“

  We lost two,” Hannah said quietly.

  The words didn’t echo.

  Nothing echoed out here.

  Greyson’s throat bobbed once, like he’d tried to swallow the sentence back into his mouth.

  Julien closed his eyes for a single heartbeat—just long enough to remember what it felt like to be normal—then opened them again and kept watching the trees.

  Garn stared at the ground.

  Mud. Leaves. A smear of red on a twig that wasn’t his.

  His jaw was tight enough to ache.

  Hannah didn’t give them time to sit inside it.

  Her hand lifted.

  Two fingers.

  Then a sharp slice forward.

  Move.

  Now.

  No sound.

  No stopping.

  They obeyed.

  Not because they wanted to.

  Because standing still was how you died twice.

  They moved through the Forest of Log like ghosts pretending they still had bodies.

  No fires.

  No loud breathing.

  No metal clinking.

  Even the smallest mistakes felt too loud now.

  Hannah stayed in front, spear held low, eyes cutting through the dark with the same discipline she’d used to drag them away from the ridge. She didn’t look at the places where the ground was darker. She didn’t look at bark that had been rubbed raw by falling wood. She didn’t look at anything that might turn the mission back into a memory.

  Greyson stayed close to her left, shield angled and ready, his posture protective by instinct. He looked like he wanted to speak and didn’t trust his voice not to break.

  Julien walked rear, eyes constantly back. He didn’t blink much. Not because he was brave. Because blinking felt like giving the world permission to change while you weren’t watching it.

  Garn stayed near the middle now. Not drifting. Not bored. Not trying to prove he was above the fear.

  He was awake.

  And being awake hurt.

  Akash stayed folded tight behind his eyes—silent as ash packed down and smothered.

  No flare.

  No warmth.

  No easy sense of “I’m protected.”

  Just the raw truth Titus had forced into him:

  If you can’t stay present, you aren’t strong. You’re just noisy.

  Garn forced his breath down.

  In through the nose.

  Out slow.

  He followed Hannah’s feet.

  He kept his temper from climbing his throat.

  He kept moving.

  The forest was louder in daylight.

  Not in sound.

  In detail.

  Gray dawn bled between leaves, and the world sharpened into a hundred small truths you couldn’t ignore.

  Every scuff in mud became a story.

  Every snapped twig became a confession.

  Every shifted stone became a mistake someone could read.

  Hannah kept them off open lanes. She hugged thicker growth where footprints vanished faster and sightlines stayed ugly.

  They didn’t head straight for Log Town.

  They took a route that turned and turned again. Angles. Breaks. Circles that made sense only if you were imagining a Crown-ranked hunter deciding whether to follow.

  Garn hated how much that imagination worked.

  He hated how easy it was now to picture Natalia smiling again.

  Hannah signaled a pause—two fingers, down.

  They dropped into a shallow dip behind brush and held still for thirty breaths.

  No one spoke.

  Greyson’s hands trembled faintly on his shield strap. Not from fatigue. From the effort of holding everything inside.

  Julien’s eyes stayed on the trees.

  Garn’s gaze dropped to his own hands.

  They were shaking.

  Not fear. Not cold.

  A pressure that had nowhere to go.

  He squeezed his fists until the shaking stopped.

  Akash remained quiet.

  He wanted her to say something.

  He wanted her to mock him or scold him or reassure him.

  He wanted anything that wasn’t silence.

  Nothing came.

  Only the emptiness he’d asked for.

  Only the consequence.

  They moved again.

  Hours passed in repeating shapes.

  Tree.

  Mud.

  Fog.

  Rock.

  Brush.

  The monotony would’ve been calming if it wasn’t built on death.

  They crossed a shallow stream without splashing.

  They climbed slick rock without slipping.

  They skirted a small clearing where the grass looked wrong—too flat, too recently pressed.

  Hannah lifted a fist.

  Freeze.

  They froze.

  She listened.

  Greyson’s breathing stopped.

  Julien’s bow hand tensed.

  Garn’s muscles went ready.

  Nothing.

  Hannah lowered her hand.

  Move.

  They moved again.

  The only mercy was that the pressure never returned.

  No pale wave.

  No invisible fingertip sliding across their spines.

  No “moonlight” feeling that didn’t belong under canopy.

  Just distance.

  Just the fact that Natalia had left, because she didn’t need to chase.

  She’d already proven her point.

  Two corpses were proof enough.

  When they finally had to pass near the corridor—the place Natalia’s slash had carved—the daylight made it unbearable.

  The forest wasn’t “changed.”

  It was ruined.

  Hundreds of trees cut clean.

  Not shattered.

  Not splintered.

  Cut.

  The trunks were sheared straight through as if an invisible blade had passed and reality had politely separated.

  The fallen canopy lay in layers, branches tangled, leaves dead in heaps. The ground beneath was scuffed with impact and cracked from the weight of all that wood collapsing at once.

  Julien’s eyes tracked the cut line like he was measuring it.

  Greyson stared at it and his face went pale.

  Garn’s stomach tightened.

  Because seeing it at night had been panic.

  Seeing it in the light was understanding.

  That slash hadn’t been effort.

  It had been a thought.

  A bored answer to a problem that didn’t deserve more.

  Hannah didn’t let them stare.

  Staring was time.

  Time was risk.

  She signaled again.

  Move.

  They moved.

  Later, when the terrain finally softened into something familiar—when the air started to carry the faintest hint of smoke—Julien’s shoulders dropped a fraction as if his body recognized “civilization” and tried to believe it meant safety.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Smoke.

  Not fire.

  Industry.

  Sap burning. Resin. Iron warmed by work. The smell of a town that never shut up.

  Log Town.

  Hannah tightened their formation.

  No spread.

  No distance.

  Garn took rear without being told.

  No argument.

  No pride.

  His pride had been bled out of him by a single clean slash.

  They crossed the last ridge and saw the forward base.

  Canvas tents. Rope lines. Stakes driven deep. A low, disciplined fire pit. The trench ring like a shallow scar around the camp’s heart.

  The camp looked the same as it had yesterday.

  That was the cruel part.

  The world hadn’t changed.

  Only them.

  Vincent saw them first.

  He was leaning on a post, half awake, grin already forming like he wanted to make a joke about how long they’d taken—

  Then he counted.

  Four.

  His grin died before it could become sound.

  Amira appeared from the perimeter line like she’d been there the whole time. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t soften. Her eyes moved from Hannah to Greyson to Julien to Garn—

  Then paused.

  Two empty spaces that didn’t exist yesterday.

  Amira’s jaw tightened.

  Damien stepped out from between tents, posture straight, eyes sharp, face unreadable.

  “Report,” he said.

  Hannah walked forward.

  Her boots didn’t drag.

  Her spear stayed steady in her hands.

  Her face was tight—too tight—like she’d strapped her fear to her bones and marched it back.

  She stopped in front of Titus.

  Titus sat on his crate like the camp existed to serve as his chair.

  Cloak loose. One knee bent. Hands relaxed.

  Bored posture.

  Unbothered face.

  But his eyes were awake.

  His eyes were always awake.

  Hannah opened her mouth.

  And for the first time since Natalia’s pressure hit the ridge—

  her voice failed her.

  Not fully.

  Just enough.

  She swallowed hard, throat working like she was trying to push a stone down.

  “We… observed,” Hannah began, and the word came out clean.

  Then she looked at Titus’s face.

  Not because she needed approval.

  Because Titus meant home rules. Structure. Safety. Meaning.

  Because standing in front of him made the night stop feeling like a mission and start feeling like what it really was:

  A kid running for her life.

  Hannah’s eyes shimmered before she could stop it.

  She blinked hard.

  Tried again.

  “Observed Orion movement,” she continued, forcing the report forward like a crate she refused to drop. “Forty to fifty miles from Log Town. Supply activity. Disciplined personnel.”

  Her voice steadied.

  Just barely.

  “Confirmed Crown-ranked presence,” she said. “Natalia of the Crescent Moon.”

  Vincent went still.

  Amira’s eyes narrowed like she wanted to carve the name into metal.

  Damien’s gaze sharpened, colder.

  Titus didn’t react. He just listened like a man tasting weather.

  Hannah’s breath hitched once.

  “Retreated immediately,” she said. “Natalia—”

  Her mouth tightened.

  “She cut the forest,” Hannah forced out. “Wide slash. Hundreds of trees.”

  Her grip on the spear shaft whitened.

  “We were hidden. Amanda…” Hannah’s voice cracked on the name.

  Just a fracture.

  Enough to break the seal.

  Hannah’s face tightened so hard it looked like it would split.

  She tried to continue anyway.

  “Amanda screamed. She was—” Hannah’s throat seized.

  The word wouldn’t come out.

  Dead.

  Gone.

  Leg cut off.

  Neck snapped.

  Hannah had watched it all with her face still and her heart screaming.

  Now her heart won.

  Her shoulders shook once—small and violent.

  Then she broke.

  Not loud.

  Not dramatic.

  Just sudden.

  Her chin trembled. Her breath came wrong. Tears slid down her face like her body had been holding them back on command and finally lost the command.

  “I’m sorry,” Hannah whispered, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry— I did what you said— I did—”

  Her knees almost buckled.

  She caught herself by pure stubbornness.

  Titus didn’t stand.

  He didn’t rush.

  He didn’t soften.

  But his voice changed, just enough to become a hand.

  “Hannah,” Titus said.

  One word.

  A hook.

  An anchor.

  Hannah looked at him like she was drowning.

  Titus’s eyelid lifted a fraction.

  “Breathe,” Titus ordered. Not comfort. Command.

  Hannah inhaled—shaky.

  Again.

  Again.

  Titus let her breathe, then spoke with the same calm he used for everything.

  “Finish the report,” he said.

  Hannah swallowed hard.

  Wiped her face with the back of her wrist like she hated the tears for existing.

  “We lost two,” she said, voice small and flat. “Amanda. Eliot.”

  Greyson stood behind her with a straight face that wasn’t strength.

  It was emptiness.

  Julien stood beside Greyson the same way—eyes open, expression dead, like something in him had gone quiet and hadn’t come back yet.

  Garn stared at the dirt.

  His jaw clenched.

  His hands trembled faintly at his sides.

  Not from cold.

  From the weight of being helpless and knowing it.

  Titus’s gaze slid to Garn.

  “Did you listen?” Titus asked.

  Garn’s mouth opened.

  No words came out.

  Because the truth wasn’t yes.

  The truth was: I listened too late.

  The truth was: I couldn’t do anything.

  The truth was: I watched people die like it was weather.

  His stomach rolled.

  His vision narrowed.

  His body suddenly felt too heavy for his bones.

  Garn swayed.

  Zamora stepped forward instinctively, staff in one hand, the other reaching out.

  “Garn—?”

  Garn’s knees buckled.

  He went down like a cut rope.

  Not dramatic?

  Not a warrior collapse.

  Just the body finally quitting after being forced to hold too much without an outlet.

  Zamora caught him.

  Barely.

  She dropped the staff without thinking and grabbed him under the shoulders, frantic.

  “Garn!” she hissed, voice sharp with panic she didn’t usually let anyone see. “Garn, wake up—!”

  His head lolled against her arm.

  Breathing shallow.

  Alive.

  But gone.

  Zamora’s eyes went wide.

  She looked up at Damien like she wanted permission to be scared.

  Damien’s gaze flicked from Garn’s slack face to Hannah’s tear-streaked cheeks to Greyson and Julien’s dead eyes.

  Then to Zamora.

  His voice came flat.

  “This,” Damien said, “is why you didn’t go.”

  Zamora flinched like he’d struck her.

  Not because the words were cruel.

  Because they were true.

  Because she’d wanted this.

  She’d begged for the chance to prove she belonged.

  And now she was holding Garn’s weight like a child holding something she couldn’t fix.

  Zamora’s jaw tightened.

  Tears didn’t come.

  Anger did.

  Hot.

  Quiet.

  She swallowed it down until it became a hard stone in her chest.

  “Yes, sir,” she forced out, because anything else would have broken.

  Vincent’s grin was gone completely.

  Amira stepped closer, eyes sharp, assessing Garn’s condition in one glance.

  “He’s breathing,” Amira said quietly.

  “Get him inside,” Damien ordered.

  Zamora nodded too fast.

  She tried to lift Garn alone.

  Her arms shook.

  Greyson moved without speaking, stepped in, and took Garn’s other side like it was automatic.

  Julien followed, silent, helping without looking at anyone.

  No words.

  Just function.

  Hannah stood there trembling, tears drying on her cheeks, spear still in her hands like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

  Titus watched them move Garn into camp.

  Then Titus looked at Hannah again.

  His voice stayed calm.

  “You didn’t fail,” Titus said.

  Hannah’s throat bobbed. She didn’t believe it.

  Titus continued anyway.

  “You brought four back,” Titus said. “Against a Crown-ranked hunter. That’s not failure.”

  Hannah squeezed her eyes shut.

  A fresh tear slipped out anyway.

  Titus didn’t comment on it.

  He simply turned his gaze toward the treeline.

  “And now,” Titus said, voice lazy again, like he was discussing weather, “we change how this border breathes.”

  The camp listened.

  Because two bodies were missing.

  Because one recruit had broken down.

  Because Garn had collapsed.

  Because Greyson and Julien looked like they’d left parts of themselves in the forest.

  And because Natalia of the Crescent Moon had smiled.

  Orders came like quiet nails hammered into place.

  Titus didn’t shout them.

  He didn’t need to.

  “Amira,” Titus said. “Double perimeter watch. No single patrols. Two-person minimum.”

  Amira nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

  “Vincent,” Titus continued. “No jokes tonight. If you need to laugh, laugh into a pillow.”

  Vincent’s mouth opened.

  Then closed.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yes, boss.”

  Titus’s gaze slid to Damien.

  “Send word to House Apricot,” Titus said. “Finn stays inside. No errands. No heroics. Andrew stays on house defense only.”

  Damien nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Titus’s eyes shifted back to Hannah.

  “Eat,” Titus said. “Then sleep. If you can.”

  He looked at Greyson and Julien.

  “You two,” Titus said, “are done for the day. Don’t wander. Don’t train. You rest.”

  Greyson blinked once like he didn’t know how to accept permission.

  Julien’s dead eyes flickered, then went still again.

  Titus’s gaze slid to Zamora—still standing where she’d dropped the staff.

  Her hands were empty.

  That looked wrong.

  Damien’s voice cut in before Titus could.

  “Pick it up,” Damien told her.

  Zamora’s head snapped slightly.

  She looked down at the staff like it had become heavier just from being on the ground.

  Then she lifted it again.

  Because she didn’t know how not to.

  Damien’s eyes stayed on her grip.

  “Hold,” he said.

  Zamora held.

  Garn woke inside a tent with his throat dry and his head pounding like he’d been punched from the inside.

  He blinked at canvas.

  He tried to sit up.

  His body refused for half a second—then obeyed reluctantly.

  Zamora was outside. He could hear her breathing. Slow. Controlled. Angry.

  Akash was still folded tight. A faint edge behind his eyes, like smoke trapped behind a sealed door.

  Garn hated the quiet.

  He hated how empty he felt without it.

  He hated that the quiet made him remember.

  Amanda’s scream.

  Eliot’s rage.

  The crack of a neck.

  The clean cut of legs leaving a body behind.

  Garn pressed his fingers into his own palm until pain reminded him he still existed.

  He sat there for a long time.

  Not sleeping.

  Not thinking clearly.

  Just… existing in the space where his pride had been.

  Outside, Log Town screamed in the distance.

  Saw-teeth. Hammer strikes. Chain winches.

  A town that worked like it could drown out the border.

  It couldn’t.

  By late afternoon, a runner came from Log Town—breathless, face tight, eyes darting like he expected the trees to follow him right into camp.

  He stopped at the perimeter rope and swallowed hard when he saw Titus.

  “Crimson Knights,” he said, voice low. “A cart didn’t come back.”

  Titus didn’t react.

  “Where,” Titus said.

  “The road bend,” the runner answered. “Same place. Quiet again.”

  Damien stepped forward. “Any bodies?”

  The runner shook his head fast. “None. Just broken rope and wheel ruts.”

  Titus hummed like he was tasting the report.

  Then he looked toward the treeline.

  “Of course,” Titus said softly.

  Vincent swallowed.

  Amira’s eyes narrowed.

  Zamora’s grip tightened until her knuckles went pale.

  Garn stepped out of the tent and heard just enough to feel his stomach drop—not from fear.

  From understanding.

  Natalia hadn’t just hunted.

  Orion wasn’t just stealing.

  They were shaping.

  Titus stood from his crate, finally.

  The camp seemed to shift around him as if his standing changed gravity.

  “Tomorrow,” Titus said, voice still lazy, still calm, “we stop guessing.”

  He looked at Hannah.

  Then Greyson.

  Then Julien.

  Then Garn.

  “You four don’t go back out tonight,” Titus said. “You recover. You remember. You carve.”

  His gaze slid to Garn.

  “And you,” Titus added, quiet, “learn to stay vigilant."

  Garn swallowed.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Titus turned his eyes back to the forest.

  “Because if Natalia is here,” Titus said, almost to himself, “then someone else is coming.”

  The words didn’t promise relief.

  They promised scale.

  And Log Town kept screaming in the distance like it didn’t know a crowned rank had smiled at its border.

  But the camp knew.

  And the survivors knew.

  And in the quiet between saws and wind, the kingdom felt smaller than it had yesterday.