Talo squinted, adjusting his footing against the damp slope. The glow ahead was faint — buried behind heavy underbrush and shadow — but steady. Warm. Orange. Flickering.
Like fire.
Rasha followed his gaze, her body angled slightly to one side, knees bent in quiet readiness. "You think it's connected?"
"Maybe," he said, voice low. "If someone — or something — laid this trail to lead us north…"
He paused. The edge of his jaw flexed as his eyes narrowed.
"Then maybe that's where they don't want us to go."
A low wind stirred the branches overhead, setting long strands of moss swaying like old banners. Talo tilted his head slightly, peering past a leaning tree trunk.
"I think I see a den," he murmured. "Lit. Low. Could be a camp."
They moved closer, each step measured, boots soft against the damp, root-threaded earth. The underbrush swallowed their movement, muffling each sound beneath padded moss and leaf litter. The flicker ahead grew clearer — not wild or scattered, but steady. Contained. Controlled.
The trail curved around a thicket and sloped upward, where the trees thinned just enough to allow a partial view beyond. Shadows danced across the ridge in swaying patterns, cast by the firelight below.
It was a campfire.
Set at the mouth of a den — a hollow carved into the side of a moss-covered rise. Its entrance had the look of a place used often but not lived in. The edges were scarred with claw marks and reinforced with dried brush, shaped more by instinct and repetition than intent.
Rasha crouched low behind a spray of ferns, her eyes scanning the area with quiet precision.
"We could take the high ground," she whispered, voice barely more than breath. "Circle above the ridge. Get into position."
Talo nodded once, his hand tightening around the haft of his staff.
"Then draw whatever's down there out. Try to catch them in the open."
They moved wide, circling up the ridge in silence. The wind carried the scent of burning pine — faint but acrid. Something oily mixed into the smoke. Something unnatural.
The undergrowth here was soft beneath their feet. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Then — voices. Human.
Faint at first. Muted by distance and brush. But rising.
Low mutters. Overlapping tones. Some harsh. Some weary. The cadence of men used to waiting. Too many.
Rasha froze behind a knotted root, one hand braced against the trunk of a tree. Talo dropped beside her into a low crouch, his eyes fixed ahead. The wind shifted again, enough to carry snippets of the conversation through the trees.
"…not our problem if it starves. Wasn't worth half what he paid. You ask me — just a brat. Mercenary's mascot."
Another voice scoffed, more distant but sharper in tone.
"Still clinging to those tribal fairy tales. I doubt she'd head that way. She'd have to cross a whole desert. And they're not exactly known for open arms. I heard they just got rid of one of their own."
A grunt followed — tired, heavy, tinged with bitter agreement.
Then a third voice cut across the others — louder, firmer, sharp with command. "Where do you think that little mixed-blood mongrel escaped to?"
A silence followed.
Then a younger voice — hesitant, but hopeful.
"We should go back out and look. She's been able to survive this cursed place for years… and she's just a child. There's no telling how far she'll be by morning. But if we could trap her, surround her, maybe we could—"
The sharp voice sliced through the air again — cold and absolute.
"We wouldn't live to see morning."
A pause.
When the younger voice returned, it was lower. Strained. Quiet with unease.
"It's dangerous enough just tracking her in daylight."
Another silence stretched between them — long and tight.
Then the younger voice added, quieter still:
"It's like… if someone means her harm, things start going wrong. But if you don't? Everything just… works out. Keep her close, and nothing happens. She's got a way about her."
He exhaled.
"You really think it's a coincidence we stumbled into a Dread Stalkers' den?"
The sound of a fist striking dirt echoed faintly up the slope.
The earth rumbled in answer — subtle, unsettling. A low pulse passed beneath Rasha and Talo's feet, like something vast had shifted in the earth's bones.
"Out of all the creatures," the voice continued, "Dread Stalkers build their dens far from people. They're aggressive. Territorial. Twice that if you're near their home."
He drew a breath.
"No. This wasn't chance."
A beat of silence.
Then — bitterly:
"She knows what she's doing. I just hope I haven't led all of us to our deaths."
Rasha's breath caught in her throat.
She turned slightly, eyes seeking Talo's face — his features pale in the moonlight.
"He said… 'they got rid of one of their own.' And mentioned a land across the desert…"
Her voice was a whisper wrapped in unease.
"Do you think they were talking about me?"
The thought left a chill in her chest — a flicker of something cold and sharp. How would they even know?
Her banishment was old news, buried in the Fire Region. She hadn't spoken of it. Not to anyone. The idea that strangers — mercenaries — knew about it made her feel… seen. Uncomfortably so. As if her shame had grown legs and wandered ahead of her.
Talo's silence was telling.
His gaze was locked on the campfire below, but his mind was elsewhere.
"The Dread Stalkers…" he murmured. "Are those the creatures that attacked our camp?"
His voice had gone distant — low, brittle. Not fear, but realization.
The ambush. The easy trail. The firelight at just the right bend. The sudden turn north — not a mistake, but a guide.
"It's like we were never chasing anything," he said quietly. "Like we were being led."
He turned toward her, eyes darker now.
"Rasha… I think we're exactly where someone wanted us to be."
She held his gaze.
A full breath passed between them.
"Maybe not here exactly," she said. "If the one leaving the trail was escaping this group… maybe we should be heading the same direction."
Her voice tightened.
"They know about my banishment. And you heard them say Merrick's name."
Her fingers flexed near the hilt of her blade.
"Remember the docks? That guy who said Merrick's name and it just… didn't feel right?"
She shook her head, jaw hardening.
"These people don't feel right either. After hearing this? I'm sure. Merrick's involved in something we don't want to be near."
Talo rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down the hill.
"This feels like we're a couple of fire-stags chasing yellowroot on a stick."
Rasha exhaled slowly, but her tone remained calm.
"Until I see otherwise… it's just a campfire story. A ten-year-old on the run, scared and alone."
She paused, eyes flicking toward the ridge again.
"And if that's true — she might already be gone. Or maybe that story's a lure. Something easy to follow."
She turned toward him.
"But you've seen what's out here. Do you really think a child could survive this place for years? Alone?"
Talo's mouth moved, then stopped.
Eventually, he nodded.
"…No," he said. "Sounds like something orphans pass around. Something between myth and hope."
He looked back toward the slope and the dancing firelight beyond.
"Either way… I think we should get out of here."
He turned again, voice lower now.
"But that guy — the one who slammed the ground? You felt it, right? Earth magic. Strong. Controlled."
Rasha nodded.
"Neither of us has faced that before," Talo said. "Not someone trained."
He looked down at his staff. The wood caught the moonlight faintly.
"This isn't a fight we want to pick."
Rasha didn't argue.
Her eyes lingered one last time on the glow ahead — that controlled, coaxed flicker.
Then she turned.
"Let's move."