"How long?" Hemlock's voice cut through the stunned silence like a blade.
"An hour," Borin replied, already checking his equipment. "Maybe less. They were still organizing when I left, but they'll move fast once they start."
From the shadows near the herb storage, Elara stepped forward. She'd arrived moments after Borin's dramatic entrance, drawn by Iska's low warning growl. The snow wolf padded beside her, hackles raised.
"I'll gather the families," Elara said, already understanding the situation. Years as Hemlock's apprentice had taught her to read his grim expressions.
Hemlock nodded, his ancient eyes calculating. "Seven houses scattered across the mountainside. Three defenders. Twenty attackers." He spoke the brutal arithmetic aloud. "We consolidate here. The meeting hall has stone walls and the cliff at our back. The houses are indefensible."
"Fifteen minutes," he told Elara. "Tell them to bring only essentials—weapons if they have them, water, blankets."
Elara's gaze found Alph among the frightened youth, a flash of concern crossing her features. Then she was gone, Iska flowing after her into the night.
"Borin," Hemlock continued. "The southern approach. Set what traps you can. We need to slow them, funnel them."
"Already have locations in mind," Borin said grimly. "The narrows by the old pine. The creek crossing. I'll make them regret coming up our mountain."
As Borin departed, Hemlock's gaze fell on the youth. They sat frozen, the reality of the situation only beginning to sink in.
"You five," he commanded. "Help me prepare this hall for siege. Tables against windows. Water buckets—"
"We can fight," Alph interrupted, standing despite his battered body. "I'm Awakened. Let me—"
"You will guard the others," Hemlock said firmly. "One day of combat training does not make you ready for battle-hardened killers. But you are Awakened, and that makes you more capable than the rest. Keep them safe. Keep them calm. That is your duty tonight."
The words stung, but Alph recognized the logic. He nodded stiffly.
"Now move!" Hemlock's voice cracked like a whip. "Kael, Emil—help me with these tables. Astrid, Finn—gather every bucket and pot you can find. Alph, check the windows for loose boards."
The hall erupted into motion. Fear transformed into purpose as young hands worked desperately. Outside, they could hear Elara's urgent voice carrying through the night, Iska's howl cutting through the darkness.
The first family arrived within minutes—the baker and his wife, clutching their two young children. Then came the old weaver, leaning heavily on her grandson's arm. One by one, Oakhaven's families stumbled through the door, faces white with terror, arms laden with hastily grabbed supplies.
"To the back of the hall," Hemlock directed calmly. "Children and elders furthest from the doors. Men and women who can hold a weapon, stay near the front."
Alph helped organize the frightened villagers while his mind raced. Twenty mercenaries against a handful of defenders. His ice magic hummed beneath his skin, begging to be used, but he remembered Astrid's burned fingers. He wasn't ready. Not yet.
The flow of families continued—Hilda pulling Astrid into a fierce embrace, the woodchopper with his eldest son Leif, the elderly weaver with her grandson. Seven households worth of souls, no more than twenty people including the defenders.
Alph organized the youth in the rear while Hemlock directed defenses. Tables blocked windows. The small gathering felt even more vulnerable with their limited numbers.
"That's everyone," Elara reported, breathing hard.
A distant crack echoed through the night—metal on wood. Borin's trap warnings.
"They're early," Hemlock said. "Positions."
Armed adults manned the barricades—perhaps six who could hold weapons. The rest huddled behind them. Alph stood as the last line between his friends and whatever was coming.
Through gaps in the barricades, orange torchlight flickered between the trees. Growing closer.
The siege was about to begin.
***
One hour earlier
"You understand your orders, Captain?" Valerius stood in Gregor's tent, the blood-crystal sensing matrix hidden within his robes. Its pulsing warmth against his chest pointed unerringly toward the village.
Gregor nodded, checking his weapons. "Hit them hard. Draw out the druid and his defenders. No quarter."
"Precisely. Create enough chaos that they focus entirely on repelling your assault." Valerius's tone remained clinical, betraying nothing. "The village must believe this is a simple raid for plunder."
"And you'll be...?"
"Observing. Ensuring our investment pays proper dividends." The lie came smoothly. "Lyra remains here to maintain our base camp."
Gregor grunted acceptance. He'd grown used to Valerius's distant supervision. "The men are ready. We'll crush them."
"See that you do."
Valerius departed the tent, moving through the camp with practiced ease. Mercenaries bustled with final preparations—sharpening blades, checking armor, psyching themselves for violence. None noticed when their observer simply... wasn't there anymore.
In the darkness beyond the campfires, Valerius oriented himself. The crystal's pulse grew stronger toward the northeast. Toward the village's meeting hall, specifically.
He smiled.
Let Gregor's fools bloody themselves against the defenders. While steel clashed and magic flew, he would claim what his master truly desired.
Silent as shadow, he began his own approach to Oakhaven.
***
The mercenaries moved through the darkened forest like hungry wolves, torchlight casting wild shadows on the snow. Fifteen men, armed and eager. The promise of easy plunder and weak villagers had them practically salivating.
"Remember," Gregor called out, his voice rough with anticipation, "no mercy. We hit hard, take what we want, leave nothing standing."
A few men chuckled darkly. After weeks of cold camps and Valerius's mysterious games, they were ready for simple violence.
They reached the marker stones—ancient granite pillars that marked Oakhaven's boundary. Beyond them, the land opened up, revealing scattered houses climbing the mountainside. The meeting hall's lights glowed in the distance, pressed against the cliff face.
"Finally," one mercenary growled. "Real action."
Gregor raised his cudgel to signal the advance when three figures materialized from the shadows between the marker stones.
Hemlock stood at the center, staff planted firmly in the snow. To his right, Borin held his bow with an arrow already nocked. To his left, Elara waited with Iska, the snow wolf's eyes reflecting torchlight like frozen stars.
The mercenaries stumbled to a halt. The old druid who'd crushed their scouts blocked their path, a hundred yards from the nearest house.
"Turn back," Hemlock said, his voice carrying despite the distance. "This is your only warning."
Gregor's jaw worked, calculating odds. Three defenders against fifteen. But here, at the boundary, they couldn't retreat to defensive positions. It would be a straight fight.
He spat in the snow. "Take them!"
The charge was immediate and brutal. Fifteen men surged forward with roars that echoed off the mountain slopes.
Borin's bow sang death. The first arrow took a man in the throat. The second pierced an eye. By the time Roric and the other mercenaries thought to return fire, two more were down, clutching wounds.
Then Roric found his range. The Hunter's arrows forced Borin to dive behind a marker stone, keeping him pinned. Every time the Ranger tried to rise and shoot, Roric's suppressing fire drove him back down. The long-range advantage was neutralized.
"Grasping Vines!" Hemlock slammed his staff into the frozen earth. Thorny tendrils erupted in a wide arc, catching four of the charging aggressors. They crashed down hard, entangled and cursing as the vines constricted.
But the two Thieves among them moved like water. They leaped and rolled, dodging the grasping plants with practiced agility. In seconds they'd circled wide, poisoned blades gleaming as they aimed for Hemlock's exposed flank.
They never made it.
Iska hit the first like an avalanche, her massive weight driving him into the snow. The second raised his daggers to strike but jerked back as wooden spikes erupted from the earth.
"Thorn Volley!" Elara's magic wasn't as refined as a true Tier 1, but she could still call nature's wrath. Sharp wooden projectiles forced the Thief to dance backward, one grazing his leather armor. The wolf and druid apprentice moved in practiced synchronization—when one Thief rolled away from Iska's jaws, Elara's thorns were waiting. When the other tried to close on Elara, the snow wolf's fangs drove him back.
Gregor led the charge personally, two of his best Fighters flanking him. Three Tier 1 warriors bearing down on one old druid.
"Ironbark Shield!" Hemlock commanded. Bark ripped from nearby trees, forming a layered defense just as Gregor's enhanced cudgel crashed down. The impact was tremendous—wood splintered, but held.
"Guardian of the Grove!" Hemlock's staff struck the earth with thunderous force. The ground before him churned and rose. In seconds, a massive form of twisted wood and stone emerged—the Treant Guard, twice the height of a man, its amber eyes blazing with purpose.
The two flanking Fighters skidded to a halt as the construct's massive fists swept toward them. They raised shields just in time, the impact driving them back several feet. The Treant pressed forward, keeping them engaged and away from its master.
That left Gregor. His cudgel rose again, fury in his eyes as he hammered at Hemlock's defenses. Each blow sent cracks spider-webbing through the bark shield. The old druid was strong, but defending against a Tier 1 Fighter's full assault was draining him fast.
The battle raged on. Steel clashed against bark. Roric and another mercenary kept Borin pinned with coordinated crossfire—the Ranger's superior skill countered by their two-pronged assault. The Treant Guard traded earthshaking blows with two Fighters. Elara and Iska danced their deadly duet with the Thieves. Hemlock's shield cracked further under Gregor's relentless assault.
All eyes were fixed on the combat. All attention focused on survival.
None noticed the shadow that detached itself from the forest's edge.
While defenders bled to hold the village border, while mercenaries pressed their assault with desperate fury, the figure moved with liquid grace up the mountain path. It avoided the light, flowing between pools of darkness like smoke on the wind.
Valerius had waited for this moment—when every capable fighter was locked in mortal combat, when all eyes watched the obvious threat.
The meeting hall's lights beckoned above, where twenty helpless souls huddled behind barricades, protected by nothing more than an exhausted boy and his untested magic.
The real hunt was about to begin.