Chapter 94 - 93: Shadows Speak in Blood

Chapter 94: Chapter 93: Shadows Speak in Blood Southward Winds The morning haze still clung to the trees when the first golden eagle returned, wings wide and silent as it dipped low above the clearing. Its cry rang sharp, slicing through the air like an alarm bell. Lumberling looked up from the carcass of the boarhound they had just felled, its bulk still twitching in death. The blood hadn’t even cooled. Threads of purple essence unraveled from the corpse, drawn toward Aren like mist seeking a vessel. The younger warrior grimaced but stood tall as the energy surged into him, sweat clinging to his brow. Then a second eagle came. No cry this time, just silence and urgency. It glided low and cleanly dropped a bundled cloth from its talons. The strip fluttered once before landing beside Lumberling’s boots. Red-coded. He knelt, fingers already brushing the symbol. A sighting. Human. Armed. Southward quadrant. Fifty-plus. Sengolio armor. Not scouts. Not survivors. Soldiers. From the treeline, Skitz emerged, his dagger still wet. A faint line of dried blood streaked his cheek, but he moved like it was just another morning stretch. "They saw something?" Lumberling held up the marker. "South side. Sengolio unit. More than fifty." Skitz’s eyes narrowed. "Finally." He sheathed his blade with a metallic click. "This might be it. Our chance to get something real. If one of them so much as coughs about mages, we’re grabbing it." Aren approached, still shaking the last dregs of essence out of his system. "Fifty’s a full patrol. You think they’re just moving through or stationed nearby?" "Doesn’t matter," Lumberling said. His voice had already cooled into command. "We’re intercepting." He turned to the others in the clearing, raising his voice just enough to carry. "Mount up. Quiver light. We ride in ten." Rogar was already checking his spear straps. Gorrak hoisted his hammer with a grunt. Trask gave a faint grin and slipped on his half-mask. Skitz glanced sideways. "You planning on talking first, or straight to cutting?" Lumberling’s eyes were already scanning the tree line to the south, his mind calculating the terrain, the routes, the winds. "We’ll talk," he said, his voice calm. Then, quieter... "If they survive the first few minutes." ..... An Hour Later - South Ravine The forest grew quieter as they approached. A shallow stream wound through the ravine, its trickling masked by the low murmur of tired voices. Beneath the shade of crooked trees, the Sengolio soldiers rested, if it could be called that. Their armor was scorched and mismatched, smeared with ash and dried blood. Discipline had long since bled from them. Some lay with backs to tree trunks, weapons at their sides. One stirred a dented canteen. Another had removed his greaves entirely, feet blistered and raw. Not a helmet among them. Lumberling crouched behind the underbrush, eyes narrowing. No banners. No formation. No mana signatures. Deserters. "These aren’t elite," Skitz whispered, crouched low beside him. "No aura. No pressure. Just tired dogs limping from a lost fight." Lumberling’s gaze swept the clearing. "No mages. Just stragglers." He exhaled. Still, stragglers could talk. He raised two fingers in signal. "Prepare to engage." And the Duskspire Legion struck. Like wind through dry grass, they surged from both sides of the ravine. Crossbows sang first, dropping two guards at the edge of the stream before they could even shout. Then Trask and Rogar crashed into the center, blades flashing, weapons sharp and merciless. The fight was over in moments. Only a handful were spared. Six soldiers now knelt in a circle, disarmed, wrists bound behind their backs with steel cord. One whimpered softly. The others stared downward, dazed or resigned. Lumberling approached slowly, wiping blood from his spear with a cloth. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was calm and cold. "We don’t care about your army movements. I want to know one thing." He stopped in front of the closest soldier, a broad-shouldered man with sunburned skin and eyes ringed with fatigue. "Where are the mages?" The man shook his head immediately. "I...I don’t know. I swear..." Skitz stepped forward, dagger twirling between his fingers. "Don’t lie," he said lightly. "We’re not in the mood." One of the younger soldiers began to cry. Gorrak lingered near the youngest captive, a trembling soldier barely past boyhood. The hobgoblin warrior grunted and knelt, pulling out a waterskin. "Not your fault, being used like meat," he muttered, offering it over. "Drink." The boy looked up, lips parting... but the waterskin never reached him. Another, more jittery, leaned forward, trembling. "They... they don’t tell us anything," he stammered. "They come and go. We don’t see them." Lumberling said nothing. His gaze drifted from face to face. Then one of the captives, thin, nervous, eyes darting like a trapped rat, spoke too quickly. "They’re our secret weapons. Mages can only be found..." As the word "mage" left his lips, something shifted. The air grew heavy, dense with static. A strange metallic tang filled everyone’s mouth, like copper and smoke. Then the light dimmed, not by cloud or shadow, but as if color itself recoiled. A sickly shimmer rolled across the captives’ skin, a bruised starlight, flickering violet and black. Their veins pulsed with dark light, crawling like ink beneath their skin. Then came the sound. Not a scream. A wet pop, like overripe fruit bursting. One by one, their bodies twisted unnaturally, muscles spasming as their chests caved inward and blood exploded not outward, but inward, drawn into the black lines threading their flesh. Flesh dissolved like salt in acid. Eyes boiled. Bones cracked. And within seconds, nothing remained but six steaming, crumpled husks slumped in their own smoke. It was over in seconds. Silence fell like a hammer. Trask took a half-step back. "What... the hell was that?" Aren stared, jaw tight. "A curse. A seal. It was embedded in them." "They didn’t even know," Gorrak muttered. "They had no idea they were walking bombs." Skitz wiped his blade without looking. "So even their grunts are gagged by death. That’s how far the Empire’s gone to keep the mages hidden." Lumberling said nothing at first. He stood there, surrounded by the shredded corpses, jaw locked. The crimson mist still lingered in the air, thick with iron and something colder. He had thought himself cautious. Strategic. Patient. But this? This was control. This was fear built into the flesh. He clenched his jaw. "We’ve been chasing shadows," he muttered. Skitz glanced at him. "So what now?" Lumberling stared down at the corpses. "We dig deeper." ..... Later that night, Duskspire base courtyard The moon hung low, veiled behind a scrim of drifting clouds. Its pale silver glow touched the stone walls like the ghost of snowfall, quiet and cold. A fire crackled in the center of the courtyard, flames low and restrained. Around it sat the core of the Duskspire Legion, Trask, Gorrak, Rogar, Aren, Skitz, and Lumberling, his spear resting across his lap as he slowly ran a whetstone along the blade’s edge. The rhythm was soft. Measured. But it echoed louder than any voice. No one spoke at first. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was tired. Then Trask broke it, biting off a strip of salted meat between his words. "So that’s why it’s been so damn hard," he muttered. "Months of scouting, raiding, chasing ghosts. First real clue we get, and it literally explodes in our faces." Gorrak let out a grumble, tearing off a chunk of bread with his teeth. "And now we know even less than before." "They weren’t just soldiers," Rogar said. "They were silenced weapons. If they’re guarding the mages this tightly, maybe it’s time we stop chasing after shadows." Lumberling didn’t answer yet. His whetstone slid down the blade with a final rasp before he set it aside. Skitz leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes reflecting the firelight. "No. It’s all the more reason to keep hunting." The others turned toward him. "If the Sengolio Empire is willing to curse their own men just to keep mages secret," Skitz continued, "then those mages aren’t just important. They’re everything. You don’t tie a noose that tight unless what you’re hiding could burn down the world." Rogar grunted. "Or burn us." Skitz shrugged. "Same thing." Lumberling finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "They’re not letting mages near the front lines. That much is clear. They’re treating them like final cards, only played when the board’s already stacked." He leaned forward, feeding another twig to the fire. "And yes. We’ll keep looking." Aren glanced up from his plate. "Even if it means stepping into the Empire’s jaws?" Lumberling met his gaze. "The war’s already here. Whether we hunt shadows or not, danger will come knocking. I’d rather face it with answers than ignorance." A beat of silence followed. Only the fire popped now, sparks drifting like pale embers into the dark. Aren set his plate aside and stretched his shoulders. "Then maybe it’s time we stop waiting for scraps." Lumberling nodded slowly, his eyes drifting toward the stars. Clouds drifted apart, letting moonlight spill fully across the courtyard. "We start taking higher-risk contracts," he said. "Not just monsters. Not just bandits and deserters." He looked at each of them, voice gaining weight. "We’ll begin targeting Sengolio units. Front-line patrols, scouting wings, logistics runners. If they’re hiding mages deeper, we start peeling the layers." Skitz gave a wolfish grin. "Finally. No more chasing leftovers." Gorrak rolled his shoulders. "About time we cracked something worth the trouble." Rogar stood slowly, spear resting on his shoulder. "If we bleed, it better be for something real." Aren said nothing, but the way he strapped his vambrace tighter was answer enough. Lumberling rose, spear in hand, eyes hard with intent. "We’re done waiting," he said. "From here on, we move like a blade aimed at the Empire’s throat." And with that, the quiet courtyard hummed with purpose. The moon watched above, full and pale. And Duskspire turned toward the shadows, ready to carve truth from silence.