Three men walked through the dense undergrowth of the Sylmare Forest, their footsteps were muffled by the damp earth beneath them. Twigs snapped under heavy boots, and the rustle of leaves accompanied each of their movement. One of them—a burly man with a patchy beard and a crooked grin—carried an unconscious girl draped over his shoulder. Her fine garments, once pristine, were now dirtied and torn, and her golden strands of hair was dangling limply against the man's back.
"Sure we're goin' the right way?" one of the men grunted, glancing over his shoulder.
"Course we are," the one carrying the girl snapped.
"Just keep movin'. Less talkin', more walkin'."
The third man, who was lanky with sharp features, darted his eyes around nervously, he muttered under his breath:
"This place gives me the creeps…"
Unbeknownst to them, they were not alone.
A figure moved silently among the trees, weaving through the shadows with careful steps. Velren's breath was steady. He never left his gaze on the trio ahead as he trailed them.
Stay low, stay quiet.
His knees were bent slightly with every step, shifting his weight gently to avoid the crunch of fallen leaves and twigs.
His chest tightened, and his nerves were prickling under his skin, but he held firm on his resolve.
Focus.
Memories surfaced amidst his concentration—of Sköll's tutoring during their past outings. Over the years, the white wolf had occasionally asked if Velren wanted to accompany him on hunts. And as curiosity always got the better of him, of course he accepted the offer. He'd tag along, staying far behind as Sköll hunted, never participating directly. But sometimes, the white wolf would pause mid-chase and explain things to him—small lessons that Velren had never thought he'd use until now.
One that the white wolf most emphasized?
Stalking.
"Patience, kid," Sköll had once said, fixing his gaze on a grazing deer ahead.
"It's not just about sneakin' around. It's about listening. Hear the forest breathe. Don't just watch your prey—watch the ground, your surroundings. Step where it's soft. Avoid dry twigs, brittle leaves. And control your breath. Panicked breathing's louder than you think."
Velren remembered nodding back then, trying to imitate the wolf's careful steps. He never hunted his own food—it wasn't something he ever needed to do—but Sköll had insisted it wouldn't hurt to learn. And now, that patience... that lesson... was the only thing keeping him unseen.
His fingers grazed the rough bark of a nearby tree. With a sharp stone he'd picked up earlier, Velren carved a small notch into the trunk. A mark. Something to guide his way back if things went south. Every so often, he repeated the process, leaving a faint trail only he'd recognize.
But even with those precautions... Where exactly are they going?
He glanced at the group ahead. They'd been walking for what felt like ages. And if Fenrir and Sköll ever find him...
He gulped, picturing their reactions. Fenrir would definitely yell. Sköll would call him an idiot—or worse, both of them might just murder him for pulling this reckless stunt.
Yet... Velren's gaze drifted to the unconscious girl again. How can he just sit back and do nothing? Ignoring it wasn't an option. Of course, rushing in head-on would be suicide—he knew his limits—so for now, all he could do was tail them quietly and wait for an opportunity.
Hopefully... when the time comes...
His train of thought was quickly disturbed as the mercenaries ahead finally came to a stop.
"Oi," one of them grunted, glancing around.
"Where the hell's the rear guard? They were supposed to meet up with us here."
'Another group?'
Could they be talking about the mercenaries Sköll had fought?
If they are...
A thought crossed his mind:
'Then they're probably lying in pieces by now.'
He locked his gaze on the three mercenaries ahead. The one carrying the unconscious little girl clicked his tongue in annoyance and, without a shred of care, tossed her onto the forest floor, causing her to land with a hard thud.
"Tch. This isn't even our real target," the man grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow.
"We were supposed to nab the queen, not her brat."
Velren's eyes widened. Queen? That would mean... the girl over there was a princess.
Another mercenary shrugged.
"Yeah, but orders are orders. Besides, if we don't hand over something, we won't even get half the agreed payment."
"Don't worry," the third mercenary—who was leaner with a sharp eyes—added:
"There's another group that'll handle things if the plan goes south. We just gotta sit tight."
Yet, tension simmered in the air. The cautious mercenary's gaze swept their surroundings.
"Still... something's off," he muttered.
"If the rear group isn't back within the hour, kill the girl. No point dragging around dead weight."
'Shit...'
Velren gripped the tree beside him tightly, biting his nails into the bark.
'No... I can't let that happen.'
Then, without warning, the man closest to the ground knelt and pressed his palm to the dirt. The earth quivered in response. Stones began to shift, and moments later, a makeshift shelter of rock emerged—it looked crude yet sturdy enough to serve as temporary cover.
Velren's eyes widened in awe.
Whoa... Is that their Ka?
Aside from Gramps, Sköll, and Fenrir, he had never seen how others wielded their Ka. He knew it varied—manifesting in countless ways—but witnessing it firsthand was... something else.
Who knew that it can be used like that?
Two of the mercenaries dragged the princess inside the rocky shelter. The last one stayed outside, taking up a guard position with his sword resting lazily against his shoulder.
'Great... now what?'