A Shift in the Dark

It has been several days since our first encounter with the Imps.

The tension in Western Guard Camp has only worsened.

The air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken, something that grips the soldiers like a sickness. They do not say it outright, but we can see it—in the way they move, in the way they grip their weapons tighter than before, in the way their voices lower when they think no one is listening.

Something is wrong.

Something big.

And today, we find out why.

——

The storm finally breaks when the messenger arrives.

A scout—mud-splattered, his breathing ragged, his hands shaking as he stumbles into the command tent.

"Sir," he gasps, barely able to stand. "It's—it's the Imps."

Elias and I are nearby, finishing our assigned duties, when the entire camp shifts.

Guards stiffen. Officers stop talking.

The weight of what is about to be said pulls the entire camp into a quiet, breathless pause.

Captain Cliff (Western Guard Camp's Commander) steps forward, his face unreadable. "Report."

The scout takes a shaking breath.

"They're… gathering."

Silence.

The words are simple.

But their meaning is anything but.

——

The war council is called within the hour.

Elias and I are not officers, nor are we officially enlisted, but we are invited to sit in.

That alone is concerning.

We find ourselves in the command tent once more, surrounded by familiar faces—Fergus Grez (Senior Sergeant, Western Guard Camp), Milos (Quartermaster), Seraphine (Security Officer, Velia), and a handful of other high-ranking guards.

The map of the region is once again spread out before us, weighted down with daggers and stones.

Cliff stands at the head of the table, his arms crossed.

"The scout's report has been verified," he says, voice grim. "The Imps aren't just raiding anymore. They're gathering in numbers we haven't seen before."

Elias frowns. "How many are we talking?"

Fergus lets out a low exhale, his expression tight. "At least a hundred. Maybe more."

I still.

Elias sits up straighter. "That's… an army."

Cliff nods. "It is."

——

The discussions that follow are tense.

The Imps are no longer acting like scattered raiders—they are organizing, and no one can figure out why.

"They've never done this before," Seraphine mutters, arms folded. "They're opportunists, not strategists. Something has changed."

Elias glances at me. "You think it's a leader?"

I hesitate.

The Imps we fought before… they had direction. Purpose.

That is not normal.

"It's possible," I admit. "Someone—or something—might be controlling them."

Milos grunts, adjusting his stance. "The question is: what do we do about it?"

Cliff runs a hand down his face, sighing. "We don't have the numbers to attack outright. Not yet."

Fergus nods. "We need more information before making a move."

The decision is made swiftly.

A scouting party will be sent—small, quiet, efficient—to track the Imps and discover their movements.

Elias and I exchange a glance.

We already know what's coming.

"Let me guess," Elias sighs. "We're going, aren't we?"

Cliff nods once.

"Be ready."

——

Before we leave the tent, Fergus pulls us aside.

I raise an eyebrow. "Something else?"

Fergus's usual stern expression softens—just slightly.

"You've been working hard," he says, reaching into his pouch. "And we keep our word here."

He tosses two small leather bags toward us.

Elias catches his first, then tosses mine in my direction.

The weight of it is light, but unmistakable.

Coin.

Our first official pay.

Elias grins, shaking the pouch. "Look at that. We're practically professionals now."

Fergus snorts. "Don't let it get to your head."

I turn the pouch over in my hands, running my fingers along the rough leather.

It is not much.

But it is ours.

Earned through our own hands, through our own choices.

And despite the looming danger ahead, despite the weight of the unknown—

For the first time since arriving in this world, we have something truly ours.

And that?

That is worth everything.