The scout barracks stood within the sigil-bound wall of the stonecircle, away from the noise of the main warcamp but close enough for riders to reach in minutes. There were no sentries posted here. No one needed to guard it.
The wards did that.
Ash drifted overhead. The mountain air was still, cold, and dry. The smell of smoke clung to everything: wood, leather, skin. Inside the barracks, light was sparse. Narrow stone slits let in slivers of dusk. A central brazier smoldered low, casting dim orange across blackened walls.
There were no banners. No flame keeper symbols. Nothing ornamental. Every surface was stone or iron. Reinforced. Scarred from use.
Weapons lined one side: long blades, hooked spears, throwing knives. Gear crates stacked tight. No beds. Just low benches along the wall, worn smooth by armor and blood. The air was heavy with sweat, leather oil, and old steel.
This wasn't a resting hall. This was where the quiet ones gathered. The scouts that returned with half a map, a single name, or not at all.
Eight scouts were prepping for deployment. None spoke.
Two were testing draw weights on ashwood bows. Another adjusted a breastplate's shoulder fastenings. One knelt in a corner, sharpening a gutting hook that already glinted with dark resin. Another stood shirtless, back to the wall, arms crossed, watching.
Teshar of the Split Sky crouched beside a crate, re-wrapping the leather ties on his bracers. His motion was exact. Focused. Behind him, his kit was laid out with surgical precision: rope, extract vials, bone-carved darts sealed in waxskin, coiled sling, short sabers, and twin knives etched with kill notches. Six on one. Nine on the other.
He finished the knot and stood. Quiet. Straight-backed. The others didn't look at him directly. Not because he outranked them. But because of what he did.
Scouting beyond the flamewatch was suicide. Doing it twice was impossible.
Teshar had done it four times.
No honors. No feast. Just nods from men who knew what that meant.
The door opened. Iron on stone.
Stormwake entered without announcement.
Stone walls enclosed the Qorjin-Ke scout barracks. Weapons racks were bolted to reinforced beams: falcatas, short bows, toxin kits, signal darts, and binding ropes lined the interior in precise order. Field packs were stowed tight. The air smelled of blooded leather, oil, and ash-salve.
Scouts worked in silence. One adjusted tension on a bowstring. Another polished a blade edge against stone. Others sorted resin-sealed markers and burst tags. Most bore faint shadow-trace along the forearms: tattoos, burned-in sigils. Those aligned to shadow wouldn't be chosen. The Nerathil hunted it.
Warden Stormwake stepped through the entry. No words were spoken. The scouts shifted aside. He walked straight to the last row.
Teshar of the Split Sky was packing his kit.
Composite bow unstrung. Falcata laid flat. His war hawk, Ruun, sat perched above on a rafter, watching.
"Teshar," Stormwake said.
The scout stood immediately.
"The commander has a mission. You've been selected."
Teshar waited.
"Deployment to Zevekhan Bastion. Dazhûm-held territory. You'll be attached to a thirty-one-man team. Insertion via Phantomis-Class Trireme. No insignia. No support. Deep reconnaissance and field recovery. You're the only scout. No shadow users. Earth and wind only."
Stormwake continued. "Ryoku of the Blacktide will be overall commander. Connach of the Moortide will provide support with two squads. They're new, but they've earned their place."
Teshar remained silent.
"There are Qorjin-Ke scouts on that island," Stormwake said. "Part of the ten Veilguard agents we're trying to recover. If they're alive, extract them. If not, retrieve something of theirs. Anything that can carry their spirit back to the tribe."
Stormwake pulled a small, worn leather manual from inside his coat.
"Spirit Beast Binding," he said.
Teshar accepted it with both hands. The cover was old. He knew what it was.
"Memorize the mantra and cultivation," Stormwake said. "Then burn the book."
Teshar gave a firm nod.
"Daalo is readying your equipment. Gear up. Platform Six at last light."
Stormwake stepped back and left without further comment.
Teshar dropped to one knee and resumed his preparations.
He opened his reinforced gear crate. Falcata, checked and sharpened. Compact signal bow. Spare cloak. Three days' rations. Climbing spikes. Resin-markers. Hawk-call flute. Wind chimes for low-sound perimeter. Needlethread coil. Smoke paste. Flame-starter scrolls. Empty flare tubes. Fire-wax sealed.
He reached for two blackbone sigil cases. Each one no larger than a palm, marked with containment runes. The inner walls shimmered faintly: dimensional pockets. Silent, self-sustaining, warded against detection.
He opened the first.
The spider inside shifted, legs clicking in a slow pattern. Its eyes gleamed. Teshar rotated the case once. The spider held position, waiting for the latch signal.
He opened the second.
The wasp twitched its wings once, then stayed still, body angled and alert. It had sensed the shift in air. Both bonds were active. They knew. Something was coming.
He clipped the cases to his thigh rig.
Ruun dropped silently from the rafter and landed on a support beam behind him.
"You're excited for battle?" Teshar muttered.
The hawk gave a low click.
Teshar finished his pack. Tightened every strap. Checked blade draw and bow lash. Secured the toxin pouch. Locked the signal threads.
He was ready.
He moved through the lower quarter of the compound toward Daalo's forge.
The crafting chamber was hot. The air thick with the scent of slag and forged steel. Sigil plates glowed on workbenches. Tools were organized with battlefield efficiency. No clutter. No waste.
Daalo looked up from a half-bound chestplate. "Teshar. Zevekhan."
Teshar nodded once. He unhooked his falcata and handed it over.
Daalo inspected the weapon: sharp, clean, and freshly oiled. Though it was a standard-issue falcata, the edge had been honed with care, the grip rewrapped for balance, the spine polished smooth. It was the kind of maintenance only done by someone who loved and practiced the blade daily.
Daalo gave a small nod. No need for praise. The weapon spoke for him.
From a side crate, Daalo drew a wrapped object and placed it on the bench. Flame-threaded cloth bound the shape.
He unwrapped it. A new falcata.
Blackened edge. Spine marked with activated sigils. The alloy traced a firebound channel from core to tip.
"Insert qi."
Teshar complied.
The sigils pulsed. A soft hum ignited across the blade. Flame qi wrapped around the steel.
"Don't overuse it," Daalo said. "This isn't ceremonial. It's built for armor puncture. Cuts through Nerathil flesh and plating, where flesh and armor are fused by Rot-born corruption, twisted beyond form by the ruincraft that made them. A full burst will gut anything if you've got the qi for it. If not, use controlled bursts."
He paused.
"You're not Bruga. He's got a forge-heart and enough flame qi to melt through a Dreadblade's ribcage. You don't. Use your strength wisely."
Teshar nodded and sheathed the new blade.
Daalo stepped to a weapons rack and removed a tight bundle: short arrows in a hardened quiver.
"Sigil-forged. Qi-activated. Flame on impact."
Teshar slung it over his back.
As he turned, another scout stepped from the corner. Older. Ashkara tribe. Burn scars on his forearms.
The scout handed him a Flame Orb.
"Use it well," he said.
Teshar accepted the orb and slid it into a pouch behind his rig. Locked the strap.
He left the forge without another word.
Everything was ready.
Teshar left the forge fully equipped. His falcata now hung in a low-slung scabbard, the newly forged sigils still faintly warm from activation. His arrows were sealed in a reinforced tube on his back. The flame orb was packed tight behind his waist rig. Even his spider and wasp, both stored in dimensional sigil-cases, were quiet but tense. Ruun, his hawk, circled above in tight formation before diving toward the docks.
When Teshar reached the harbor platform, the air smelled of brine, resin, and storm-treated wood.
There he saw them.
The Blacktide Cohort was already assembled: ten silent warriors in darkened battle gear, sigil-forged falcatas at their sides, faces set, armor cinched tight. At their head, Warden Ryoku gave quiet hand signals. His presence was heavy but disciplined.
Captain Connach stood nearby with his Moortide troops. The twenty-man auxiliary team was checking gear, finalizing formation. Moortide armor was leaner but well-forged: tactical blacksteel with deep-blue tartan markings draped under their shoulders. Packs loaded, weapons inspected, and formation locked in rows.
Ryoku approached. Connach turned sharply and gave a formal salute.
"Moortide units are formed and ready for departure," Connach reported.
Ryoku nodded once. "Where's the Qorjin-Ke?"
Before Connach could answer, a shadow shifted beside the cargo scaffolding.
Teshar stepped into view, his movements clean, unhurried. Ruun landed softly on his shoulder. Neither Moortide nor Blacktide had sensed his approach.
"I'm already here," Teshar said.
Connach raised an eyebrow. A few of the younger soldiers glanced at one another, eyes narrowing. No one had seen him arrive.
Teshar gave a formal nod.
"Qorjin-Ke Scout Teshar of the Split Sky. Assigned to this operation."
Ryoku gave a brief nod in return. "You'll report directly to me."
Teshar took his place among the formation without a word.
Farther along the harbor, the Phantomis II waited. The sleek trireme floated low and predatory in the blackwater, hull built from storm-hardened ghostwood, its structure reinforced with stormsteel plating. Its oars had been drawn in. No flame lanterns lit the decks. Only thin sigil lines pulsed along its ribs, just enough to identify it to the harbor's inner ward.
The crew stood ready. No wasted motion. Captain's banner furled.
The boarding ramp was lowered. A quiet call sign echoed from the aft tower. The captain gave the nod.
The team began to board.
Blacktide first. Moortide next. Teshar moved with them.
As they stepped onto the deck, they passed beneath the etched nameplate: Phantomis II, the Blacktide's stealth vanguard vessel, also called Ghost Fang.
The ship was fast, silent, and deadly. Designed to vanish between coastlines and appear only when the mission required.
Inside the troop hold, berths were sealed. Armor stowed. Skiffs secured.
Aboard this trireme, they would sail deep into Dazhûm-held waters.
Mission codename: Stormwraith
The objective: Infiltrate Zevekhan Bastion. Rescue the trapped Veilguards. Assess the Nerathil spread. And if possible, capture a Shadow Adept.
The final wave loaded.
Ruun gave a sharp cry.
The captain raised his hand. The gangplank retracted.
The sea swallowed the last of the light.