The time had come.
Moonlight filtered through the thick canopy above, its silvery glow barely piercing the forest's darkness. A chilled wind stirred the leaves, masking their movements with natural rustling. The group moved as one—a silent specter of death weaving through the undergrowth. Every footstep was measured, every breath controlled. No one spoke.
They had trained for this moment for a week, studying the gnolls' routines with unwavering focus. Now, it was time to act.
The patrol had split up, just as expected. The gnolls wandered alone during their night shifts, believing the shadows to be their allies. It was a mistake that would cost them dearly.
Vanthelis was the first to strike.
He crouched low behind a moss-covered trunk, eyes locked on the first gnoll slinking by. The beast was muttering something unintelligible, sniffing the air absently. It carried a crude club fashioned from bone and bark, its claws dragging against the dirt lazily. No armor. No awareness.
Vanthelis surged forward in a blur. One hand clamped over the gnoll's snout, silencing its grunt of surprise. The other hand drove his rusted dagger into the creature's throat, just beneath the jaw. Blood gurgled, hot and dark, as the gnoll's eyes widened in horror. The beast convulsed once, then went limp.
Vanthelis eased the corpse to the ground gently, his hand soaked in warm blood. His heart didn't race. He felt nothing.
This is just the beginning, he thought.
A low whistle signaled the others. The hunt had begun in earnest.
Further east, Kristine crept through the brush, gripping her makeshift spear tightly. Her breathing was shallow, and her hands trembled—but not from fear. It was anticipation.
The second gnoll who looked sleepy came into view, stretching lazily against a tree. It yawned, turning its back to her.
Kristine didn't hesitate.
She lunged forward and plunged her spear deep into the gnoll's back, right between the ribs. The beast shrieked, but only for a moment—she twisted the spear upward, piercing its lung, silencing it before it could alert the others. The creature collapsed forward in a heap.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she crouched beside the corpse, dragging it off the trail into the thicket. Leaves and moss were hastily piled on top to hide the body. Her hands trembled again, but this time, it was from adrenaline and a strange sense of pride.
She'd done it.
Not far away, Haben and Jayson moved in tandem.
Haben extended both arms, his palms glowing faintly with a sickly green hue. Whispering in a forgotten tongue, he locked eyes with the approaching gnoll. The creature slowed, confused. Then it staggered. Its limbs grew heavy, and its knees buckled.
Jayson dashed from the bushes, driving a sharpened wooden spear into the gnoll's chest. It thrashed for a moment, then slumped forward, drained of its energy and its life. He kicked the body off his spear with a grunt.
"That worked better than I thought," Jayson muttered under his breath.
Haben simply nodded, eyes scanning the darkness for the next target. Sweat beaded on his brow from the brief exertion of power. His abilities were still unstable, drawn from the remnants of old magic he barely understood—but they worked. That was all that mattered.
One by one, the group picked off the remaining gnolls. Each kill was swift and silent, just as planned.
The forest felt different now.
Still. Tense.
As though the trees themselves were holding their breath.
By the time the last gnoll fell, dragged into the underbrush by Kristine's trembling hands, the team gathered once more under the cover of a large, twisted tree. The first patrol was gone—erased without a sound. Their path to the mine was clear for now.
Kristine collapsed beside a fallen log, panting softly, her spear stained with dark blood. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear.
Haben approached her, offering a flask of water. "You did well," he said, genuinely impressed.
Kristine took it with a nod, her voice still lost somewhere in her throat.
Vanthelis watched her in silence. He had seen the strength in her arms, the certainty in her strike. She was no longer the frightened girl from before. There was something raw and dangerous inside her now—a potential he hadn't noticed until tonight.
She's stronger than she looks, he thought, both surprised and intrigued.
They had made good time, but retreating wasn't easy. The bodies were hidden, but they had to carry back more than just themselves. Tools, gathered weapons, and supplies looted from the fallen gnolls were heavy and unwieldy. It slowed them down.
For two hours they walked, weaving through thickets and twisted roots, careful not to leave a trail. The night deepened around them, but none of them spoke. The silence was not just strategy—it was respect. Each of them understood the weight of what they'd done.
They had killed. Together. As one unit.
And they had succeeded.
When they finally reached the outskirts of the ruined mansion they now called home, the moon was high above them. Shadows stretched long and thin across the clearing.
Dorothy, waiting near the gate in her wooden wheelchair, wheeled herself forward the moment she heard their approach. Her eyes scanned their faces, looking for signs of injury or failure.
"We're back," Vanthelis said simply.
She nodded. "How many?"
"Six patrols. All gone," he replied.
Dorothy's gaze flicked to Kristine, then to the blood on her spear. "You were part of the team?"
Kristine hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Dorothy said nothing more, only offering a quiet nod. There was no praise, no celebration. Only the grim understanding that this was war—and it had just begun.
Vanthelis stepped forward, wiping the blood from his blade. "We learned tonight that they're not invincible. Their discipline is weak. Their routines are predictable. We exploit that."
His voice was cold. Focused. There was no triumph in his tone, only calculation.
He looked at each of them in turn—Haben, still recovering from his magic; Jayson, surprisingly quiet and alert; Kristine, gripping her bloodied spear with silent strength.
"We rest tonight," he said. "Tomorrow, we plan the next move."
Then, without another word, he disappeared into the darkness of the mansion.
But something stirred inside him—something darker than pride or strategy.
It was hunger.
Not for food. Not even for vengeance.
For power.
And as the others settled down to rest, Vanthelis stood alone at the top floor of the Necropolis, staring into the night. The blood on his hands had dried, but the sensation remained.
This was only the beginning.