Lance didn't stop running because he felt safe.
He stopped because his body finally demanded payment.
He lay on his side behind a ridge of roots, cheek pressed to damp soil, listening to the forest. The battle noises were gone now—no pops, no screams, no overlapping commands. Just wind through branches and the slow tick of cooling metal somewhere far behind him.
That was wrong. Even a clean victory left noise.
He forced himself upright and checked his datapad again. The route to Bravo was still there, but now it felt like a joke—lines on a screen pretending the forest belonged to maps.
He swallowed, looked back once, and saw only gray haze between the trunks. The mist had thinned, but it hadn't fully left. It lingered like breath held too long.
Lance slid the datapad into his pack, then pulled the chip free and sealed it in a hard case. He didn't trust himself not to lose it if his hands started shaking again.
He rose and started moving again—lower, quieter, keeping distance from open ground.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard the first voice.
"Agent!"
Not military. Not rebel.
A whisper from above.
Lance froze, blaster half-raised by reflex, and then saw the silhouette perched on a branch—slim, hooded, eyes catching faint light like a cat's.
A rebel scout. Human. Young. Nervous.
The scout lifted both hands to show he wasn't aiming.
"Bravo sent me. We lost comms. Thought you were dead."
Lance exhaled hard. "I'm not. Yet."
The scout dropped down and landed light in the leaf litter. His gaze kept flicking past Lance's shoulder, as if expecting something to step out of the fog.
"What happened back there?" the scout asked. "We heard the shooting stop. Then nothing."
Lance's jaw tightened. "We weren't the biggest predators in that forest."
The scout frowned. "You mean the military—"
"No." Lance's voice cut sharper than he intended. "Not the military."
He grabbed the scout by the sleeve and pulled him behind the ridge, forcing him low.
"Listen to me," Lance hissed. "If you're smart, you'll tell Bravo to pull back. We don't own that tree line anymore."
The scout blinked rapidly. "What are you talking about?"
Lance stared at him. "I saw soldiers in new armor. Not Republic. Not local. They carried themselves like they'd been born for war."
The scout's mouth opened, then closed.
Lance continued, voice quieter. "They didn't kill. They took people. Dropped them. Stacked weapons. Like it was training."
The scout swallowed. "That's… impossible."
Lance almost laughed. "I watched a grenade detonate inside a bubble that ate the blast."
The scout's eyes widened. "Force users?"
"I don't know what they were." Lance's gaze hardened. "But they weren't here to help us."
The scout backed away half a step. "We need proof."
Lance tapped his pack. "I've got data from the outpost. That's proof enough to start a new offensive."
The scout shook his head. "Not that. Proof of them. Proof of this third party."
Lance stared into the trees. For a moment he considered saying no and leaving the scout to his optimism.
Then he remembered the soldier giving him his datapad back.
Because you want to deliver it.
Lance's skin prickled.
"They let me go," he said quietly.
The scout frowned. "Who?"
"That's what I'm telling you," Lance snapped. "They controlled the whole field. And they decided I should leave."
The scout's face went pale.
Lance leaned in. "If they can decide that, they can decide anything. Pull Bravo back. Now."
The scout swallowed hard and tapped his own comm. "Bravo, this is Leaf-3. I've got Lance. He says—"
A second voice cut in from the left, calm, female, and far too close.
"Don't use the comm."
Both men went rigid.
The scout's hand froze mid-air.
Lance turned slowly.
A woman stood between the trees, cloaked, helmet tucked under one arm. The armor she wore looked like cloth until it caught a glint of light and revealed layered plates beneath—dark, organic, and strangely matte.
Equinox.
She didn't aim a weapon. She didn't need to.
Behind her, two more figures appeared without sound. One was broad-shouldered, carrying a rifle with a long barrel. The other was thinner, masked, with eyes like cold green glass.
Lance's throat tightened. "You followed me."
The woman's expression didn't change. "No. We guided you."
The scout's voice cracked. "Who are you?"
The woman glanced at the scout and then back to Lance, as if deciding which answer mattered.
"You may call us scouts," she said.
Lance forced his breathing steady. "Scouts for what?"
"For an empire that hasn't announced itself yet."
The scout went white. "That's—"
The masked figure took one step forward.
The scout flinched hard enough to stumble.
Lance raised a hand. "Easy."
He looked at the woman. "Why show yourselves now?"
Her gaze stayed locked on him. "Because you're going to deliver your data, and we want you to deliver something else with it."
Lance's fingers curled. "A message."
"Yes."
The woman stepped closer until Lance could see the fine rune-like etching along the edge of her chest plate. Not Republic manufacture. Not standard plating. Crafted.
"We do not want a war here," she said. "Not yet. This planet is preparing for one, but it isn't ready for what comes after."
The scout swallowed. "After what comes after?"
The woman ignored him.
"You will tell your command that the forest line is no longer contested territory," she said to Lance. "It is closed territory. Anyone who enters will be captured."
Lance stared. "You're threatening both sides."
"We are warning both sides."
Lance's eyes narrowed. "And if they don't listen?"
The woman's voice remained calm. "Then we harvest more."
The word made the scout choke on his own breath.
Lance held her gaze. "Who's your leader?"
For the first time, something like amusement flickered behind her eyes.
"Our leader doesn't speak through strangers unless he has to."
Lance's pulse thudded in his throat. "Then why me?"
The woman leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.
"Because you already understand what you saw. And because you have a habit of surviving."
She straightened, then made a small gesture with her fingers.
The mist at the tree line stirred, not thickening, but shifting—forming a narrow corridor behind her like a door being opened.
"You will go," she said. "You will deliver your data. And you will deliver our warning."
The scout shook his head. "This is insane. We should—"
The masked figure turned his head slightly toward the scout.
Not a threat. Not even a glare.
Just attention.
The scout's knees almost buckled.
Lance grabbed the scout's arm and held him up. "Don't," he muttered. "Don't make any sudden moves."
He looked back at the woman. "And if I refuse?"
The woman's tone didn't change.
"Then you won't refuse. You will wake up later, missing time, and still deliver it—only you won't remember why."
Lance's blood went cold.
That was the most terrifying part: she said it like a mundane option.
He swallowed and nodded once. "Fine."
The woman's posture eased by a fraction, as if she'd expected compliance all along.
"Good," she said. "And one more thing."
Lance braced.
"Tell them the name of the line you saw."
Lance frowned. "Name?"
The woman lifted her helmet slightly, angling it so the pauldron was visible. The stylized tree mark caught the light.
"Equinox," she said. "They'll learn to fear it."
Lance stared at the emblem.
He hated that part of him wanted to memorize it.
The woman stepped back into the corridor of mist. The rifleman followed. The masked figure was last, pausing long enough to look directly at Lance.
Lance felt, for a heartbeat, like his thoughts had been weighed and found wanting.
Then the figure was gone.
The corridor folded in on itself. The forest returned to normal silence—too normal, like a stage after actors had left.
The scout's breath came out in a shaking rush. "Lance… what the hell is going on?"
Lance didn't answer right away.
Because the truth was simple and impossible:
He'd just been used as a courier by something bigger than both armies.
He grabbed the scout's shoulder. "Take me to Bravo," he said. "And when you do… don't tell them we met anyone."
The scout stared. "But you said—"
"I know what I said," Lance snapped. "We deliver the warning carefully. Or we don't deliver it at all."
They started moving south.
Behind them, somewhere out in the trees, a branch creaked softly.
Not from wind.
From weight.