The outpost was a place of noise.

  Hammers striking steel in the smithy. Boots thudding across the boardwalks. Traders shouting over one another, hawking whatever the caravans dragged in that week.

  Tonight, though, it was quiet - too quiet.

  Ren noticed it the moment he stepped out of the mess hall, a skewer of grilled river eel still in hand. The air felt stretched thin, like parchment pulled too taut. Watchfires along the palisade hissed and crackled, their orange light casting long, restless shadows. A few guards moved between posts, but they didn’t talk, and the usual drunken laughter from the barracks was gone.

  “Something’s off,” Sinclair murmured beside him. The man still wore his mercenary disguise - weathered leather, a patched green cloak, and a battered longsword hanging loose at his hip - but his eyes scanned the yard like a predator scenting blood.

  Ren swallowed his bite of eel. “I thought you said the captain called a late council meeting. Shouldn’t the officers be inside?”

  “They should.” Sinclair’s gaze flicked toward the central blockhouse. “But half the council wasn’t even here this morning. That’s the problem.”

  Ren frowned. “You think it’s about those missing supply caravans?”

  “Could be. Could be worse.”

  They crossed the yard toward the blockhouse steps. Ren caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision - two men slipping into the shadow between the warehouse and the palisade. Both wore the outpost’s brown-and-gray colors. Neither made a sound.

  “...You see that?” Ren asked quietly.

  “I see everything.” Sinclair’s voice dropped lower. “Keep walking. Don’t look back.”

  Ren obeyed, though curiosity burned at him. He’d learned quickly that when Sinclair spoke in that tone, arguing wasn’t an option.

  At the door, Sinclair nodded to the guard outside. “Captain still in?”

  The guard, a stocky man with a shaved head, nodded. “Aye. Brought in two scouts from the east trail just before dusk. Looked like they’d run the whole way.”

  Sinclair grunted and pushed the door open. The air inside smelled of lamp oil and sweat. The council chamber was lit by three hooded lanterns, their light spilling across a long table cluttered with maps and parchment.

  Captain Hadrik sat at the head, hunched over a half-empty mug. His broad shoulders sagged under invisible weight. Two mud-caked scouts sat across from him, hollow-eyed with exhaustion.

  “ - told you, sir,” one was saying. “Tracks big as wagons. Beast or no beast, something’s clearing trees like saplings.”

  The captain rubbed his temple. “And the caravan?”

  The scout’s silence was answer enough.

  Sinclair stepped forward, leaning casually against the table. “Sounds like you’ve had an eventful day, Captain.”

  Hadrik looked up, narrowing his eyes. “And you are…?”

  “Just a mercenary passing through,” Sinclair said easily. “But I hear whispers. Caravans vanishing, strange tracks, people keeping their doors barred after nightfall.”

  Hadrik snorted. “If you’re looking for a bounty, there isn’t one yet.”

  “Not looking for coin,” Sinclair replied, tone sharpening almost imperceptibly. “Just answers.”

  Ren stayed quiet, watching Sinclair’s performance - projecting harmless curiosity while dissecting every twitch in the room. The captain held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed.

  “We’ve had worse weeks,” Hadrik muttered. “But… it’s not just the caravans. People I’ve known for years are acting strange. Drifting off during shifts. Coming back with… empty eyes.”

  A prickle ran down Ren’s spine.

  “Empty eyes?” Sinclair asked.

  Before Hadrik could answer, the door slammed open. A young guard stumbled in, clutching his side. “Captain - attack - north gate - ”

  He collapsed, blood pooling beneath him.

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  Sinclair moved instantly. His sword came free in one smooth motion as he kicked a lantern toward the window, plunging half the room into shadow.

  “Ren - cover the scouts!”

  Ren darted to their side, pulling them back from the table as bootsteps thundered outside. Shadows flickered against the shutters - then the door burst inward again.

  Four men entered, all in outpost uniforms - but their faces were wrong. Too still. Their eyes glimmered with a faint, unnatural light.

  “Captain Hadrik,” the lead man said pleasantly. “The Divine accepts your service. Surrender, and your end will be painless.”

  Ren’s stomach turned. He’d heard that phrase before - the Divine consumes all.

  Hadrik reached for his sword, but the lead man was faster. A knife flashed for the captain’s throat -

  - and met steel.

  Sinclair caught the blade on his own sword, twisting it free and driving his elbow into the attacker’s face. Bone crunched.

  “Ren, keep them off the captain!”

  The room erupted. One cultist lunged for Hadrik but was caught mid-charge - Ren’s mana threads snapped taut, yanking the man off balance. A pulse of mana surged down the strands, and the man collapsed unconscious.

  Another attacker slammed into the table, scattering maps and mugs. The scouts bolted for the corner, and Ren saw one draw a dagger - aimed not at the enemy, but at the captain.

  “Sinclair - !”

  Too late.

  The scout lunged, but Sinclair was already there. His blade flickered like a serpent, striking flat against the man’s wrist. The dagger clattered to the floor. Sinclair caught him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

  “You picked the wrong outpost,” he hissed.

  Moments later, the fight was over. Two attackers lay unconscious, one was dead, and the last had fled into the night.

  Captain Hadrik stood rigid, breathing hard. “Those men… I’ve served with them for years.”

  Sinclair wiped his blade clean. “Not anymore. The cult’s here, Captain. And they’ve been here longer than you realize.”

  Ren’s pulse still thundered. The quiet outside, the missing faces, the hollow eyes - all of it snapped into focus.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Enough,” Sinclair said grimly. “This outpost isn’t safe. We find who’s compromised, clean house, and get the hell out.”

  The captain nodded, throat tight.

  And in the silence that followed, Ren realized the outpost’s usual din was gone - replaced by a faint, eerie humming beyond the walls.

  The moment Sinclair’s blade tore free from the last assassin in the corridor, chaos erupted. Shouts rang out from below, boots pounding in unison. The air was thick with the tang of iron and the acrid sting of burning oil from an overturned lamp.

  Sinclair didn’t waste a second. “Move!” he barked, kicking the corpse aside and jerking his head toward the side hall. “Main stairs are a kill zone - they’ll funnel us straight into crossfire.”

  Ren snatched up his bow, the familiar weight grounding him. He secured his dagger and ran.

  They tore down the corridor, boots hammering the planks, the captain stumbling but keeping up.

  A shadow flickered ahead - empty eyes catching lamplight.

  Ren drew and loosed in one motion. The arrow struck deep in the man’s shoulder, spinning him into the wall. Sinclair finished the job with a swift, brutal slash.

  They reached the narrow stair at the rear. It smelled of dust and mildew; the boards groaned under their weight.

  Halfway down, another figure surged upward - lean, wiry, moving with that same unnatural precision. Ren didn’t have time for a second shot. He dropped the bow, drew his dagger, and met the rush.

  Steel clanged. The scout’s short sword caught the edge of Ren’s blade, driving him back. Ren twisted, slicing across the man’s knee. The cultist went down hard, making only a flat grunt, like pain had been carved out of him.

  Ren didn’t hesitate - the dagger punched beneath the ribs, and the body slumped.

  At the base of the stairs, the hallway ahead swarmed with figures.

  “Archers,” Sinclair snapped, ducking as an arrow splintered against the wall. “Ren - ”

  “I see them.”

  Ren dropped to one knee and fired twice. The first arrow took a man in the throat; the second clipped a helmet, dropping its wearer. Their formation broke just long enough for Sinclair and Hadrik to surge forward, blades flashing in the dim light.

  The fight turned brutal. There was no room to dodge - only block, strike, and keep moving before someone got behind you. Ren switched back to his dagger, bow slung across his shoulder. He caught a sword on the flat of his blade, kicked the attacker’s shin, and slammed the hilt into the man’s jaw.

  Another came from the side - Ren barely turned in time. Steel flashed, biting close. He stepped in chest-to-chest and drove the dagger up under the chin. The body shuddered, then went limp.

  More boots thundered from the front entrance.

  “They’re trying to box us in!” Sinclair’s gaze flicked to the cracked shutters. “Ren - clear me a path!”

  Ren fired an arrow through the nearest cultist’s chest. Sinclair barreled past, shoulder-first into the shutters. The frame splintered, daylight spilling through. Cold air rushed in, carrying the clang of alarm bells.

  They burst out into an alley, boots crunching on frost-hardened dirt. The air stank of rot and fish - but it was empty, for now.

  Ren covered the mouth of the alley as Sinclair and Hadrik ran. Three more cultists appeared - two with blades, one with a bow. Ren shot the archer first, the arrow thudding into his chest.

  He reached for the next, but one swordsman was already on him.

  Fine.

  Ren dropped the bow, drew his dagger, and sidestepped the strike. The second man feinted - Ren recognized the hitch in his shoulder but slipped on the frost, stumbling. The blade flashed up -

  - and the captain slammed the attacker aside.

  Ren took the opening and ended it in a heartbeat.

  No time for thanks. Sinclair’s shout cut through the chaos: “Ren - now!”

  Ren ran, snatching up his bow mid-stride. The three of them burst into a wider street, townsfolk scattering at the sight of blood and steel.

  Behind them, more shouts echoed as the cultists poured out.

  “Over the wall!” Sinclair barked, pointing to a low stone barrier at the street’s end. “Before they cut us off!”

  Ren fired twice over his shoulder, forcing their pursuers into cover, and vaulted the wall. They landed hard in frozen grass, rolling to their feet.

  From there, the streets twisted tighter. Ren followed Sinclair without hesitation. They weren’t safe yet - but they were moving faster than their pursuers.

  For now.