The sound rumbled again—closer this time. Every bird in the canopy took flight at once, dark wings blotting the fading light.
"Positions," Ayla whispered. "Whatever it is—"
Her warning died as shapes emerged between the trees.
Not creatures. People.
A half-dozen figures in mismatched armor, faces obscured by bone-and-leather masks, stepped into the clearing. Their leader, a tall woman with hair like rusted copper, held a spear tipped with something that glowed faintly in the gloom.
"Travelers," she said, voice steady but not warm. "Strange place to be walking."
Kaelen's hand went to his dagger. "Strange place to be living."
Lior scanned them, noting the jagged runes etched into their gear. Hunters. Not the city kind—these were forest-born, corrupted-edge dwellers who knew every twisted root.
"We heard the fighting," the woman continued. "You've stirred up the blight."
Her people began circling, not in a way that seemed overtly hostile, but close enough that every movement could become one.
Ayla stepped forward. "We're passing through to the southern ridge. We want no trouble."
The woman's gaze lingered on Lior. "That mark on your arm… the forest will want it back. Or we can take it for ourselves."
The tension snapped taut.
Behind Lior, Kaelen shifted his stance just enough to be ready. "You want to try? Go ahead."
Before steel could flash, a roar split the air. The ground shook under something massive approaching—corruption incarnate—and in that instant, every blade, spear, and spell in the clearing turned toward the same threat.
The forest had made its choice. If they wanted to live, enemies and strangers would have to fight side by side.