A collective exhale followed Jacobs's grim pronouncement, a soft rustle of barely contained tension. D-Rank. On paper, manageable. But the Captain's uncharacteristic hesitation, set against the chilling backdrop of sixty vanished souls, left a residue of deep unease. Recent months had seen a worrying uptick in dangerous assignments across Zephyros; whispers in the barracks spoke of strained borders, simmering internal dissent, and unsettling anomalies stretching the Royal Army thin. Even a seemingly minor reconnaissance mission felt fraught with potential peril now.
"Alright, listen up," Jacobs snapped, his voice regaining its customary sharpness, pulling them back to the present task. "We move out immediately. First stop, supply depot. Standard loadout plus extra healing draughts, signal flares, and reserve rations. Check your gear twice. Rendezvous back here, ready to move, in fifteen minutes sharp."
There was no dissent. The Captain, a solid Rank 3 veteran whose gruff humour often masked a razor-sharp mind and years of hard-won experience, expected nothing less than swift obedience when orders were given. As the squad dispersed, Henry fell into step beside Sophia heading towards the depot. He noticed the slight furrow in her brow, the thoughtful, almost distant look in her amber eyes. She carried burdens of her own, Henry knew, not least the weight of a potential far exceeding her current rank - a potential the higher-ups watched closely. He, like Jacobs, was supposedly capable of reaching Rank 5 someday, a respectable, solid command rank. But Sophia… hers was whispered to be something else entirely, something reaching towards the demigod tiers. Why she remained tethered to their rough-and-tumble scout squad, facing daily dangers far beneath her projected station, was a question Henry never asked but often pondered. Her quiet loyalty was a fierce, grounding presence he felt an unspoken duty to protect.
The preparations were swift, practiced movements born of routine. They drew supplies, checked straps, filled waterskins. Fifteen minutes later, they were mounted, leaving the towering stone walls of East Aerion behind, the sprawling city fading into the morning haze as they rode south. The journey took two hours, hooves drumming a steady rhythm on the packed earth road, carrying them away from the relative security of the capital's immediate influence and into the more sparsely populated territories bordering the ancient southern woods.
Their destination, the village of Lykuzt, emerged from the rolling landscape like a half-forgotten memory. It was small, nestled vulnerably near the edge of the dark treeline, and an unnatural quiet hung over it. Missing were the usual sounds of rural life - the ring of a blacksmith's hammer, the chatter of villagers, the barking of dogs. Instead, a palpable tension resided in the air, thick with fear and unspoken grief.
The village elder met them near the humble, weather-beaten chapel at the center of the settlement. His face was a roadmap of worry, deep lines etched around his eyes, his shoulders slumped with the weight of responsibility and sleepless nights. He recounted the events, his voice low and trembling, confirming the grim details Jacobs already knew. Seven villagers gone over the past week or so, mostly hunters and gatherers who frequented the nearby forest. Two had vanished just three days ago.
"No signs, Captain," the elder insisted, wringing his calloused hands. "No strange lights, no omens. They just… didn't come back. We formed search parties, scoured the fringes…" He gestured vaguely towards the forbidding treeline. "But the woods… they feel wrong now. Darker. Most won't go far past the edge, especially after young Thomas and his brother disappeared." Fear kept the search limited, superficial. Stern warnings had been issued - avoid the woods after dusk, travel only in groups - but against an enemy that struck unseen, such precautions felt woefully inadequate.
Jacobs nodded grimly, dismissing the elder politely before dispatching the squad in pairs. Henry partnered with Daniel, the quiet mage, moving through the hushed lanes, speaking with frightened families huddled inside their small cottages. They listened patiently to tearful accounts from spouses, siblings, neighbours. The stories echoed the elder's words: the missing had shown no unusual behavior beforehand, reported no strange encounters. There were no witnesses to their disappearance, no clues left behind within the village itself. The prevailing belief, fueled by terror and the lack of any other explanation, was that the danger resided solely within the forest's deep, shadowed embrace.
Reconvening near the chapel under the elder's anxious gaze, the squad shared their findings. Nothing new. No concrete leads pointed away from the woods. "Alright," Jacobs declared, his decision firm. "The answers aren't here. We go in."
The transition from the relative openness of the village fields to the forest proper was abrupt and startling. One moment they were under the wide sky, the next plunged into a perpetual twilight beneath a dense, suffocating canopy. Ancient trees, gnarled and thick-trunked, clawed towards the unseen sky, their upper branches intertwined like the skeletal fingers of grasping giants, blotting out the midday sun. The air grew instantly cooler, heavy with the cloying dampness of decaying leaves, moss, and rich, dark earth. A thick carpet of emerald moss coated the ground and slicked the bark of the trees, muffling their footsteps but making the footing treacherous. Visibility dropped sharply. Shadows pooled, deep and concealing.
They left their horses tethered at the forest's edge, entrusted to the care of three pale-faced villagers whose expressions mingled fear with desperate hope. Then, weapons loosened in their sheaths, the seven soldiers stepped deeper into the brooding silence. As they moved beyond the perimeter the villagers had dared to search, an undeniable sense of unease began to creep into Henry's awareness. It wasn't just the gloom or the silence; it was a primal prickling at the back of his neck, an almost physical sensation of being watched by unseen eyes from the depths of the shadows. He subtly scanned the dense undergrowth, hand resting near his sword hilt, but saw nothing beyond the endless trees and shifting darkness.
The trail, where it existed at all, was faint, often disappearing entirely. They found signs of the missing hunters - small snares for rabbits, cleverly hidden but untriggered; larger loop traps for wolves, equally undisturbed. It suggested the hunters hadn't been taken near the edge, but had ventured deeper. Then, in a small clearing where the canopy opened slightly, they found it: a makeshift campsite.
Bedrolls lay neatly arranged. A small fire pit held cold ashes. Sacks of dried rations leaned against a log, unopened. A few personal items - a whetstone, a carved wooden pipe, a waterskin - were scattered around as if their owners had simply stepped away for a moment.
But there were no signs of violence. No bloodstains darkening the leaves, no indication of a struggle, no hint of robbery. The scene was eerily peaceful, frozen in time.
"Something's wrong," Jacobs muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He knelt, examining the ground meticulously, his experienced eyes missing nothing. "Too clean. No struggle. Valuables untouched." He rose slowly, his gaze sweeping the surrounding woods, his expression hardening. "This wasn't animals. Wasn't bandits."
He looked at his squad, the weight of command settling on him. "We need to cover more ground, faster. Standard recon spread. We split into pairs, search radiating outwards from this camp. Stay within signal range."
"Split up, Captain?" Torsan's voice cracked with sudden anxiety, his eyes wide as he peered into the dense, menacing woods. "Here? With whatever… did this? Your gut feeling earlier..." The youth's bravado, evident back at the barracks, had evaporated in the face of this tangible, silent threat.
"Standard procedure for a wide-area search, Torsan," Jacobs replied firmly, though his eyes didn't leave the shadows. "Moving as one large group is too slow, too obvious. We risk alerting whatever we're tracking, if we're tracking something. Efficiency dictates pairs."
"But isn't it more dangerous?" Torsan persisted, unconvinced, fear plain on his face.
"We don't have the luxury of time, Torsan," Henry interjected, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the younger man's fear. He understood the logic, the harsh necessity of speed in situations like this. "If we move too slowly, whoever, or whatever, is responsible has more time to disappear, cover their tracks, or even prepare a welcome for us. Splitting up increases risk, yes, but it's necessary to be effective. Trust the Captain."
Jacobs gave Henry a curt nod of approval. "My thoughts exactly. Pairs it is. Lumos with Henry. Daniel with Melly. Torsan, you're with me. Stay alert. Maintain visual contact where possible. Anything out of the ordinary, anything - signal immediately. Safety paramount."
Three teams melted into the encroaching gloom, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the ancient forest. Henry moved cautiously beside Lumos, his senses straining, the feeling of being watched intensifying with every step deeper into the twilight woods.
Nearly half an hour crawled by, the tension thickening, amplifying every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of a twig. Then, a sharp, piercing whistle cut through the stillness - Daniel's signal. Found something. Henry and Lumos immediately changed direction, moving swiftly but silently towards the sound, converging with Jacobs and Torsan moments later.
They found Daniel and Melly near a dense thicket bordering a small, muddy creek bed. Daniel pointed towards the ground at the thicket's edge. "Here," he said, his voice low. "Looks like an ambush point."
Lumos knelt beside Henry, his keen eyes taking in the scene. "Broken branches," he murmured, pointing. "Bushes flattened, as if something large waited inside, then lunged." He indicated the soft earth near the creek. "Depressions here. Deep. Spaced out."
Henry examined the strange indentations closely, tracing their edges with a gloved finger. They weren't the scuffed marks of a struggle, nor the long grooves of something being dragged. They were distinct, deep impressions, concentrated in a small area. "Lifted," Henry stated, looking up at Jacobs. "Whatever took them was strong enough to carry them away without a fight, without needing to drag them." He remembered the elder's words. "Two hunters vanished together here. A single attacker carrying two grown men… clean away?"
"Only possible if the attacker possessed strength far beyond human norms," Jacobs finished grimly, the pieces clicking into place. "And look," Daniel added, pointing further along the creek bank, "no blood. None here, none leading away. It seems they were incapacitated instantly, taken swiftly and efficiently."
Jacobs straightened, his face hard as flint. "A Ranker," he stated flatly, the word hanging heavy in the damp air. "Has to be. The speed, the strength, the precision… this wasn't some back-alley brawl. This was a professional hit, likely Rank 2, maybe even pushing Rank 3, to take down two experienced hunters without a sound."
A cold dread settled over the squad. Rank 3. Operating with lethal efficiency in these woods. The mission parameters had just shattered. They were scouts, mostly Rank 1s and 2s, facing a potential predator significantly above their weight class.
Sophia, who had been silently absorbing the details, finally spoke, her voice calm and analytical, cutting through the fear. "Consider the methodology, though. A Rank 3 acting this cautiously? They didn't strike in the village where there might be witnesses or organized resistance. They targeted lone individuals or pairs, deep in the forest where victims were isolated. They are taking pains to avoid leaving tracks. It suggests they are powerful, yes, but also wary. Perhaps wary of confronting a larger, organized group of Rankers, even ones of lower rank like us."
Jacobs mulled over her words, nodding slowly. "Astute observation, Sophia. They're being careful. Doesn't lessen the danger, but it changes the equation slightly." He looked at each of them, his gaze lingering, assessing their resolve. "Turning back now means reporting a probable Rank 3 perpetrator is snatching citizens near the capital, and admitting we didn't pursue further. Command won't like that. Our squad's reputation takes a hit. Questions will be asked." He paused, letting the unspoken consequences hang in the air - reprimands, possible disbandment. "We push on."
His voice allowed no argument. "Our mission remains reconnaissance. Identify the threat, gather information. We are not here to engage a Rank 3 head-on unless absolutely necessary for survival. But we will follow this trail. We find out where it leads. Understood?"
A round of grim nods. Apprehension warred with duty, but the Captain's resolve was absolute. They were soldiers of Zephyros; retreat wasn't an option yet.
With renewed, albeit nervous, determination, the squad moved deeper into the forest, following the faint signs only a Ranker's passage could leave. The twilight deepened further, the air growing colder, the silence more profound. Another half hour passed, the trees growing thicker, more ancient, their roots like gnarled claws gripping the earth.
Then, Jacobs stopped dead, holding up a hand, motioning for absolute silence. Ahead, partially obscured by a dense curtain of hanging vines and thorny brambles growing against a low, moss-covered embankment, was a dark opening. An unnatural blackness that seemed to swallow the already faint light. A cave.
Jacobs stared at it, his face paling slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration. A wave of profound foreboding washed over him, cold and visceral, an instinct honed by decades of sensing imminent danger screaming at him.
"Seven hells," he breathed, his voice barely audible. "This might be it. Their den."
The forest seemed to hold its breath around them. The squad froze, weapons instinctively coming to the ready, eyes fixed on the ominous black maw. Inside could be the Rank 3 killer, waiting. Or perhaps something worse. Entering meant potentially walking into a death trap. Retreating meant failure, leaving the mystery unsolved, the danger potentially free to strike again. The weight of the choice, the lives of his squad, rested squarely on Jacobs's shoulders as he stared into the abyss.