Chapter 47 — The Puppet Master’s Hand

The morning light fell soft on the ruined tower, but there was no peace in its broken stones. The rebels gathered their dead in silence, burying them in shallow graves beneath ancient trees.

Aron stood over the graves, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His face was pale with loss, his body weak with pain, but his eyes burned with unbroken resolve.

"We can't stay here," he said at last. "Jaren will come. Not his hunters this time — him."

---

Far to the north, upon a ridge of black stone, Jaren watched the forest through a glass darkly. His silver mask gleamed in the sun, and his voice was cold as the wind.

"They ran," he said to his captain. "They hid. They bled my hunters. But the game is mine still."

He turned to the masked riders at his back.

"Ready the Scourge. No more shadows, no more wolves. I will be the storm."

---

In the ruin, the rebels made ready to move.

Garron broke what remained of the fallen tower, so no shelter could be left for the enemy.

Lina led the way, finding hidden paths that wound deeper into the forest's heart.

Mara carried the youngest and the weakest, her strength born of grief and love.

Aron followed, though every step was a trial.

---

The forest thickened, turning wild and strange. Vines as thick as arms, trees twisted like old bones. The air grew damp, heavy with the scent of moss and earth.

At last, they came to a valley where stone pillars rose like the ribs of some long-dead beast.

"We make our stand there," Aron said. "If Jaren comes, let him find us ready."

---

Night fell. The rebels built no fire, but kept watch beneath the stone ribs, their blades at hand.

And far off, the drums of the Scourge began to sound, slow and deep — the storm coming at last.