The fires were already cold.
Squads were moving in clean, practiced motion as the scent of cold ash lingered in the morning air. They bundled what few tarps they had, lashed crates, and strapped half-finished repair work to the wagons of the tatanka. There was no yelling or last-minute scrambling, just the creak of leather straps and the soft thud of boots on the hardened earth. It was a testament to the organization that Hale and his NCOs had built.
Harold stood near the trench lip at the southern edge of the now-emptied camp. Behind him, the ridgeline was stripped bare. They didn't bother filling in the trench; if they needed to fall back, it would make a good place to fight. Cooking pits are packed and buried. A whole camp, erased in under an hour. Not that they really had a lot to pack. There were a lot of people wishing they had tents on this march.
No rear guard. No baggage left behind. Nothing to signal anyone had ever been here besides the earth berm and trench line.
Hale approached, a slate in one hand.
"Final check-in from Garrick's century just came through," he said. "Tatanka all harnessed, rations redistributed. Marcus is running the last weight checks now."
Harold gave a single nod. "Let me know when we're ready to move."
"They're all moving with us," Hale confirmed.
Harold stepped up to the ridge, eyes scanning the movement.
The centuries had already begun to shift formation, closing in like a graceful zipper into four columns, each two wide, with scouts and adventurers smoothly pulling ahead through the brush. They formed into their standard spacing with minimal noise and gear secured.
The trees ahead were thicker now, with younger growth tangled and wild. The air clung with an unsettling coolness, and a faint, acrid smell wafted through the woods, sharp and out of place. Leaves rustled with eerie whispers, and unnoticed, slender branches snaked across the path like hesitant fingers reaching out. The kind of woods that hadn't seen structured human presence in years, if ever. It was a perfect place to hide or die, depending on how tight your ranks were. The shadows seemed to deepen in unpredictable patterns, a sign that the goblins had claimed this territory. It was no wonder they were so effective within them. They were really lucky that there were no assassin types that frequented the jungles to the south. It would make it extremely costly to get through this area.
Harold turned to Hale.
"Tell Carter he has full authority over rear cohesion until we stop. Nothing breaks formation. If we get split and can't reinforce each other, this won't end well. We need to stay tight."
Hale scribbled the note onto his slate with his thumb and stylus, then whistled sharply to one of the runners waiting off to the side.
"Move out," Harold said. Harold's bodyguard detail moved with him, one of them carrying a still furled banner that had a lot of legionaries wondering when it would be unfurled. None of them knew what the Lords insignia was yet.
The signal flag went up.
Within moments, the Landing's forward force began to shift from stillness to motion — a quiet, weighty machine rolling toward the deep forest.
The first arrow cracked off a tree about forty minutes in.
It didn't even come close—a bad angle and release. The goblins weren't known for their discipline. But the report snapped across the underbrush, prompting nervous chuckles from some soldiers, while others tightened their grips on spears. The entire column went a little quieter. Harold overheard a whispered joke, something about the goblins needing new archery lessons, which drew a few quiet laughs, but their eyes never lost the edge of concern. This was the calm before the storm.
Hale didn't break his stride. Neither did Harold.
But ahead of them, the point scouts were already shifting — one half-melted into the trees, the other lifting a quick hand signal back—routine contact.
"First blood," Hale muttered. "They're really just annoying right now," Harold replied. The threat with the goblins is running into the berserkers and any more trolls."
Vines crossed low trunks. Mushrooms dotted the wet bark. Fallen limbs tangled up the footing. The kind of terrain that played to goblins more than men.
Ahead, another distant crack. Not a weapon — a branch. Someone is moving too fast or not watching their step. The forest swallowed it just as quickly.
Evan jogged up the side of the column, short cloak pulled tight, bow slung loose.
"Annoying ones today," he said without preamble. "Not committing and just harassing the scouts. They all missed, but it's becoming more constant. I'm expecting real contact within the hour."
Harold nodded. "Push the scouts and your teams out more. Keep the pressure on them. Don't let them get comfortable."
Evan grinned. "Already rotated in the thornwalkers. They're loving it."
Harold looked over curiously. "Is that what that team is calling themselves?" "Those javelins they made and short swords they have are certainly like thorns."
The march slowed just slightly — not enough to disrupt cohesion, but sufficient that each squad was watching the treeline instead of chatting. A few of the Tatanka even started snorting, clearly sensing the tension.
Somewhere in the trees, another goblin shouted and shot an arrow. It pinged off a legionary who barely got his shield up in time. Then was immediately silenced. Whether it had been a scout, a decoy, or a fool — no one asked.
Harold stepped over a rotted log, then glanced sidelong at Hale, who matched pace easily beside him.
"We're underusing the forum," Harold said without preamble.
Hale looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, there's more intel on there than we give it credit for. You saw how I recognized Dalen. That was just from a couple of threads I remembered. If someone had been combing it properly, we'd probably already have a snapshot of the entire basin."
Hale grunted. "The problem is that most posts are nonsense. People asking for help, people talking about all the bad shit they are going through. People arguing about system quirks. It's not like there is any administrator on there. There's a function to filter them, but it's by topic, not by region. There is no direct messaging. So you have to put it out there, and anyone can read and comment. It would be a full-time job to do what you are suggesting."
"Yeah," Harold agreed. "But it's not all noise. The trick is knowing which names matter. I know most of the Lords who made it most of the way through my twenty years last time. It's enough to watch for..."
Hale glanced ahead, scanning a narrow turn where two scouts were signaling safe passage.
"We don't exactly have someone who can sit there and do that full-time," Hale said.
"We will," Harold said. "When we get back, I'll have one of Margaret's assistants start digging—sort by topic, Lord name, and any known coordinates. Start tagging anything relevant. It would be a good task for the project I'm having you build."
Hale thought about it for a moment. "Even if we find something, we can't act on it fast.
"For now, we can't," Harold explained. "I know you're using the forum now to send coded messages. But if we do see something we need to act on, it would be good to be prepared."
Hale nodded slowly. "It would make coordination much easier."
"Exactly. Harold said sarcastically. Like the monsters and other human lords and the other races aren't enough trouble."
He stepped around a thick root, then added, "But it still means something. Patterns. Posts. Even the ones that get ignored say something."
Hale didn't respond immediately. He ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, eyes still scanning.
Finally, he said, "So you want to sift through the noise."
"I want to mine it," Harold corrected. "Because half the people we'll be dealing with don't even realize they're leaking intel. We could start building a picture of the human sphere of influence."
Ahead, a scout made a low hand signal — movement on the left flank.
Both men fell quiet again.
It started with a low grunt and the sudden, wet squelch of hooves sliding in muck.
One of the center wagons had stalled where a shallow embankment gave way to a muddy drop. The Tatanka team hauling it shifted uneasily, massive shoulders bunching as they tried to pull free, but the wheels weren't catching.
"Hold!" an Optio barked.
The column slowed with military reflex — the front ranks halting without collision, rear units rippling the signal back. Hale was already moving, two steps ahead of the runners.
Harold followed him up the slight incline.
The wagon in question leaned at an awkward angle. One rear wheel is half-sunk. The others are straining. A few legionaries had already moved to brace it, trying to get enough lift to let the oxen pull it straight.
"We've got it," Carter called from the rear. "It's not a break, just bad footing."
Harold was nodding when the first goblin dropped from a tree.
It didn't make a sound — just the heavy thump of body hitting ground, knife already swinging. It hit one of the flank legionaries in the side, but the man's armor turned it aside. The legionary spun, shield up, sword low.
More came a second later. Five of them, a weak effort by goblin standards — but they came fast.
From the trees and the brush. No typical howls. Just fast, ugly violence.
The closest squad was already turning, shields locking. A short command from their Optio had them forming a tight half-ring around the wagons. Two of the goblins were cut down before they even made a second strike.
One darted toward the Tatanka. A javelin dropped it mid-sprint — the shaft punching straight through its chest and pinning it to a tree. A good shot from one of the adventurers. He must have had some strength perk that let him power that javelin enough to pin a goblin to a tree.
Evan's scouts were already there, moving without orders. A goblin made it past the first line and vanished into the woods again, but the rest lay still — bleeding into the roots.
It was over in twenty seconds. Harold didn't say anything.
He stepped to one of the downed goblins, crouched, and turned it over with the flat of his blade. It was lean, quick, and wore a vest made of some bark laminate. Improvised armor. Light quiver on its back. Half-rotted boots.
"Drop scouts," Hale said behind him.
Harold nodded. "Testing for lag, I think. Trying to find our rear. That was actually well planned, almost as if they knew the wagons would get stuck here."
"We're not that sloppy," Hale said.
Harold murmured, "Mmm, this might be more difficult than I hoped for." As he surveyed the scene, a phantom burn prickled beneath his skin, a tactile echo of past encounters. It reminded him of those times when they battled poison-wielding creatures so potent they required an Alchemist to concoct antidotes on the fly. It was a texture of warfare etched into his senses. He never liked joining those missions last time, but the perks he got out of that were worth it. They didn't call it a crucible for no reason.
Behind them, the wagon team let out a sharp clack of success — the wheels biting into traction again as the Tatanka strained and pulled forward.
The column shifted, adjusted, and resumed its motion like nothing had happened.
But the silence was different now.
Somewhere overhead, the sun was climbing higher — but under the trees, it might as well have been early morning forever. Thick with shade and bird calls that didn't sound quite right.
They were about two hours in when the runner came.
Light armor, forest-painted. One of Evan's scouts — breathing hard, but not panicked. She crossed the column at a jog and found Harold near one of the Tatanka drivers, where he'd paused to check the rear spacing.
"Sir," she said quickly. "Frontline scouts are pulling back. Pressure's building. They've seen at least four distinct goblin groups in overlapping zones. It's light contact, but getting heavier."
"Any sign of kobolds?" Harold asked.
"Not yet. But we're hearing horns farther out."
That changed things.
Harold turned to Hale, who had already stepped closer.
"We can't get caught between both swarms," Harold said, voice low but firm. "That's why we came in from the east — if they're both massing here, we fall back. Immediately. That clearing we passed by an hour ago would be the only place we could make a stand."
Hale nodded. "Let's re-organize the line."
Hale raised a hand and whistled sharply — one long, one short.
An Optio peeled away from the flank to receive the orders directly from Hale.
"I'll stretch the line and rotate the centuries wider," Hale said. "Both on the front, keep the Tatanka center-massed. Adventurers fall back into mobile reserve."
"Good," Harold said. "Have Evan keep rotating his scouts on the forward edge — but if they start falling, I want to be able to press with the Centuries."
They both paused as another sharp cry rang out in the distance — this one clearly goblin. Too far to act on, but close enough to register.
"Do we press to contact?" Hale asked.
Harold shook his head. "Let's keep pushing. At this point, I'm more worried they are working a force around us. No—scratch that. That is what they're doing. This swarm hasn't acted normally. We push hard. Now. "
Hale didn't argue and immediately moved to act. The orders moved fast.
In less than five minutes, the column shifted again — less a wedge now, more a broad, flexible blade. Legionary centuries realigned. Adventurers pulled back from the outer flanks. Every squad had more spacing, more eyes on the trees, and tighter grips on shields and spears.
Harold turned to his bodyguards, "Unfold the banner!" He shouted.
The standard bearer got an excited look on his face as he finally unfurled the banner he had carried the whole march without a chance to look at it.
As he unfurled it for the first time, Harold moved forward, and his bodyguards, led by Ren and Corwin started slamming their swords onto their shields.
In time, they both shouted "Vivat Imperium!"
At first, just a few turned—one here, two there. Then the beat spread…and the entire force was shouting their defiance into the upcoming swarm of monsters.