The Enemy’s Stronghold

The scent of burning wood mixed with something fouler—damp earth and decay. Tharion and Ceyla crouched on a ridge overlooking a clearing deep within the northern woods. Below them, flickering torchlight illuminated a makeshift encampment of crude wooden barricades and tents clustered haphazardly around a central stone structure.

Ceyla's sharp eyes scanned the area. "There," she whispered, pointing toward the far end of the camp. A group of villagers huddled together, bound by thick ropes. Their faces were weary, but they were alive.

Tharion let out a slow breath. "We have to get them out of there."

Ceyla pulled an arrow from her quiver. "Agreed. But first, we need to deal with those guards."

The Prisoners and Their Captors

Scattered throughout the camp, cloaked figures patrolled in slow, measured steps. Their masks bore the same dark sigil as the attackers they had fought earlier. But something was different about them—shadows clung unnaturally to their bodies, moving as if alive.

Tharion tightened his grip on his sword. "They're using magic."

Ceyla's expression darkened. "Then we better move fast."

Using the darkness to their advantage, they crept down from the ridge, sticking to the undergrowth. As they approached the edge of the camp, a guard stood mere feet away, his back turned.

Tharion moved swiftly, clamping a hand over the man's mouth and driving his blade into his side. The guard tensed, then crumpled without a sound.

Ceyla raised an eyebrow. "Efficient."

"No time for mistakes," Tharion muttered.

They slipped through the outer defenses, inching toward the prisoners. But as they neared, the air shifted—

A deep, guttural voice echoed from the stone structure in the camp's center.

"You cannot hide."

The Warden Reveals Himself

A heavy, armored figure emerged from the structure, towering over the others. His dark plate armor seemed to absorb the firelight, and his face was obscured by a cruel, spiked helmet. He held a massive blade, etched with glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Tharion's breath caught. This was no ordinary foe.

Ceyla whispered, "I don't think sneaking is an option anymore."

The Warden turned his head slightly, as if sensing them. Then, with deliberate slowness, he raised his blade and pointed in their direction.

"Come forth, chosen one."

Tharion exchanged a look with Ceyla. There was no turning back now.

He stepped out of the shadows, sword ready.

"If you want them," he said, his voice steady, "you'll have to go through me."

The Warden let out a low, rumbling chuckle.

"So be it."