The forest seemed to close behind them, swallowing the trail as if it had never existed. The air, already heavy, thickened into something almost solid, saturated with contradictory scents: the sweetish rot of decaying vegetation, the musk of animals, and always, lingering in the background, that metallic sting that burned the nostrils. The trail they followed—branches snapped at shoulder height, deep hoofprints pressed into the mud—was too neat, too obvious.

Zirel felt a new tension coursing through his veins, replacing anticipation with vigilance at every step. It was too easy. Pilaf was no careless strategist. If he had left a trail this blatant, it was either a trap or a diversion. Or worse: a lure to draw them deeper into territory he no longer controlled.

They advanced in silence, becoming extensions of the shadow, every sense sharpened. Suddenly, a sharp hiss burst from a clump of giant ferns. A figure rose, tall and narrow, scales of dark green glimmering faintly in the dim light. A lizard-man. He brandished a crude stone axe, forked tongue flicking with rage. Behind him, two more emerged, smaller, armed with obsidian-tipped javelins.

Zirel didn't need to give an order. His men, hardened by the earlier skirmish, moved with lethal synchronicity. The spearman aimed at the largest one, but his javelin was deflected by a precise swing of the axe. Metal screeched against stone. At the same instant, Zirel lunged left. His blade, finally drawn, carved a silver arc through the humid air. It sliced clean through the arm holding the javelin. The lizard-man let out a strangled cry, a reptilian gurgle, before Zirel's backhand cut opened his throat.

The fight was brief, violent. The creatures were fast and feral but lacked discipline. Zirel's soldiers, though less agile, formed a wall of iron and will. In under a minute, the three bodies sprawled across the spongy ground, their black blood seeping into the moss.

"Lizards now," one man growled, panting, as he examined a slash on his forearm. "What the hell are they doing this far from their swamps?"

Zirel didn't answer right away. He crouched beside the leader's corpse. Unlike goblins, these creatures bore crude but distinctive tokens: necklaces strung with teeth, war paint smeared in ochre across their scales. Tribal markers. He rolled the corpse over and drove his sword's tip into a weak spot beneath the chest. Digging, he pulled free a rough stone of deep green, pulsing faintly with inner light. An anima gem. He stuffed it into his belt pouch without a word. His men did the same with the other corpses—grim, routine harvest.

"They shouldn't be here," Zirel finally said, rising to his feet. His gaze swept the menacing thickness of the forest. "Goblins are scavengers. They trail armies. Lizard-men are territorial. They leave their swamps only when driven by hunger or…"

"…or by something stronger," the wounded soldier finished, clutching his arm.

Zirel nodded. "Exactly. A presence. A threat that forced them from their lands. Or an authority gathering them together."

The idea unsettled him. The beast races hated each other as much as they hated humans. To see them coexist in the same zone, even in separate packs, was unnatural. It reeked of orchestration. Pilaf? Perhaps. The man had dark resources. But another, more troubling thought brushed Zirel's mind: Pilaf was hardly the only predator in this forest. What if even he was just a wolf chased by something bigger?

They pressed on, but the forest was no longer just a backdrop. It had become a hostile ecosystem, a living trap. Attacks grew more frequent, more varied. A swarm of kobolds harried them from the branches, pelting stones and shrill curses before vanishing into the canopy. Then a band of better-armed goblins tried to encircle them. Each time, Zirel's response was the same: cold, efficient violence. No mercy, no wasted cries. Only the silence of blades finding flesh, and the crackle of anima gems harvested.

Each gem joined the others in Zirel's pouch, forming a cold, pulsing burden. Raw energy. Potential power. The currency of the new world. The very reason all these beasts threw themselves to their deaths. Anima drew them like moths to flame, a hunger deeper than fear itself.

Zirel could feel his men tiring. Their breaths came heavier, their reactions a fraction slower. The forest was grinding them down. Pilaf's shadow remained elusive, untouchable. They came across the remnants of a recent camp—cold ashes, deep boot prints, a torn eagle crest—but no trace of human soldiers.

"They're cleaning up behind them," Zirel muttered, grinding the crest under his heel. "They advance, and send their dogs to wipe out stragglers and cover their tracks."

But the variety of "dogs" troubled him. Goblins, lizards, kobolds… Together they painted a picture. A rallying point. A nest.

"There's a hamlet," he whispered, more to himself than to his men. They had stopped to drink from a brook, backs pressed together, eyes darting nervously all around.

"A hamlet, chief?" the spearman asked. "Of beasts? Mixed?"

"Yes." Zirel wiped his mouth. "They don't cooperate. They're too stupid. But they coexist. They must be gathered somewhere. A place that draws them in—or where they're being forced. A place rich in anima, perhaps. Or a strategic point Pilaf wants to hold."

It was the only explanation. The presence of so many species, so far from their natural biomes, made no other sense. Such a gathering was rare, maybe unprecedented. It changed everything. They weren't just tracking an army—they were following an entire displaced ecosystem, a festering boil of monstrosity.

"So what do we do?" asked the wounded man, his voice tight.

Zirel cast a glance north, where the trail seemed to plunge into an even darker gorge.

"We go on," he said, voice once again a thread of steel. "We're scouts. Our mission is to see. And now, there's something to see."

He rose, casting one last look at the brook. The water was clear, but it carried the same metallic bitterness that hung in the air.

"But we change methods. No more trail. We circle it. We become shadow. We avoid them." His eyes swept his men. "One wrong step, one sound—and we'll have them all on us. Not a pack. A tide. Are you ready?"

Their faces, drawn by exhaustion, hardened. They nodded silently. The fear was still there, but now it was channeled, transmuted into absolute focus.

Zirel turned his back and plunged into the undergrowth, abandoning the too-visible trail. They weren't following a track anymore. They were hunting a hypothesis. The most dangerous one of all.

———

They abandoned the ground. Too treacherous, too loud. Zirel gave the signal without words, and all understood: climb. The trunks were thick, gnarled, perfect for offering an unseen passage. With a controlled leap, he gripped the rough bark, his fingers finding natural holds, his boots wedged into a crack. The others followed, clumsy at first, then more fluid, driven by survival instinct.

From above, everything changed. The ground became a dark sea, dotted with moving shapes. Below, a group of kobolds trotted past, torches with sickly green flames in hand. They chattered in their sibilant tongue, oblivious to the five humans perched overhead, silent as wraiths. One soldier almost exhaled in relief, but Zirel pressed a finger to his lips without even looking at him. Not a sound.

The advance continued. Tree to tree, branch to branch, they became predators of the canopy. Several times they spotted goblin patrols, pairs of lizard-men, even a massive boar half-corrupted by anima, its tusks encrusted with embedded gems. Each time, they froze, statues of flesh, until the threat passed.

Then, at last, the forest opened slightly. The canopy broke, revealing a strange clearing where vegetation had been cut, burned, forced back by beastly hands.

They stopped, hidden in the crown of a great oak.

There, a hundred paces away, stood a cluster of crude structures: twenty or so huts of wood and mud, arranged in a circle, surrounded by a palisade of broken trunks. At the center, a communal pit had been turned into a fire, belching greasy black smoke. Shapes swarmed around it: goblins, kobolds, lizards—a chaotic mix, unimaginable under normal circumstances, yet here they coexisted as if bound by the same law.

Sentinels stood guard by the palisade, armed with crude bows. The huts themselves, rough though they were, mimicked human dwellings—a grotesque parody, yet solid enough to stand. The rising smoke proved life inside, warmth, organization.

One soldier, crouched on a nearby branch, swallowed hard.

"A hamlet…" he murmured. "They built one."

Zirel remained still, eyes locked on the sight. Every muscle in his body tensed, as if his flesh knew before his mind. Cold sweat traced down his back.

It wasn't just the grotesque vision of this unnatural gathering. No. It was something else.

He felt it. A presence.

There, at the heart of that twisted village, something breathed. Not ordinary animal breath, but a deep, heavy, almost telluric rhythm. A vibration resonating in his bones. His instincts, sharpened by years of battle and survival, screamed in unison: do not approach.

He pressed a hand to the bark, grounding himself in the tangible world. His men stared at him, awaiting an order. They had felt it too—the primal shiver that bristles hair before the danger is even seen.

Zirel inhaled slowly. His gaze never left the rising smoke, the swarming shapes.

"This isn't just a hamlet," he said, voice low and gravelly. "It's a lair. And inside, there's a beast… a beast I have no wish to wake. Not yet."

His eyes hardened, sharp as a blade in the night.

"We watch. We take note. We go no further. Not until we know what we're facing."

Silence fell. Below, the monsters laughed, quarreled over scraps of meat, trained with clumsy weapons. Above them, unseen, Zirel and his men remained suspended, prisoners of the moment.

But all of them knew this clearing was not an end to the trail. It was an entrance.

A threshold.

And beyond that palisade, the heart of a greater darkness beat.

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