didn’t respond at first. He dismounted slowly, his boots thudding against the damp ground like boulders falling from cliffs. The warhorse snorted, ears flicking.

  He crouched and placed one hand to the false trail.

  Sniffed the air.

  Then he stood.

  And growled.

  “This is no fleeing pack,” he muttered. “This is scentless. Controlled. This is a lie.”

  The other warriors stirred, confused.

  One barked, “You said they passed here!”

  “They did,” the Varkuun hissed. “But not the ones we hunt. This path was painted by cowards.”

  Kaelen flinched.

  Too sharp. Too fast.

  The Varkuun turned toward the trees.

  “Scatter. Sweep the trees. Find them. Kill slowly.”

  The Krothmaar erupted like a nest of hornets, fanning through the brush with blades drawn, grunting curses, stepping over Kaelen’s careful track work.

  Kaelen’s heart pounded.

  We can’t let them leave now. They know it’s a trap. If one escapes, they bring a horde behind them.

  He turned up toward the trees.

  His people waited.

  Fifteen silhouettes, barely more than shadows, crouched along branches. Bows drawn. Eyes wide. Hands trembling.

  He gave the signal.

  Three fingers raised.

  Then—drop.

  Fire.

  The jungle came alive with screams.

  Arrows hissed from the canopy, slicing through fog and foliage. The first hit a Krothmaar scout through the eye—he dropped instantly. Another embedded in the neck of a warrior trying to turn, sending him staggering backward in silence before collapsing.

  A third arrow struck a horse in the flank. The beast shrieked and reared, throwing its rider to the ground with a bone-snapping crunch.

  Chaos.

  Shouts. Steel scraping bark. Birds exploded from trees. A Krothmaar warrior whirled and hacked blindly at a branch above him, missing the volunteer perched there by inches.

  “AMBUSH!” one bellowed, swinging a hammer into the air.

  The Varkuun spun, blade drawn in a blur, cutting a falling arrow clean in half.

  “Into the trees! Drag them out! BLEED THEM!”

  Kaelen didn’t wait.

  “Rhen, left side. Cut down the rider!” he barked.

  Rhen rose, calm as dusk, and loosed a single shot—clean, perfect. It pierced the shoulder gap of a mounted Krothmaar. The man roared and fell from his horse, crashing into a pit trap below.

  A snap of bones. Screams.

  More arrows fell. One struck a Krothmaar in the knee. Another caught a warrior as he raised his shield—ricocheted, cut across his cheek.

  “TRAPS! They’ve laid—” someone tried to shout.

  Then he dropped into a snare trap, rope yanking him skyward and leaving him dangling, kicking, face purple.

  A Krothmaar soldier roared and charged at the base of one tree, striking at it wildly. Another tried to climb—an arrow took him in the neck before he reached halfway.

  The jungle floor became a battlefield.

  Blood pooled in leaves.

  One of the volunteers lost his grip and tumbled to the ground with a grunt. Kaelen’s eyes snapped toward him—just in time to see two Krothmaar rush toward the fallen boy.

  Kaelen didn’t hesitate.

  He burst from cover, spear in hand.

  He slammed the shaft into one warrior’s thigh, spun, drove the butt end into the second’s ribs. The first turned, snarling—just in time to catch an arrow from above.

  Kaelen pulled the fallen volunteer toward cover, shoved him behind a tree hollow, then turned back to the chaos.

  The Varkuun was carving through the brush like a reaper.

  “WHERE ARE YOU HIDING?” he roared.

  “SHOW YOUR FACE, WORM!”

  Kaelen ducked behind a boulder, chest heaving.

  He looked to Rhen, still above him, still calm.

  Kaelen shouted:

  “Keep firing! Aim for the gaps!”

  Another arrow flew.

  Then—

  A horn blast.

  From deeper in the trees.

  Another Krothmaar group?

  Kaelen’s heart dropped.

  Sunday, so regular updates will resume after that!