Dawn did not creep.
It arrived clean.
By the time the sun had lifted high enough to thin the lower shadows, we were already moving.
The grove lay behind us.
The deeper wood did not part so willingly.
The canopy thickened as we advanced, light narrowing into fractured shafts that struck root and stone in uneven bands. The air felt heavier here—less wind, more stillness. Even our footfalls seemed to carry farther than they should.
Rasaad slowed first.
Ahead, through the staggered trunks, movement.
A Tasloi patrol swept laterally between two thick-barked trees, crude spears angled outward, eyes flicking upward as often as ahead.
Imoen exhaled softly beside me. "Ground watch."
Xan ignored the patrol and looked above it instead.
High in the interwoven branches, a shape shifted—then went still.
The patrol's route crossed an open pocket of forest floor—a clearing not large enough to fight comfortably, but large enough to deny total canopy cover.
It would have been tempting.
It was also deliberate.
"They want us seen," Branwen murmured.
Rasaad's gaze remained upward. "Not seen," he said quietly. "Measured."
The trees above were not random.
The Tasloi had chosen perches with overlapping sightlines. Even if we silenced one below, the motion alone would carry upward.
And we could not follow them there.
No surprise. No isolation. No clean first strike.
Noober shifted his grip on his quarterstaff. "So," he whispered, "we are not unseen."
"No."
Imoen tracked the patrol's turn. "If we drop one, the canopy screams."
She was right.
The guards were spaced so that one falling would be seen by the next—and from above, every angle was already covered.
The Tasloi had learned something.
Or someone had trained them.
Deeper ahead, a darker seam opened in the rock.
The cave.
We were within sight of it now.
And they knew.
A dart struck bark two paces to my left—not close. Not meant to wound.
A warning.
A second dart thudded into earth near Branwen's boots.
Noober flinched.
Xan's hand rested lightly on the Moonblade's hilt but did not draw.
"They are not firing to kill," he observed.
"Not yet," Branwen replied.
Above us, something shifted along a branch, settling into a better angle.
They were tightening.
Rasaad rolled his shoulders once. "We cannot peel them from the trees."
"No," I said. "Not cleanly."
"We force them down."
Imoen glanced at the clearing. "You're thinking open ground."
"I'm thinking light," I replied.
Another dart struck, closer this time.
The patrol shifted formation, spears angling inward.
A narrowing.
They wanted us in the pocket.
Good.
We were going there anyway.
I stepped forward into the band of sunlight.
"Close ranks," I said calmly.
A sharp, rising trill split the air—thin and piercing, answered immediately from deeper in the branches.
"Down!" Imoen barked.
Something dropped.
Not fell.
Dropped with intent.
The Tasloi struck Xan from above, claws hooking into his shoulders as its weight drove him half a step forward. A crude dagger flashed toward his throat.
Xan did not shout.
He did not panic.
He pivoted.
The Moonblade cleared its scabbard in a single fluid motion—silver arc catching morning light.
His free hand caught its wrist as the blade rose with precision.
A short thrust beneath the rib.
The Tasloi jerked once.
Then went slack.
Xan let it slide from the steel without flourish.
"I dislike being climbed," he said evenly.
Above us, shapes began to descend. Bark split and rained in splinters as claws tore for purchase.
Not leaping wildly—dropping in controlled intervals from branch to branch.
The ground patrol broke formation and surged forward, spears lowered.
"Front!" Branwen called.
Rasaad was already moving.
He closed on the second Tasloi the moment its feet touched earth, slipping inside the reach of its spear before the haft could set. The creature thrust anyway—too late. Rasaad angled his body, the spear skidding along cloth instead of finding flesh, and drove a palm heel up beneath its jaw.
Bone snapped with a sharp crack.
The Tasloi collapsed before it could recover.
The battle had chosen its shape.
And now we answered.
"Back!" Noober blurted, already stepping inward. "Give me a breath!"
He planted his staff into the earth and began speaking quickly, words tumbling over one another.
Rasaad turned—
A dart hissed from the canopy.
He did not duck.
His hand snapped up, catching the shaft between his fingers as though plucking fruit from a branch. The motion flowed—arm turning, wrist snapping.
The dart flew back.
A sharp cry answered from above as a Tasloi tumbled from its perch.
Another dart struck him high in the shoulder.
He exhaled once—sharp—but did not falter.
"Left!" he warned.
Branwen stepped into the surge of ground Tasloi, shield catching the first spear thrust with a heavy crack. The impact rang through steel; a visible dent formed along the rim as she absorbed the blow. Her mace followed in a brutal arc, dropping the creature at her feet.
"Hold!" she commanded.
I shifted closer to Noober, intercepting a Tasloi that tried to slip through the tightening line. Steel met crude blade; I drove it sideways, keeping their pressure from collapsing inward.
Behind us, Noober's voice steadied, cadence deepening as something unseen settled over us like shared weight.
The blessing took hold.
Above, bark split as more Tasloi descended.
"Now," the dryad whispered.
Roots shifted.
Vines surged from beneath leaf and loam, coiling around charging legs. One Tasloi stumbled hard as its stride shortened, dragged off balance. Another became partially ensnared, movements slowed to a furious thrash as the living growth tightened around its calves and ankles.
They were not crushed.
But speed had left them.
Imoen broke right, sliding between two trunks to gain angle. She loosed upward—
—and a dart answered.
It struck high in her thigh.
Her leg buckled half a step before she caught herself against the bark. She snapped the dart's shaft shorter, breath tight but steady.
"Still here," she muttered.
Her next arrow took a descending Tasloi clean through the chest.
Rasaad adjusted for his wounded shoulder, turning his hips instead of his arm. He stepped inside a spear thrust and drove an elbow beneath a Tasloi's jaw. It dropped.
Xan held the right flank, blade flashing once more—efficient, precise—as another creature committed too fully.
The partially entangled Tasloi hacked desperately at the vines, buying seconds instead of freedom.
Seconds were enough.
Branwen stepped through and ended it with a downward crush of iron.
For a moment, only three remained.
One backing toward the cave mouth.
One wavering with spear half-raised.
One higher in the branches, hesitating.
"Drive them," Branwen ordered.
We advanced.
Noober stepped in without flourish, cracking his staff across a Tasloi's knee. It collapsed; Branwen finished it.
The one in the branches loosed one final dart and withdrew upward.
The one near the cave turned and fled.
Silence pressed in—not peace, but thinning.
Rasaad's sleeve darkened at the shoulder. Branwen's shield bore its dent. Imoen shifted carefully, weight favoring one leg as the blessing lingered beneath skin and bone.
The formation held.
Then a sound rolled through the trees.
Something deep. A guttural bark, low and resonant, followed by the unmistakable crack of wood giving way under weight too heavy for branches to bear.
Every remaining Tasloi stilled.
Not in fear.
In recognition.
The forest did not rustle this time.
It broke.
And nothing asked permission.
Brush snapped. Underbrush flattened. Vines strained where the dryad's magic still clutched the earth.
A shape forced through the treeline—not slipping between trunks, but shouldering them aside. Broad. Hyena-muzzled. Muscle layered beneath mangy hide. Yellow eyes fixed on us.
More followed—four, five—armed with long halberds, iron heads catching fractured light as they lowered in unison.
Heavier.
Deliberate.
One stepped forward ahead of the rest. Taller. Scarred. A jagged pauldron strapped over one shoulder, its surface scored with old battles. One ear was torn nearly through, old scar tissue puckered along the edge.
His halberd rested easily in both hands.
His gaze moved over us—over the fallen Tasloi—over the clearing.
Then back to the cave.
Then back to the pocket of open ground where we stood.
He grinned.
Slowly.
"You are where we wanted you."
The clearing had changed without shifting.
Halberds angled inward. The treeline felt farther and closer all at once.
We stood at the bottom of something deliberate.