Before the sun rose, the courtyard of Silver Spear Fortress rumbled with boots and barked orders.
Every squad had been called to form up at the western gate.
It wasn't a drill.
This was real.
And the air was already heavy with tension.
Squad Five stood in formation, twenty strong—four rows, five columns.
Their uniforms were crisp, packs strapped, weapons clean.
But beneath the polish, the old scars still itched.
Adel stood in the second row, eyes forward. Beside him, Finley held his spear like it was part of his body. Troy, two rows behind, muttered curses under his breath.
Then he arrived.
A tall man with a sharp jaw, short black hair, and a stare cold enough to freeze steel.
His armor bore the insignia of White Spear Chapter—but not the polished white most officers wore. His was worn, scarred, darkened at the edges from flame and blood.
A man shaped by the field. Not the parade ground.
Sanray Ravenclaw.
Seven years of service. Veteran of the Black Forest campaigns.
Adel's eyes narrowed slightly.
Ravenclaw…
"Is he related to the captain from recruitment?"
Adel didn't say it aloud, but the name stirred something.
Beside him, Finley leaned in just enough to whisper:
"Is he the younger brother of that captain from the march?"
He didn't get to finish the thought.
"Silence."
Sanray's voice cut through the air like a blade.
He didn't pace. He stood like a statue of iron, eyes scanning them all like he already knew who would die first.
"Squad Five," he barked, "you've been assigned a routine patrol."
A few soldiers relaxed slightly—until he continued.
"Near the outskirts of the Black Forest. Sector West-1."
Tension snapped right back in.
Some flinched.
Others froze.
Only a few, like Adel, held still.
"I know some of you carry scars from the forest," Sanray said, voice colder now. "Maybe from the recruitment trials. Maybe from missions since."
He let the silence hang, then spat on the ground.
"Swallow your fear. And stop bitching."
"You have twenty minutes to prepare. The moment the sun rises over the eastern ridge…"
"We march."
With that, Sanray turned and walked away—no dramatic exit, no motivational words.
"Asshole," Troy muttered from the rear.
Adel adjusted the strap of his gear, jaw clenched. The mention of West-1 stirred something raw in his chest—a memory not yet scabbed over.
Finley exhaled slowly, checking the edge of his spear. "Back to the roots," he muttered.
Troy just muttered louder, "Routine patrol, my ass."
No one laughed.
The squad dispersed to prepare.
Nobody questioned orders. Nobody needed to. They knew what the Black Forest meant.
Not just death.
Worse.
The kind of horror that leaves something behind in your blood.
As the first light broke over the eastern ridge, casting pale gold across the fortress walls, Squad Five gathered again at the gate.
Sanray was already there.
He said nothing. Just nodded once.
The gates creaked open with a groan of rusted iron.
And the forest waited.
Silent.
Hungry.
They marched.
The forest loomed like a nightmare made solid. Even from the treeline, the air felt wrong—damp, heavy, as if breathing too deep might pull something in instead of air.
Adel marched near the front, his eyes flicking between tree lines and the backs of his squadmates. Sanray led them without a word, his pace steady, his presence sharp. Finley was close to his right, spear always at a low ready, and Troy—grumbling, of course—watched their rear.
For two days, the patrol had gone as expected: movement, scan, report, camp. Same rhythm. Same routine. Too clean.
That's when Adel noticed it.
One of the men in the third row—Rekard, he thought his name was—was carrying too little gear. Bare essentials. No rations pack, barely a bedroll. But he always volunteered to scout ahead when Sanray didn't assign anyone.
Adel caught it again when they halted near a forked path. Sanray ordered a rest while he checked their heading. Rekard disappeared into the trees—said he was taking a piss.
Fifteen minutes passed. Too long.
Adel glanced at Finley. "You notice anything off with Rekard?"
Finley didn't answer at first. His spear tip tapped the ground twice, a nervous tick.
"He's always gone when we stop. Always comes back from the wrong direction."
Adel's gut tensed.
Troy joined them with a bored grunt. "What? You two whispering like girls?"
"Rekard's acting strange," Adel said plainly.
Troy's expression darkened. "Thought I was the only one seeing it. Guy walks like he's hiding something under his boots."
Adel didn't respond. His eyes had already locked onto another.
Near the edge of the formation, another soldier—Calen—was staring off into the woods.
Then he caught Adel watching.
Their eyes met.
And Calen smiled. Not wide. Not friendly.
Nightfall — Forest Encampment
Camp was set. Fires low, rations passed hand to hand. Sanray sat a distance away, sharpening his blade with deliberate focus.
Adel didn't eat much. He watched.
Calen and Rekard sat together—always together—whispering in low tones. They kept their packs close. Rekard checked his three times in an hour, like he was waiting for something.
Finley nudged him. "We say something?"
"Not yet," Adel muttered. "I want to know what they're planning."
Troy rubbed his face. "What if we're wrong?"
Adel didn't look away from the two.
"And what if we're not?"