Del crouched low in the underbrush, the rough bark of a twisted alder pressing cold against his back. A bramble caught the edge of his sleeve as he adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. Ahead, through a loose scatter of ferns and saplings, the lookout came into view—thin, filthy, and clearly bored. The man was hunched on a fallen log, idly picking his teeth with a small dagger, more focused on the detritus between molars than the fields he was meant to be watching.

  Not exactly elite.

  Beside Del, Elara moved like still water, the arc of her bow barely shifting in her grasp. Her breath came quiet and measured, eyes narrowed beneath the brim of her hood.

  Del leaned in slightly. “On three,” he whispered, fingers tightening on the worn leather of his grip. “One... two—”

  Snap.

  The sound was subtle—a dry twig beneath Elara’s foot—but it cut through the hush like a whip crack. The lookout jerked upright, head swivelling toward the source. His eyes locked on Del with sudden, rabbit-eyed panic.

  “Intruders!” the man bellowed, scrambling for his weapon.

  “Shit.”

  Del surged forward before the shout had even finished echoing, sword sweeping free in a clean arc. The brigand barely got his blade up in time. Steel met steel with a screech and a flare of sparks, the force of the clash vibrating up Del’s arm.

  The man fought like a cornered animal—wild, sloppy, and full of panic. Del didn’t give him space to recover, driving forward with a flurry of strikes that forced him back, step by step, toward the edge of a moss-draped stone.

  Behind him, Elara’s bowstring thrummed once, twice—arrows slicing the air in warning, close enough to rattle the man’s focus but not strike. Her aim was surgical. She wanted him alive.

  “Yield,” Del growled, pressing his weight into the next parry. Their blades locked, faces inches apart. “You can’t win this.”

  The brigand spat at him, the glob striking Del’s cheek with a wet slap. “Go to hell.”

  He shoved forward, teeth bared in a snarl, and lunged with more rage than skill. Del stepped aside with ease, pivoting on his heel and bringing his blade round in a tight arc. The steel kissed the man’s thigh, slicing through flesh just above the knee.

  The brigand howled and stumbled, dropping to one leg. Del moved fast, flipping his grip and slamming the pommel of his sword hard against the side of the man’s head. Bone met metal with a sick crack, and the man collapsed like a dropped sack of grain.

  Del stood over him, chest rising with steady, controlled breaths. His blade lowered slowly.

  “Could’ve gone smoother,” he muttered, wiping the spittle from his face with the edge of his sleeve.

  ‘Always the damn critic. Would it kill you to just say “well done” once in a while?’ he groused internally.

  ‘Any harder and you’d have cracked his skull like an egg, Del,’ he rebuked himself. ‘Maybe next time, don’t try to brain the first one we meet.’

  Elara appeared beside him, stepping over a root with the grace of someone born to the wild. Her expression was unreadable, but her tone clipped.

  “He’ll live. Just.”

  Del gave a short nod. “Then we’d best wake him up. Time for some answers.”

  Working quickly, they bound the man’s hands and ankles with braided cord. Elara produced a small twist of pungent green leaves from one of her pouches and held it under the brigand’s nose. The stench hit like a hammer—sharp, oily, and unmistakable.

  The man groaned, eyelids fluttering. He squinted against the dappled light bleeding through the canopy above, disoriented and blinking like a creature dragged from some deep, sticky sleep.

  Del crouched in front of him, sword balanced loosely across his thighs. “Morning, sunshine.”

  He delivered two sharp slaps to the man’s cheek—nothing brutal, just enough to sharpen the edges of his awareness.

  “Rise and shine, sweetheart,” Del drawled, hauling him upright by the front of his grimy tunic. The brigand’s head lolled against the tree trunk, jaw slack for a moment before tension returned to his face. Blood crusted along a split lip. One of his eyes had begun to swell. Still, he managed to curl his mouth into a sneer.

  “I ain’t telling you nothing.”

  Elara stepped forward with a slow, deliberate grace, the glint in her eyes harder than steel. Her bow remained slung across her back, but the brigand’s reaction wasn’t to the weapon—it was to her. The way she moved. The way she watched. Predatory. Precise.

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  “Oh, I think you will,” she said, voice soft as velvet, and twice as dangerous.

  She crouched beside him, fingers dipping into one of her belt pouches. What she retrieved wasn’t a weapon but a small, shrivelled cap of pale fungus. She didn’t hold it out—just let him see it as she crumbled it into a folded scrap of cloth.

  Del caught the faint scent—earthy, dry, with something sharp beneath. Not strong enough to dose the air. Just enough to prick fear.

  “You know what this is?” she asked conversationally.

  The brigand's eyes twitched toward the spore-dusted cloth. He didn’t answer.

  “Spintofore,” she said softly. “Breathe it too deep, and you’ll start seeing your skin turn inside out. Some men never come back. Others scream for hours about snakes made of smoke.” She offered a faint smile. “We’re not going to use it. Not unless you make us.”

  The man’s bravado faltered. A bead of sweat traced a line through the dirt on his temple.

  Elara dropped the cloth into a pouch again, but not before brushing her fingers across a twist of vines and coaxing them to life. They slithered forward like something half-aware, curling around the man’s wrists and pulsing with subtle pressure.

  Del’s voice came low and cold. “How many of you are there? What’s Karth planning?”

  The man clenched his jaw, but the vines tightened with unnerving calm—tickling now at the base of his throat.

  “Elara’s very patient,” Del said. “Me? Not so much.”

  Silence stretched. The vines made a second coil around his neck and began to tighten.

  “Look…” the brigand rasped, voice catching. “There’s about a dozen of us. That’s all. We were just meant to raid the place. Quick grab-and-run. But Karth—he’s got other ideas.”

  Del’s gut twisted. “What ideas.”

  “He wants the farm. Permanent base. Says it’s perfect for bleeding dry the crossroads—traffic, merchants, travellers. Says we can run half the region from here if we hold it long enough.”

  Del’s jaw tightened. His voice dropped lower.

  “And Naomi?”

  The man flinched. “Karth’s got… plans. Special ones.” His voice cracked. “Said she was worth more than the farm. Wouldn’t let any of us near her. Said he’d kill the first man who tried.”

  Del felt the breath leave him in a rush. He took a step forward before his mind had caught up, his fingers curling into fists.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, barely keeping his voice from cracking. “What have you done to her?”

  “I don’t know!” The man shrank away, trying to fold in on himself despite the bindings. “Swear it! He’s keeping her somewhere off-site, maybe in the orchard sheds. No one’s seen her since he brought her in!”

  Del grabbed the collar of his shirt, dragging him forward until their noses nearly touched. The brigand stank—sweat, fear, unwashed leather.

  “Joel and Mara? Their boy?”

  “Still in the farmhouse!” the man gasped. “Barricaded! Karth said to leave ’em alive. Said he might need leverage if the locals came sniffing!”

  Del released him with a shove, the man collapsing like a rag doll in the dirt. He turned away, fists clenched, heart pounding.

  ‘Leverage. Of course they’d keep them alive—for now.’

  ‘Sounds like it’s time to put all these levels to use, Del.’

  He exhaled through his nose, steadying the fire that licked at the edges of his control. It wasn’t fury—not entirely. It was momentum, pressure, something gathering at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with each breath. He didn’t want to let it off the leash. Not yet.

  Elara stood nearby, gaze fixed on him, unreadable. There was steel there, as always, but layered now with something more cautious. Not fear. Never fear. But watchfulness. Like a hunter eyeing a ripple in the undergrowth that doesn’t quite fit.

  She knew he was holding something back. Had known for a while, probably. She’d seen Misty fight—had stood beside her when the hellcat tore through a pack of skeps with brutal precision. That had been a turning point. Elara wasn’t na?ve. She understood the rules didn’t always apply to the pair walking beside her. She just didn’t know how far those differences went.

  And Del had done nothing to enlighten her. He’d fought hard, sure. Fought dirty, when needed. But never recklessly. Never with that full, unfiltered surge he felt stirring now—like some deeper tide waiting beneath his skin. He’d kept it contained.

  Until now.

  He caught her watching him, head tilted just slightly, her hand hovering near the hilt of her knife in a way that didn’t read as threat—more like anchoring. She was assessing him. Not as an enemy. As a question.

  ‘Guess you’ve got to see it sometime, lass,’ he thought grimly. Not all of it. But enough.

  Then, sharper—an echo that wasn’t his own. A name rising like smoke in the back of his mind.

  ‘Menolly.’

  His jaw clenched.

  ‘Once this is done. You and I are going to talk. Properly.’

  Elara stepped closer and laid a hand on his shoulder—light, but firm enough to be grounding. He let her.

  “We’ll need to be smart,” she said, voice low but steady. “Scout the camp. Find weak points. Maybe a distraction—split their numbers, draw them out.”

  Del shook his head slowly. “No.”

  She blinked, reading his face. “No?”

  “We split.”

  A pause. “You sure?”

  He nodded once. “You take the back of the farmhouse. If anyone’s stationed there, pick them off quiet. Clean.” He turned toward Misty, who sat coiled in the grass, ears forward, tail still.

  “Misty. Go with her. Keep her safe.”

  The cat gave a low mewl, almost casual—until her form began to ripple. Fur shimmered like a mirage, limbs stretching, spine lengthening. In seconds, the lean feline was gone, replaced by a predator wreathed in quiet menace. Misty’s hellcat form stood tall and poised, the gold of her eyes catching the light like twin torches.

  Elara hesitated, not at Misty—never at Misty—but at Del. At the choice he was making. Something in her eyes said she knew this wasn’t just strategy.

  ‘No harm will come to her,’ she said, voice low and rich with promise.

  Elara hesitated, then gave a single nod. She understood. Even if she didn’t like it.

  “You sure?” she asked, voice softer now.

  Del nodded once, jaw set. “Go.”

  Without another word, she turned and followed Misty, slipping into the trees like ghosts. The grass swallowed their footsteps, and in moments, they were gone.

  Del stared down at the brigand still slumped at his feet. The man moaned faintly, eyelids fluttering.

  ‘Not your concern anymore.’

  “Time to hunt,” Del muttered, the phrase feeling familiar on his tongue—Misty’s words, once, and now his own. “These bastards crossed the line.”

  He raised his boot and brought it down hard on the man’s temple. The body went limp with a twitch.

  Del turned his back and melted into the trees, letting the gloom of the forest take him. The fire in his veins had become a steady, pulsing rhythm now—fury honed to purpose. His footfalls were silent. His heartbeat was not.

  ‘Hold on, Naomi,’’ he thought, eyes narrowing as the treeline swallowed him whole.

  ‘I’m coming.’