Silas crouched low within the dense shrubbery, his breathing carefully controlled, gaze fixed on the figure perched in the tree.
Just then, the watcher moved. A slight tilt of the head, a twitch of the nose as if sampling the air. Moonlight, filtering through the branches, dappled the figure's face – young, a scar tracing his forehead, yet his eyes held a curious laziness.
Friend or foe? Silas couldn't be certain. But having spotted him first, the advantage was undeniably his.
The figure frowned, then, with a surprising agility, leaped from one tree to another, vanishing into the forest's deep shadows in a few swift bounds. His movements were as light and sure as a forest deer, each landing precise on the sturdiest part of a branch, the faint sounds swallowed by the sighing wind.
*Tidal Force.* Silas's pupils narrowed. He hadn't expected another user of the power nearby.
He held his breath, muscles coiling, braced for an attack. But the figure was gone. Had he sensed Silas?
Silas remained motionless in his crouch for a good ten minutes, only exhaling slowly when certain the other had truly departed.
Tonight was proving more complex than anticipated. A third party implied greater danger. Logic dictated a retreat, a new plan.
But then…
The distant flicker of the campfires, the faint echo of drunken shouts. Mao Hai's bruised face, the blood on his collar – the image seared into Silas's mind. His eyes hardened.
He circled silently to the rear of the camp, a shadow melting through the night. The Purity Army's defenses were tighter than he'd expected: a shallow ditch outside the fence, bristling with sharpened stakes, and watchtower torches illuminating a wide radius.
Yet, even the best defenses have flaws. Silas targeted a watchtower in the northwest corner. The guard, encased in full iron armor, face obscured by his helmet's shadow, yawned repeatedly, clearly succumbing to exhaustion.
*This Purity Army is no mere rabble,* Silas mused. *Even the Church's regulars he'd encountered in his three years of wandering weren't always so well-equipped.*
The night wind whispered through the leaves. Silas waited. The moment the guard turned his back, Silas launched himself, fingers finding purchase in the fence, vaulting over. He moved like a phantom, a blur of motion, reaching the watchtower's base in an instant.
Another yawn from the guard, a rub of the eyes, utterly oblivious to the danger an arm's length away.
Silas's hand shot out, an iron clamp on the guard's ankle, yanking sharply.
*Thump!*
The guard's head struck the wooden railing with a dull thud. Before a sound could escape, Silas was on the platform, a swift chop to the nape of the neck. The guard crumpled, Silas catching him silently.
Without hesitation, Silas stripped the armor, donning it himself. It was cold, heavy, and reeked of stale sweat and rust.
He bound and gagged the unconscious guard, stowing him in a dark corner of the tower.
Now, he was one of the "Purity Army."
From the watchtower, Silas surveyed the camp. Tents stood in neat rows under the torchlight. Two heavily armed guards stood before the largest tent in the center – clearly the commander's quarters.
Sparks from a nearby fire danced on the wind, brushing his cheek. The solid armor offered a measure of reassurance. He tested the weight of the guard's sword – heavy, sharp, far superior to his own.
Silas descended the wooden ladder slowly, his iron boots creaking faintly on the rungs.
He moved with deliberate slowness, letting the clank of armor blend with the night wind's sigh.
He'd barely reached the bottom when a gruff voice barked in his ear: "You worthless cur! What in blazes are you doing down here? Get back to your post!"
Through his visor, Silas saw a scar-faced man, his features fleshy and brutal. Copper studs adorned his leather armor; the scabbard of his short knife was worn smooth. A patrol leader, no doubt.
Cold sweat prickled Silas's back; the armor's lining felt suddenly clammy.
"R-report, Sir," he mumbled, muffling his voice in the helmet, mimicking a coarse accent. "C-couldn't hold it… Sir. Needed the latrine," he added, squeezing his thighs together with a slight, desperate sway.
"Latrine, my arse!" The man slapped his helmet. "There's a chamber pot up there, isn't there? Slack off again, and I'll have your hide!"
Silas nodded and bowed, backing away, eyes darting, assessing. The instant the man turned, Silas struck. His armored forearm snaked around the man's throat; his gauntlet smothered the incipient alarm cry. Copper studs grated against iron as the man thrashed.
A muffled tearing sound from the shadows. As Silas wedged the unconscious body between a tent and the fence, he heard the distant laughter of the changing guard. Fifteen minutes, at most, before the man's absence would be noted.
Crouching behind a pile of fodder, he emitted three short bird calls, then a longer one. From the northwest woods, an answering chorus of wolf howls erupted – not the natural call of a pack, but a sound so mournful, so filled with an almost human agony, it was as if hundreds of wolves were being simultaneously tortured. Even the warhorses in the camp stables began to scream and rear.
"What in damnation!" The guard at the gate kicked over a wine barrel. "How'd the wolves from the west slope get all the way over here?" A few veterans nocked arrows, but most fumbled with their armguards, faces pale.
A piercing gong sounded from a watchtower. "Three o'clock! Trees are moving!" The camp exploded into chaos – a cacophony of clashing steel and panicked shouts. Silas rolled into the narrow space between two tents, his heart hammering. The flap of the central tent was thrown open; a tall, lean figure in chainmail emerged, bellowing orders, directing archers into a defensive line.
The wolf howls drew nearer, close enough to hear the rasp of claws on earth. Silas knew they wouldn't attack the fortified camp; nor would the guards be foolish enough to venture out.
As the lean commander grew visibly agitated, Silas moved. Encased in cold, hard chainmail, the rings whispering like a viper's hiss, his face lost in the bonfire's shifting shadows, his hawk-like eyes tracked the commander's every gesture.
Unseen, Silas slipped into the commander's tent, seeking a vantage point for a surprise attack. Taking out the leader should curb their aggression.
Inside, a gold-striped carpet immediately caught his eye – Church issue. He'd seen its twin in the Cardinal Sin Bishop's office.
*"Fruitful looting indeed."*
He scanned for a hiding spot, one that offered a clear strike.
A glint of gold beneath the flickering candlelight, under a large table laden with documents – defensive plans, perhaps. Beside them, an envelope:
*"To Commander Davitt: The Cardinalate has received the special offering via the 'River Caravan.' The 11 items of cargo are in good condition, prioritized for the Sanctuary's 'Expeditionary Force Project'..."*
Silas's eyes widened. He snatched the letter. From the Church, to this Purity Army commander, thanking him for… *procuring children*. With a mild reproof about the excessive nature of their propaganda posters. On the floor, something shiny, hastily hidden under the table.
His Tidal Force drew it out: a gold bar. Not just any gold bar. A Church gold bar.
The memory of the one he'd taken from the dying Cardinal flooded back – identical patterns. This one was still warm, as if recently held.
*An anti-Church group, yet awash in Church spoils.* A sarcastic smirk touched Silas's lips. He turned to continue his search, but—
A pair of hawk-like eyes met his, reflecting the blue glow of the levitating gold bar. Hostility warred with a flicker of… hesitation.
The commander. Davitt. He was no common soldier. Silas hadn't heard a sound. The man stood like a phantom, watching for who knew how long.
*Now what? Attack?*
They stared, the silence taut, until Silas spoke, probing for a weakness:
"Shouting anti-Church slogans while lining your pockets with their gold, Commander Davitt? Quite the enterprise."
The hostility in Davitt's eyes vanished, replaced by an almost comical confusion. His demeanor shifted, becoming… deferential.
"Esteemed Emissary of the Church," Davitt said, his voice suddenly smooth. "Weren't your people just here this afternoon?"