Chapter 9: Blood and Rumors
The early morning air was thick with mist as Dikun Silver led his squad beyond the camp's perimeter. The road ahead twisted through the rolling hills, cutting a narrow path toward the villages nestled near the outskirts of the contested lands. Though no drums of war echoed here, the silence was no comfort.
"Keep sharp," Dikun warned. "We're not walking into a battlefield, but that doesn't mean we're safe."
The squad nodded. Joran strode beside him, his usual grin absent. Behind them, Eron, Tomas, and the fresh recruits — Larn and Bren — followed in careful formation.
"Never thought I'd miss the battlefield," Joran murmured. "At least there, you know who's trying to kill you."
Dikun shared the sentiment. The whispers of rebellion had spread like a sickness, infecting even the quiet villages. Their task was to investigate — question the locals, root out sympathizers, and report any signs of rebel influence. It was a mission as delicate as it was dangerous.
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The Village of Orlen
By midday, they reached Orlen, a modest village of weathered stone cottages and thatched roofs. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, and farmers tended to their fields under the watchful gaze of the distant hills.
But there was no warmth in the villagers' eyes as the soldiers approached. Children were ushered away. The men offered curt nods, while the women averted their gazes. Dikun felt the weight of their silent judgment.
"They don't trust us," Eron observed.
"Can you blame them?" Joran replied. "They see uniforms and think of tax collectors or soldiers who leave nothing but ashes behind."
Dikun dismounted, his boots kicking up dust. "We're not here to punish. We're here to listen. But stay wary."
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Questioning the Locals
The squad split into pairs, each tasked with gathering information. Dikun and Joran approached the village square, where a well stood surrounded by empty market stalls. An elderly man, stooped with age, watched them from a worn wooden bench.
"Morning," Dikun greeted, his tone calm. "We mean no trouble. Just seeking word of any rebel movements."
The old man's gaze lingered, weathered hands gripping a wooden cane. "Rebels?" he rasped. "Aye, they pass through. Like shadows in the night. Some come begging for food. Others leave marks on the trees — warnings."
"Warnings?" Dikun's brow furrowed.
"Three slashes, carved deep. They say it's the mark of the old resistance. Before your king's banners flew so high."
Joran stiffened. "And you… you help them?"
The man's eyes darkened. "I help those who are starving. Not all who rebel wish for blood."
Dikun held Joran's gaze, a silent reminder to stand down. "Thank you for your time," he said, though the old man's words clung to him like a shadow.
---
Signs of Trouble
By the time the squad regrouped, the sun dipped low, casting the village in a dim, golden hue. Eron and Tomas reported nothing but fearful glances and murmured denials. Larn and Bren, however, returned with a different tale.
"South of the fields," Larn began, his voice hushed. "We found a campfire, still warm. Tracks leading into the woods."
"Rebels," Bren added. "Or sympathizers. They were close."
Dikun's jaw tightened. "We investigate. Move quietly."
---
The Encounter
The woods swallowed them whole, the twisted branches clawing at the fading light. Dikun's hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, his senses on high alert. Every crack of a twig, every rustle of leaves sent a fresh wave of tension through the group.
Then they saw it.
A small clearing, where the remnants of a rebel camp lay scattered — embers still glowing faintly. Empty supply crates and makeshift bedding spoke of a hasty departure. But it was the crimson smear along the bark of a nearby tree that caught Dikun's eye.
Blood.
"Someone was wounded," Eron murmured. "And recently."
Dikun crouched, examining the tracks. "They moved fast. Could be nearby."
Joran motioned ahead. "We're not alone."
From the shadows, figures emerged — three rebels, their ragged cloaks barely concealing their drawn blades. Their eyes burned with desperation, yet none moved to strike.
"Lower your weapons," Dikun commanded, though his own hand remained firmly on his sword. "We're not here to kill."
A tense silence followed. Then one of the rebels, a young woman with dirt-streaked cheeks, spoke.
"No. You're here to hunt."
"We're here for answers," Dikun countered. "Help us, and no harm will come to you."
The woman's gaze flickered. "The king's justice knows no mercy. Our people starve while your lords feast. What answers could you possibly seek?"
"Who leads you?" Dikun asked firmly. "The rebellion is not a gathering of lost farmers. There's a force behind it. A commander."
The woman hesitated, but before she could speak, a distant call echoed through the woods. The rebels stiffened. Without another word, they fled, vanishing into the shadows.
"Let them go," Dikun said, though Joran's frustration was evident.
"We had them!"
"We had nothing," Dikun replied. "Not yet."
But as they returned to the village, one thought remained. The rebels were more than scattered remnants. They were organized. And somewhere, a leader waited in the shadows.
To be continued in Chapter 10: The Rebel's Mark