27

Night fell once more, draping the forest in shadows and whispers. The gnoll camp, previously teeming with life and routine, now felt like a carcass waiting to be picked clean. Patrols were sent out again, but the strike force had yet to return. No word. No bodies. No signs. Just silence.

But silence, as the gnolls would soon learn, did not mean peace.

Vanthelis and his small group crouched beneath a thick layer of brush, concealed by the natural darkness of the dense woods. The embers of their breath misted in the cold night air. None of them spoke. They didn't need to. The look in their eyes was enough—focused, tired, determined.

Kristine clutched the wooden spear she had used the night before, her arms trembling slightly. She had insisted she was fine, but Vanthelis knew better. The girl's strength was incredible, yes, but she was still young. Still recovering from the previous night's ambush. That was why tonight, she had one job alone—clean up. Hide the bodies. Nothing more.

Haben and Jayson were poised to strike again, more efficient this time. Vanthelis had taught them how to strike quickly and without hesitation. This wasn't just revenge anymore—it was precision warfare.

They had observed the gnolls' habits meticulously. Unlike the disciplined formations of human armies, these beasts patrolled in isolation or pairs. Easy to pick off. Easier to disappear afterward.

As the gnoll sentries moved along their route, Vanthelis gave a small hand gesture. In seconds, the team scattered.

Haben approached his target—a burly gnoll carrying a jagged bone club. The creature yawned, stretching, completely unaware of the shadow creeping up behind it. With a faint whisper of death, Haben placed a hand on the gnoll's back. Dark energy pulsed from his palm. The creature's muscles weakened, and its legs buckled.

Before it could cry out, Jayson emerged from the other side and rammed his sharpened wooden spear straight into its chest. The creature choked on its own breath and collapsed without a sound.

Kristine dashed in silently from the brush, dragging the heavy body into the shadows. She was sweating, but she didn't complain. Her speed and stealth were commendable, especially for someone her age.

One by one, patrol after patrol fell the same way—quietly, without drama, and without leaving any trace. It was a symphony of silence, conducted by a boy who was slowly becoming a general of the undead.

Vanthelis stood back, watching it all unfold. He didn't intervene unless necessary. Tonight was about his team. About trust.

The job was clean. Efficient.

But this wasn't the end.

He turned his eyes to the camp. In the heart of it stood a cluster of crude huts, held together by mud, straw, and bone. Some were nothing more than thatched shelters for cubs. Others were more fortified. But the one thing they all had in common?

They burned easily.

Vanthelis reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a bundle of dried straw soaked in a thick, greasy liquid. The smell alone could drive flies mad—it was murloc fat, rendered from the dozens of creatures they had hunted weeks ago. Left to ferment and distilled slowly in old jars from the mansion's forgotten warehouse, it was now an effective accelerant.

He handed another bundle to Jayson and Haben, who had returned after the final kill. "We do this quick," he said. "Then we disappear."

No questions were asked. They nodded.

Silently, they crept through the edges of the camp. The cubs were asleep. The adults too deep in their routines. They had grown complacent—too used to an unchallenged life. That would be their downfall.

Vanthelis placed the bundles under the largest clusters of straw huts. He was deliberate, ensuring the fire would spread naturally through the wind-swept passages between homes. It wasn't just about damage. It was about panic.

When all was ready, he lit a small twig wrapped in cloth—an old rag soaked in the same murloc fat—and struck a spark using flint and bone. A tiny flame flickered to life in his palm, its glow reflecting in his eyes.

"Let's light the world," he whispered.

He dropped the flame.

The fire caught instantly.

Within moments, the straw ignited and the flames danced across the huts like possessed spirits. Screams erupted from the camp, cubs shrieking in fear, adults roaring in confusion. Chaos unfurled in every direction.

The strike team was already gone, retreating swiftly through the trees. They had memorized the paths, marked the ground, and ensured they would not be followed.

From a distance, they watched the inferno bloom. An orange glow painted the night, and plumes of smoke twisted into the stars.

Vanthelis said nothing, but inside, he felt a cruel satisfaction.

Back in the camp, the robed gnoll—tall, thin, and hunched—stumbled from his personal hut. His eyes widened at the sight of flames consuming his people's homes. He snarled, thrusting his staff into the ground.

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned fire to his hands—red, angry magic swirled in his palms.

But even his power couldn't tame what had been started.

The fire raged, too wild, too fast. The straw was soaked too deep in accelerant. He tried to shout orders, but his words were drowned in the screams. Gnoll cubs ran aimlessly. Warriors crashed into each other. Smoke blinded them, choking their throats.

The robed gnoll's composure shattered. He let out a guttural scream and turned toward the gold mine. His last bastion. His sanctuary.

He dropped to his knees and began to pray—desperately, furiously—to the mound of gold ore he had treated like a god. Muttered chants echoed from his lips, interspersed with coughs from the smoke. The flames reflected in his eyes like madness.

He couldn't understand. This wasn't just an accident. It was an attack. But by who?

Who dared strike them so perfectly, so silently?

He didn't know.

But Vanthelis did.

Not far from the burning camp, watching from the shadows, Vanthelis smirked as the sky lit up orange.