They came without a sound.
No war cry.
No warning.
Only motion.
Fast.
Precise.
Deadly.
Corvyn met them head-on.
Nightfeather moved before thought.
A flash of dark steel—
The first attacker fell.
Clean.
Silent.
The others did not hesitate.
They pressed forward.
Weapons curved and jagged, striking from strange angles.
Halric stepped in beside Corvyn.
Steel met steel.
The clash rang sharp in the frozen air.
"Not Bolton," Halric muttered, parrying a blow.
"No," Corvyn replied.
His blade turned another strike aside, then cut low—
Another enemy dropped.
"These are something else."
The masked men fought differently.
No wasted movement.
No fear.
They did not shout when wounded.
Did not falter when one of their own fell.
They moved like a single will.
One mind guiding many bodies.
A Ravaryn scout cried out as he was struck across the shoulder.
Another dragged him back, barely avoiding a killing blow.
"Stay tight!" Halric barked.
The men tightened their formation.
Shields raised.
Blades ready.
Corvyn stepped forward again.
Drawing their focus.
A masked warrior lunged.
Too fast.
Too direct.
Corvyn shifted—
Let the blade pass—
Then drove Nightfeather through the gap beneath the ribs.
The figure froze.
Then collapsed.
Still no sound.
Corvyn pulled the blade free.
Something was wrong.
Even dying—
There was no reaction.
No pain.
No resistance.
Just… emptiness.
Behind them—
More movement.
From the trees.
More figures emerging.
Encircling.
Halric saw it.
"We're being surrounded."
Corvyn nodded once.
"Break through."
"Which side?"
Corvyn's eyes scanned quickly.
Then fixed on a thinner line to the east.
"There."
No hesitation.
"Push!"
The Ravaryn men surged forward as one.
A sudden, violent strike.
Steel crashed against bone-masked faces.
The line wavered—
Then broke.
Corvyn led the charge.
Cutting a path.
Every strike precise.
Every movement controlled.
Halric followed, guarding the flank.
"Move! Move!"
They broke through.
For a moment—
Space opened.
Breathing room.
But it didn't last.
The masked warriors regrouped quickly.
Too quickly.
Turning as one.
Following.
Always following.
Corvyn glanced back.
They weren't retreating.
They weren't regrouping.
They were herding them.
Driving them somewhere.
"Stop," Corvyn said suddenly.
The men hesitated.
Halric frowned.
"What?"
Corvyn turned.
Facing the enemy again.
"If we keep moving blindly, we walk into whatever they want."
The masked figures slowed.
Watching.
Waiting.
Just beyond striking distance.
Corvyn raised Nightfeather slightly.
"Hold."
A tense silence fell over the clearing.
Breath hung in the air.
Weapons ready.
No one moved.
Then—
One of the masked figures stepped forward.
Different from the others.
Taller.
Its mask marked with deeper carvings.
It carried no weapon.
Only raised a hand.
The others stilled instantly.
Halric lowered his voice.
"That one's in charge."
Corvyn didn't reply.
His focus was locked on the figure.
The figure tilted its head.
The same unnatural motion as before.
Listening.
Then slowly—
It pointed.
Not at Corvyn.
Not at the men.
But at Nightfeather.
Corvyn's grip tightened.
The air shifted.
Colder.
He felt it again—
That presence.
Deep below.
Watching through them.
Reaching.
The figure lowered its hand.
And for the first time—
It spoke.
A voice like stone grinding against stone.
"…It… calls…"
The words were broken.
Strained.
As if not meant for human tongues.
Halric stiffened.
"You heard that too, right?"
Corvyn didn't answer.
His eyes never left the figure.
The voice came again.
"…It… knows… you…"
A long silence followed.
Then—
The figure stepped back.
The others followed.
Not retreating.
Not fleeing.
Just… withdrawing.
Melting into the trees as silently as they had come.
Within moments—
They were gone.
Only the wind remained.
And the fallen bodies in the snow.
Halric let out a slow breath.
"…I don't like that."
Corvyn stood still.
Nightfeather steady in his hand.
His voice was quiet.
Grim.
"Neither do I."
He looked down at the blade.
For the first time—
He wondered if it had been seen…
Or recognized.