Crack. Click—click.
An iron casing bounced from the rifle's side, struck a flat rock, and rolled toward the edge of the ledge with a soft clink. The sniper's gloved fingers slid another round into place, steady and practiced. A sharp breath puffed out like smoke in the freezing night. Wind tugged at the edges of his hood, but he didn't flinch.
"Night guard down," he whispered to the man beside him. "That clears the front post."
The spotter nodded, still peering through his spyglass — a handcrafted tube of polished glass rings and hardened brass. "The pacer's dropped. Other snipers hit their marks too. Camp's exposed. Perimeter's clear. Hold aim."
"Copy."
Below them, the enemy encampment glowed with dim firelight — a sprawl of hide tents, smoke pits, and stacked wagons. Demi-humans shuffled lazily between flames and shadows. Some snored by the fires, others sat eating from wooden bowls, their weapons leaning within reach. But none stood watch.
The camp was quiet. Unarmed. Asleep.
At the base of the hill, half-buried in tall grass, twelve masked soldiers waited in silence. Black cloaks veiled their armor. Dagger hilts peeked from hip sheaths. Faces hidden beneath charcoal-dyed cloth. Not one moved.
Their leader, a lean man with a scar along his temple and a single braid over his shoulder, raised his hand.
Six fingers, then two. Six two-man teams. Go.
The soldiers huddled together, voices a whisper against the wind.
"Supply wagons west. Food stocks in the center. Five minutes before scent gives us away."
"Move fast. Quiet. No kills unless necessary."
"No sounds unless you're breathin' your last."
A nod. Then the final sign: scatter.
They split like phantoms.
Six teams darted through the low brush, boots muffled beneath soft grass and padded soles. One by one, they slipped through a weak point in the fencing — a gap widened earlier by scouts — and vanished into the camp.
The air inside was heavier. Warmer. The stink of unwashed fur and boiled meat clung to the smoke drifting from the fire pits.
Tent flaps swayed gently in the breeze. Demi-humans stirred beneath furs, half-asleep. One muttered something in a low growl, then rolled over and snored.
Thorne — Team One — ducked low behind a stack of clay pots, his partner barely a pace behind. They crept beside a feeding pen, where two goat-like beasts dozed, their heads twitching at the scent of intruders.
A demi-human walked past just ten feet away, dragging a crate. Thorne didn't breathe. The creature paused, sniffed the air, squinted into the shadows... then muttered and kept walking.
Team Two crouched near stacked firewood. One of them tapped a barrel — hollow. They pulled free a cloth bundle soaked in oil. Fingers worked flint and steel, shaking slightly.
Fshk. Fshk.
Spark.
FWOOM. A small puff of fire caught, latching onto the bundle. It spread quickly.
Team Three — by the wagons — ignited another bundle beneath a cart filled with dried fish and salted roots. The canvas cover shriveled in seconds, flames rising fast.
But then, behind them — a growl.
A large wolf-headed demi-human standing by a nearby post sniffed once.
Then again.
He turned toward the second team, ears rising.
Thorne froze. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.
"What the—?"
CRACK.
The sniper's round found its mark. The beast dropped, skull blown back in silence.
"Spotted," the sniper whispered. "I took the shot. They're stirring."
Thorne snapped a sharp hand signal — cutthroat.
Evacuate.
The teams moved. Two had already torched their targets and peeled off toward the trees. A third ran low, sliding between tents, dodging firelight.
But danger stirred.
A tent flap swung open. A demi-human soldier stepped out, yawning. He caught movement in his peripheral vision — a shadow that didn't belong.
"What the hell—?"
A dagger slid across his throat before he could raise the alarm. Team Four kept moving, blood on their boots.
Suddenly — a chorus of shouts.
"Humans!"
"Trespassers!"
"Horns! Call the others—!"
From every direction, demi-humans poured from tents, weapons drawn. Axes, spears, iron claws, makeshift clubs.
Team Five's leader turned and hurled a burning sack into a pile of hay — fire roared behind him — then drew his blade and struck down the first attacker.
His partner grabbed his cloak. "Run!"
But the camp was awake.
CRACK. The sniper dropped another beast.
CRACK. A spear-wielder collapsed.
But the tide was too strong.
Team Six — caught near the mess tent — was the last to break formation. One soldier shoved his partner forward, then spun to block a blow. He parried one swing — then another — before an axe slammed into his back.
His partner screamed but kept running — until he was tackled, slammed to the ground, and pinned beneath three snarling beasts. Blood sprayed the dirt.
Thorne, now almost at the edge of the fence, turned back in horror. Through the firelight, he saw Team Six being ripped apart — claws, fangs, blunt ends of weapons. One tried to crawl away. A club ended it.
From above, the sniper grit his teeth.
He kept firing — one, two, three more kills — but he couldn't save them all.
He watched the surviving teams — eight men total — vanish above the hills.
Below, the enemy camp was burning. Food stocks gone. Chaos screamed from the firelit chaos.
Thorne leaned against a tree, breathing hard, blood on his knife, smoke on his cloak.
"We move," he whispered.
No one answered.
They vanished into the nearby forest.
Above, the sniper lowered his rifle. Another casing dropped to the ledge.
"Two teams lost…" he muttered.
His voice was low. Heavy.
"…but the food's gone with them."
He slung the rifle onto his back, grabbed his cloak, and disappeared into the fog.
Mission complete.