The rain had finally broken loose from the stubborn clouds, falling in scattered sheets like the sky had decided to bleed slowly rather than all at once. Fat drops drummed on cracked stone and twisted metal, slicking the already treacherous paths with mud and cold promise. The mountains ahead rose like blackened knives, the distant peaks shrouded in a veil of mist that swirled and twisted like restless spirits trying to claw their way free. The convoy moved, but not fast enough. Ashfangs. The word alone was enough to turn mercenary bravado into nervous glances over shoulders.
It wasn't the scattered yelps or the warning growls in the distance. It was the silence between them that gnawed at the nerves. Organized. Intelligent. These weren't starving mutts scavenging ruins for scraps. This was something else. Something coordinated. Lucian walked near the front, the tail end of his blindfold soaked and dripping cold water down his back. His clothes were little better—patched, worn, smelling faintly of blood and copper from old injuries. But none of that mattered. His ears were busy painting maps in his head. "They're circling," he muttered, just loud enough for Kaela to hear. Beside him, she adjusted the strap of her rifle across her chest, jaw tight. "They shouldn't be this bold. Not in daylight. Not unless..." "Unless they don't care anymore," Lucian finished grimly.
Behind them, the armored vehicles rumbled in steady rhythm, lights cutting through the rain like searching eyes. Mud caked the reinforced wheels, but they churned forward faithfully, guided by mercs who were starting to regret signing up for what was supposed to be an easy payday. The mercenaries—known collectively as the Ironbrand Crew—were notorious in the region for being tough, brutal, but unreliable when things started going sideways. Most of them wore mismatched armor, pieces scavenged from fallen soldiers, old riot gear, or hand-forged junk. Their leader, Garrick Thorne, was the only thing keeping them from turning into bandits outright.
Tavian kept pace close by, cloak clinging wetly to his shoulders, face pale but composed. He wasn't talking as much now, the gravity of the wilds slowly sinking into him like cold through thin boots. A merc stumbled on loose shale, cursed, and shot a glare at Lucian like this whole miserable trek was somehow his fault. Lucian ignored it. Then the howls began. Not lone cries but a chorus, rolling over the hills like surf crashing against jagged shores. Lucian flinched—not from fear, but from familiarity. This was not the scattered call of a single pack. It was a war cry. "They're driving us," Lucian said quietly. "Toward something." Garrick barked orders, his voice deep and guttural, cutting across the mounting panic like a hammer through thin glass. "Form up! Weapons ready! Stay close! If you fall behind, you stay behind!" Kaela's green eyes narrowed.
"What are our options?" Lucian tapped his rod against the ground lightly. "Two. We try to outrun them, get the vehicles up to speed on clearer ground... or we find high ground, bottleneck them, and hope they don't have the numbers to overrun us."
"And which would you prefer?" Tavian asked, voice strained but steady. Lucian cracked a thin smile. "Neither. I'd prefer being home, asleep, with dry boots." The first ashfang lunged from the undergrowth—a streak of muscle, matted gray fur, and teeth too long for any sane canine's mouth. It moved with terrifying speed. A sharp *crack* rang out—Kaela's rifle. The beast's head snapped backward in a wet explosion of bone and sinew, collapsing in a twitching heap. But before the echoes of the shot could fade, more figures emerged from the brush. Dozens. More than dozens. A tide of silent shadows, eyes glowing faintly like coals glimpsed through fog, fangs bared in anticipation. "This is bad," one of the Ironbrand Crew muttered, lifting his weapon with shaking hands.
Lucian didn't bother drawing his rusted sword yet. He crouched low, focusing—not on what was in front of him, but what was behind. The vehicles. Their salvation. Their trap.
Joran barked out an order. "Get the trucks moving *now*! Back toward the ruins—we can't fight them here in the open!"
Some mercs had already already jumped beside the vehicle and hearing that order sent them scrambling to obey as the armored vehicles roared into life, spitting wet gravel in every direction as they reversed course. But then came the sound no one wanted to hear. *BOOM.* An explosion ripped through the rain-drenched silence, a gout of flame and shrapnel belching upward into the gray sky. One of the armored vehicles—reduced in an instant to a smoking carcass of twisted metal and burning wheels—lit the surrounding area with flickering orange. Mercs screamed. Bodies were flung backward, broken or burning. The acrid stench of scorched flesh mixed with wet earth, filling the nostrils with bile and panic. The second armored vehicle skidded to a halt, its driver frantically scanning the surrounding terrain for the source of the detonation. "What the *hell* was that?!" Kaela shouted, rifle sweeping side to side.
"Trap!" Lucian hissed, his voice edged with fury. "*Not ours!!!" The realization hit them like a hammer: they weren't just being herded—they were being *hunted*. Someone or something had prepared the ambush in advance, knowing exactly where the convoy would be. More ashfangs prowled at the edges of vision, watching. Waiting. Letting the panic build. "Forward!" Garrick roared. "Move *forward*! Into the mountains—we'll lose them in the rocks!" The group broke into a staggered run, mercenaries half-hauling each other, slipping in the mud, coughing in the smoke of the burning wreckage behind them. The private guards of House Vale-Rhys moved more like shadows, professional even under chaos, weapons leveled and eyes alert. Lucian's blindfold was streaked with fresh mud now, a smear of soot curling along his cheekbone. He didn't wipe it away. He needed his senses sharp. Behind them, the ashfangs gave chase but only for a short distance. Then— Silence. Lucian slowed, heart pounding, the hairs on his neck standing on end. They were no longer being pursued. The ashfangs had stopped. "They're not following," Kaela muttered. "Why aren't they following?" Lucian's jaw worked in silent thought, his expression unreadable. "Let me officially welcome you to the Ghost-bane mountains." And deeper into the Ghost-Bane Mountains they fled, smoke and ruin in their wake, into the jaws of whatever waited beyond.
The mountains around them seemed to breathe. Every gust of wind dragged with it the scent of moss, wet stone, and distant death. Mist coiled between shattered ridges, clinging to boulders like wounded beasts trying to hide their broken limbs. Even the ground beneath their boots felt uneasy—soft in places where it should have been hard, brittle where it should have been sturdy, as though the land itself conspired to break ankles and spirits. They moved in grim silence, broken only by Garrick's occasional growl of command or the squelch of boot leather in mud. He was clearly upset about the wasted lives of his men. It wasn't easy to get such good henchmen.
Lucian, as always, drifted to the edge of the formation. His tattered blindfold was now streaked with more than just water. Soot from the earlier explosion. Mud splattered up his legs. And still, he walked with the kind of balance that only someone with nothing left to lose could carry. But beneath the calm, his mind was alive with calculation. Whoever set the ambush wasn't just bold—they were precise. The positioning of the explosive, the way the ashfangs were used to drive the convoy, the timing... This wasn't amateur work. Kaela fell in beside him after a time, brushing stray strands of wet hair from her face. Her rifle hung loose but ready. "You're thinking too loudly," she muttered. Lucian smirked faintly. "Can't help it. Someone put a lot of work into killing strangers. That takes planning. Resources. Intelligence. And I don't like being a loose end in someone else's plan."
"Same," she said softly. "I prefer making the plans." Behind them, Tavian's boots slipped slightly on a patch of slick moss. He cursed under his breath and quickly recovered. "Do you always have conversations about murder like you're discussing market prices?"
"Depends on the market." Lucian said without missing a beat. Garrick grunted from the head of the column, giving them a sidelong glance but saying nothing. For now, leadership meant keeping the group moving, alive, and only slightly at each other's throats. Joran had moved forward again, scouting ahead. His silhouette cut a dark, deliberate figure against the swirling gray mist. The Ironbrand mercs were showing their fraying edges. Two of them argued quietly about rations, another limped with a crude bandage wrapped around his thigh, face pale with blood loss. Their leader had kept them in line through reputation and brute authority.