Shadow Friends

– On the Ship Deck –

"My lord, you don't understand—" the Frontliner's words came through gritted teeth, forced out like he was chewing pain. His jaw trembled.

The guards let go. He collapsed like stone, knees cracking on the steel deck. He groaned, breath ragged.

The guards returned to their posts without a glance, like it was routine.

"What else?" Snow's voice broke the air like a knife through glass.

He crouched in front of the man, close enough to smell the blood. Slowly, he raised the man's chin.

The man's hair was tangled, matted with sweat and dry blood. His eyes were wide—too wide. Like they had seen something the mind wasn't built to handle.

Not pain. Terror—deep, raw, unshakable.

Snow stared at him for a moment longer than he meant to.

What kind of monsters make a man look like this?

"They said they own the woods," the man rasped. "My lord, I've never seen children like that. Terrifying… it's like killing means nothing to them. I saw it. I saw it in their eyes. They're not just children… they're born killers."The last words came out like a cursed as he frown remembering how one of his men was stabbed to death.

Snow's face didn't move. But inside, something did.

"Take him for treatment," Snow ordered.

The guards stepped forward—

And that's when it happened.

Thwip.

A whisper of death. Out of place, but final.

The Frontliner jerked, hard—his neck split open by a black arrow buried deep.

He didn't scream. Just a choked cough, and a flood of blood from his throat.

Then he dropped. A wet, lifeless heap.

The guards spun instantly, stepping in front of Snow, weapons drawn. Blades glinting. All eyes turned toward the treeline, still and dark in the distance.

Snow's expression didn't shift. But his head turned slowly toward Jon.

Jon spat. Rubbed his beard, sticky from spilled tea. Smirk twitching.

"Okay," Jon muttered, eyes scanning the woods. "Now I'm convinced they're something. That arrow came from... what, five hundred feet?" He whistled, impressed. "That's not warcraft. That's artistry."

Snow gave him a long look. Cool. Measured. "Still confident?"

"Oh, I'm very confident," Jon said, suddenly grinning wide. "You came to me when you signed this deal, remember? And you know me, snow. I don't lose. I don't understand losing. Never tasted it, never will."

His smile fell. Fast.

He stepped forward, voice dropping into something darker. "And as interesting as our little shadow-friends are, I brought something... special for them."

Then he laughed—loud, teeth bared.

But his eyes?

Dead serious.

---

– Inside the Woods –

From the highest branches of a twisting blackwood tree, four pairs of eyes watched the shoreline.

Silent. Still.

Below them, the beach filled like a hive. More soldiers. More machines. The ships kept spitting out bodies like a slow sickness.

Six slung his bow over his shoulder in one smooth motion. The bowstring brushed his cheek. He didn't flinch.

He turned to Two. "You think they got the message?"

"Yeah," Two said flatly. Then, with a glance sideways, he added, "Didn't know you could shoot that far."

Six's ears burned. A soft blush touched his cheeks, but he tried to hide it behind a shrug.

"Midnight training," he mumbled, trying to sound casual.

Then came a sound. A snap in the leaves to their left.

Both turned, bodies tense, eyes narrow.

"West," Two said sharply. "We move."

---

– The Battlefield –

The battlefield was chaos.

Screams. Dust. Steel against bone.

Nine's warriors fought like cornered wolves—fierce and relentless—but the invaders kept coming. Clad in dark armor, moving in lines, they struck with rhythm, with force, with cold discipline. For every enemy downed, two more took their place.

Spears snapped. Shields splintered.

The dirt turned to black sludge.

One of the mountain men—a thin warrior barely younger than forty—let out a roar as he lunged with his bone dagger. He was cut down mid-leap. No time to scream. Just the thud of his body on the mud, his mask shattered beside him.

Then came the reinforcements.

From the shoreline, more intruders marched—straight from the bellies of those black ships. Rows of them. Shadows spilling into the clearing, swords drawn, eyes fixed.

A signal horn howled.

And the frontlines surged forward.

Nine's people were being swallowed whole.

They started to fall back. Some ran. Some froze. Even the strongest warriors began to stagger under the weight of it—too many, too fast, too strong. It looked like the end.

Then—

The cry.

High. Piercing. Unnatural.

An eagle. Massive. Circling high above the battlefield like it was watching, waiting.

A beat of silence.

Then came the sound—low and deep. Like thunder trapped inside the earth.

The warriors froze, weapons mid-swing.

The ground began to tremble.

Not slightly. Not gently.

It shook.

Hard.

Trees rustled wildly as if something huge was moving beneath them. Animals—rabbits, wolves, even snakes—burst from the undergrowth, fleeing. The roots of the trees seemed to writhe.

The enemy soldiers paused, confused.

And then it happened.

The ground split open near the western ridge.

A roar erupted—deep, ancient, like the sound of a mountain crying out in rage.

They came bursting out of the forest, out of the very earth—massive figures wrapped in moss and root, bark-armored, with glowing eyes that burned like fire trapped in stone.

The Earthlings.

No one had seen them in years.

Some said they were just myths.

But myths don't rip men in half with their bare hands.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

One of them swung a tree-trunk like a club, clearing a whole line of armored soldiers in a single blow. Another grabbed a fleeing invader, slammed him into the ground with such force his helmet crumpled like paper.

Their footsteps cracked the battlefield.

With every step, the earth moaned.

Birds dropped from the sky. Leaves shook loose.

The battlefield, for a moment, was still—as if the world itself held its breath.

Then came the screaming.

From the invaders.

Because now they were outnumbered.

The tide had turned.

The forest had awakened.