The sound of marching feet echoed down the stone corridor, steady and grim like the tolling of a distant bell. Metal greaves clinked with each step, and the smell of oiled leather and cold iron filled the air. The gates of Fort Ironroot loomed ahead, blackened by ash and weather, their hinges rusted with blood and time.
Duncan stood at the front of Squad Theta-Seven, helm under his arm, the journal of the dead conscript Rask Merel bound tightly beneath his tunic. His eyes flicked over his squad: Kel, Rell, the spear-twin sisters Marra and Vey, and the brooding bulk of Garran, who had yet to speak a word since arrival.
All of them were tense.
None of them spoke.
The wind carried the scent of moss and something more primal—wet fur, rotting bark, and the iron sting of predator breath.
Beyond the gate lay the edge of the Ironwilds.
A world unclaimed by civilization, ruled not by flags or gold, but by fang and claw.
Captain Eryndor stood at the rampart, watching as the gate chains rattled and the rusted mechanism groaned. He wore no expression, only a polished breastplate and a scroll in hand.
"By order of the Dominion High War Office," he called, "Squad Theta-Seven is to conduct a ten-day perimeter patrol along the eastern ridge of the Ironwilds. Objectives: recon, map, and report any signs of beast movement near the ridge."
Valen, arms crossed, muttered under his breath to Duncan, "Ten days? With no reinforcement? That's a death march."
Duncan nodded, but said nothing. He already knew what this was.
A test.
A warning.
Or both.
The gates creaked open, revealing a dark forest beyond, where sunlight barely touched the ground, and the trees bent like old men whispering secrets.
A thousand stories had been told about these woods.
None with happy endings.
"Move out," Duncan ordered.
And so they marched—into the wild.
Day One – The Silent Woods
The path turned to root-choked trails within an hour. The air grew thick, not just with mist but with presence. Like something watched from above, behind, beneath.
Every beast track they found was old—months, maybe years.
But every now and then, they found something worse.
A cracked helmet half-buried in moss, its straps sliced clean.
A Dominion standard, faded and torn, still fluttering gently in a wind that didn't exist.
They didn't talk about it.
They just moved.
That night, they set up camp beneath an overhang of blackwood trees, forming a crescent around a small fire.
Marra sharpened her spear silently. Vey whispered a prayer to the river gods. Garran chewed on dried meat without blinking.
Kel leaned toward Duncan. "Why would command send us out here alone?"
Duncan looked at the flames.
"I think someone wants us to vanish."
Kel blinked. "You mean die."
"No," Duncan said. "I mean vanish. No corpse. No report. Just… gone."
He showed him the journal pages.
Kel's face paled as he read. "They've done this before?"
Duncan nodded. "We're not the first. Maybe not the last."
A rustle broke their conversation.
Garran was standing, still as stone, eyes fixed on the treeline.
"Movement," he rumbled.
Everyone rose.
Weapons out.
Spearpoints gleamed. Bows were drawn. Shields raised.
The forest whispered.
Then… silence.
Nothing came.
But none of them slept that night.
Day Two – Blood in the Ferns
At dawn, the forest changed.
The air grew still. Even the insects stopped their buzzing.
They moved in a tight column, senses stretched thin.
Vey spotted the first claw marks carved into the side of a redwood.
Four parallel slashes, deeper than a man's forearm, stretching eight feet high.
"Whatever made that walks on two legs," Rell muttered.
They followed the trail until they found the remains.
It had once been a patrol squad—six men.
Now they were strung in pieces across the trees, their entrails dangling like banners, their armor torn open like paper.
Something had torn through them like they were nothing.
Duncan knelt beside a body. The emblem on the chestplate read Omega Unit 12—the same squad Rask had mentioned in his journal.
"It's true," Duncan whispered. "They sent them out here with no warning."
Kel swallowed. "They didn't stand a chance."
Marra pointed deeper into the woods. "Tracks. Fresh ones."
Rell checked the sky. "We need to move. Fast."
Duncan hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Break camp. We follow the trail—but stay ready. Whatever did this... it's still here."
Evening – The Hollow Clearing
The sun was bleeding out beyond the ridge when they reached a clearing—unnaturally circular, quiet, and covered in mushrooms the color of dried blood.
In its center stood a monolith of old stone—carved with spiral patterns Duncan didn't recognize. It hummed, just slightly, like breath.
Rell approached it, curious.
"Looks ancient. Pre-Dominion."
Kel frowned. "Why is it warm?"
Duncan reached out and touched the stone.
A pulse jolted through his fingers—like a heartbeat not his own.
Visions flickered in his mind: massive antlered beasts, stone temples buried beneath forest roots, men in black armor kneeling before beast-shaped idols.
He staggered back, dizzy.
"What was that?" Kel asked.
Duncan didn't answer.
Because something had just stepped into the clearing behind them.
A wild creature, unlike anything he'd ever seen.
Eight feet tall. Wolf-like, but walking on hind legs. Covered in jagged black fur and plated with bark-like bone.
Its yellow eyes locked with Duncan's.
Then it growled.
And everything exploded into chaos.