Nightfall draped Blackfen like a suffocating blanket. The hunter camp crackled with tension, not camaraderie. Thirty figures huddled around a low-burning fire, casting long, flickering shadows. The scarred captain stood before them, his face grim in the firelight, the earlier haunted look replaced by a commander's steely resolve.
"...the ashes are gone," the captain stated, his voice cutting through the nervous silence. "Vanished. Not scattered. *Taken*."
A murmur rippled through the hunters.
"Last night," he continued, his eyes scanning the tense faces, "I detected Molik's signature. The decayed roses, the ozone. He was here."
One hunter, a wiry man with a scar across his lip, surged to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. "Molik? Alone? Captain, why didn't you sound the alarm? We could've—"
"He wasn't alone," rumbled the massive mallet-bearer, his voice like stones grinding. He shifted his colossal weapon. "The Captain sensed it too. Another presence. Thicker. Older. A Royal. Direct blood to the Demon King."
"Thirty against two!" the wiry hunter protested, emboldened. A few others grunted agreement, fists clenching.
The captain moved. Not with speed, but with deliberate, terrifying calm. He crossed the circle, stopping inches from the wiry hunter. The firelight caught the hard planes of his face. He leaned in slightly, nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly. He didn't touch him. He just... *sniffed* the air near the man's neck.
The wiry hunter froze, confusion warring with indignation.
"Your Soul Strength," the captain said, his voice low and precise, "fluctuates around 30%. Current average: 80,000 SS." He paused, letting the number hang. "That makes you, right now, strong enough to raze this village single-handedly. A match for a hundred Spartan phalanx warriors. Eighty Moorish berserkers."
He stepped back, addressing the entire group. "All thirty of you? Combined? You push over 1.2 million SS. A formidable force." He let a beat pass, the fire crackling loudly. "The Royal we sensed? Harbors at least 3 million SS. Molik? Skilled, dangerous... operates above 120,000 SS." He met the eyes of the wiry hunter, now pale. "We *might* overwhelm Molik. If we got lucky. Against the Royal? We are gnats before a hurricane. Reinforcements are weeks away. We don't *fight* that storm head-on. We *outthink* it. We isolate Molik. We cut off the shadow before it engulfs the flame. Understood?"
The wiry hunter sank slowly back onto his log, chastened. "Understood, Captain. Sorry, Captain."
As the captain turned back towards the center of the fire, his gaze snagged on movement at the very edge of the firelight. A lone figure stood in the deep shadows cast by the trees. The darkness obscured details – human or demon? Threat or phantom?
Instinct took over. A nearby hunter, jumpy from the talk of Royals, saw the shape too. He moved like a striking snake, blurring towards the shadowy figure, a dagger gleaming in his fist aimed for a disabling strike.
"*HALT!*" The captain's command cracked like a whip, imbued not just with authority, but a subtle pulse of power. The attacking hunter froze mid-lunge, dagger inches from the figure's chest, as if hitting an invisible wall.
The figure stepped forward into the dim orange glow of the fire. Asül. His face impassive, eyes reflecting the flames. He ignored the frozen hunter, who slowly, sheepishly lowered his blade and retreated.
Asül walked straight towards the captain, stopping before him. The firelight danced on his young, closed-off face. The camp held its breath.
"Captain," Asül stated, his voice flat but carrying clearly. "I have agreed to join your battalion."
A wave of stunned silence washed over the camp. The captain's eyes widened fractionally, a flicker of something desperate and triumphant flashing across his face before he ruthlessly clamped it down. "Anything, young man! Anything!" he blurted, taking half a step forward, his composure momentarily shattered by sheer relief. He caught himself, straightened his collar, cleared his throat roughly. "...And what may that condition be?" he asked, regaining his commander's tone, though his eyes still burned.
"Promise me," Asül said, his gaze unwavering, devoid of pleading, simply stating a fact, "to take good care of Elara. I understand she cannot join. She would be a liability. But she *must* be safe."
The captain didn't hesitate. He drew himself up to his full height, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders like armor. "It is done," he declared, the promise absolute. "On my rank and the Silver Eye." He turned to the stunned hunters. "Dismissed. Rest. We move at first light." He gestured sharply. "You," he pointed at Asül, "with me. You'll stay in my tent tonight. Tomorrow, we take your measurements. Your war leathers will be cut and enchanted by dawn tomorrow." He managed a brief, tight nod that conveyed immense gratitude. "Once again, Asül... I am truly grateful you chose to stand with the shield."
He stepped forward, opening his arms slightly, perhaps instinctively moving for the embrace of a valued recruit.
Asül didn't flinch, but he didn't move into the hug. He simply straightened his right arm, hand extended stiffly at his side, palm open but not inviting. A handshake. A transaction.
The captain paused, a flicker of surprise, then understanding, crossing his face. He closed the distance, his own larger, calloused hand engulfing Asül's in a firm, brief shake. No warmth, but acknowledgement. "Right," the captain said, releasing the hand. "This way." He turned and led the way towards his larger command tent at the edge of the camp.
Asül followed, a silent shadow stepping from the firelight into the deeper darkness, the weight of his choice settling on him as heavily as the promise to protect Elara. The real hunt, it seemed, was finally beginning.
***
The captain's tent was larger than Asül's hut, but still sparse. Sturdy canvas walls, a collapsible table strewn with maps, a locked weapons chest, and two bedrolls laid out on thick, rolled leather mattresses – a luxury unimaginable in Blackfen. A simple clay pot sat steaming on a small brazier, filling the space with the rich, greasy scent of fried Dusk Croaker legs.
"Sit," the captain grunted, gesturing to a stool by the table. He scooped some crispy frog legs onto a wooden plate. "Eat. Long day tomorrow."
Asül's stomach clenched, but his pride held firm. "I ate," he lied, the words flat.
The captain raised an eyebrow but said nothing, tearing into a leg himself. The crunch was obscenely loud. The aroma intensified, primal and irresistible. Asül watched a drop of golden oil run down the captain's chin. His resolve cracked like thin ice.
"...Maybe," he muttered, eyes fixed on the plate, "just a small taste." He snatched a leg before he could reconsider.
The charade of indifference vanished with the first bite. It was hot, salty, perfectly crisp outside and tender within. He devoured it, then another, forgetting the captain, the hunters, the demons, lost in the simple, profound pleasure of good food. He didn't notice the captain watching him, a flicker of something almost paternal in his eyes – like an elder brother watching a younger one finally eat after days of hunger. The captain offered a rare, small smile hidden behind his own mouthful before standing.
"Get some rest," he said gruffly, grabbing his cloak. "Use that mattress. Real leather. Won't find swamp lice in *that*." He ducked out of the tent, leaving Asül alone with the remnants of the meal and the unfamiliar softness beneath him.
Asül finished the last leg, wiped his hands on his trousers, and sank onto the leather mattress. It yielded beneath him, cradling his aches. He stared at the canvas ceiling, the weight of his choice a tangible thing. He was asleep before the campfires outside had fully died.
***
A cold, hard circle pressed into his ribs. Asül jerked awake in the pre-dawn gloom. The female hunter with the shaved head stood over him, the muzzle of her long-barreled flintlock resting against his side. Her expression was unreadable.
"Up," she commanded. A bundle of dark leather landed heavily on his chest. "Dress. We move at first light."
He blinked, scrambling upright. "How did you get my measurements?" he asked, bewildered, running a hand over the unfamiliar, supple hide.
A ghost of something – amusement? – touched her lips. "You are a sound sleeper," she stated flatly. Before he could form another question, she was gone, the tent flap falling shut behind her.
He dressed quickly, the leather cool against his skin. The **war leathers** fit with unnerving precision:
1. **Torso:** A form-fitting, sleeveless jerkin of tough, black-dyed wyvern hide (or equivalent beast), reinforced across the chest, shoulders, and spine with segmented plates of darkened steel, subtly embossed with the Silver Eye insignia over the heart. Laces tightened securely down the sides.
2. **Arms:** Articulated vambraces buckled tightly from wrist to elbow, protecting forearms without hindering movement. The left one featured a subtle, hardened leather sheath integrated flush against the underside, perfectly sized for his father's dagger's hilt for a quick, downward draw.
3. **Legs:** Sturdy, flexible breeches tucked into knee-high boots. The boots were thick-soled for rough terrain, reinforced at the toe and heel, and laced tightly up the front. Greaves of the same darkened steel as the torso plates buckled over the shins.
4. **Belt & Harness:** A wide leather belt cinched his waist, featuring several sturdy loops and pouches for supplies. A crossed harness over his back held sheaths for longer blades (currently empty) and had hooks for future gear. The tainted dagger now rode securely at his right hip, its familiar weight a cold anchor.
5. **Overall:** It was practical, dark, and intimidating. It offered significant protection without excessive bulk, designed for speed and lethality. It felt less like clothing and more like a second skin forged for battle.
Stepping out into the crisp grey light, he found the captain already booted and buckling his own harness. He gave Asül a curt nod of approval, his eyes lingering on the well-fitted gear, before unfurling a large, worn map on a folding camp table.
Asül moved closer, peering over the captain's shoulder. The captain shifted the map slightly, stretching a finger to point at a jagged line sketched in brown ink. "Calkyuk Ridge," he stated. "Seventeen miles northwest. Last night... a massive surge of power spiked there. Bigger than Balzar. Bigger than anything I've felt in this swamp for years." He tapped the ridge. "It moved *through*, fast. Heading deeper into the blightlands. My hope? It was Molik, dragging his prize. My fear?" He didn't elaborate, just rolled the map shut with a snap. "We find out."
Around them, the camp dissolved with practiced efficiency. Tents collapsed like falling leaves, gear was stowed, the fire doused. It took less than five minutes.
The captain gestured to four figures already standing ready near the village edge: the massive mallet-bearer, the archer with a longbow peeking over his shoulder, the twin serrated blade wielder, and the figure swathed head-to-toe in matte black fabric and leather. No skin showed. No weapons were visible. He simply stood, silent and unnerving, giving only the faintest nod when the captain addressed them.
"You four," the captain ordered. "Guard the village. Hold the line until we return. No engagements unless attacked. Understood?"
The mallet-bearer grunted. The archer touched his brow. The twin-blade wielder smirked. The figure in black gave another slight, silent nod.
The captain turned to Asül and the remaining hunters. "Right. Calkyuk Ridge. Move out." He strode towards the tree line without a backward glance. Asül fell into step beside the female hunter with the flintlock, the unfamiliar weight of his new leathers both a burden and a promise as they left the relative safety of the village behind.