There was no way to back down. It felt like a betrayal too deep to think about to leave the trail cold and let the people who were responsible for the deaths of Gamma-7 just disappear. Garrick knew that it was important for politics to respect borders, but the anger in his eyes was the same as mine. We needed proof, not only of the attack, but also of who the attackers were. Proof strong enough to make Lord Sterling act and see the real enemy hiding in the shadows.
We spent a tense night under the cold stars in the mountains, with Garrick setting up a strong, defensible perimeter. Sleep was hard to come by; my mind kept going over the little evidence and the scary meanings of the ritualistic marks. We broke camp at dawn, but instead of going back to the estate, we moved sideways along the ridge, parallel to the border, following the faint, lingering trail of Void energy that my Rhythmic Sense could barely pick up. It was slow, hard work that pushed my senses to their limits to figure out what the faint, discordant whispers on the Aetheric wind meant.
The path took us down from the open ridge into a thick, old forest that covered the lower slopes. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and decay, and the trees were so tall that the undergrowth was so thick that it was hard to see. The thick canopy made it hard for sunlight to reach the forest floor, which was always in a dark twilight. The silence was unnerving, and the only sounds were the snap of twigs underfoot and the distant cry of a bird that couldn't be seen. The ground is perfect for an ambush.
We moved slowly, with Garrick leading the way. His Master-level senses were on the lookout for normal threats, while I focused only on the Aether, looking for that tell-tale wrongness. Rolan walked between us with his sword drawn, his eyes always scanning the thick trees. The excitement of a young man was replaced by the grim focus of a man who was ready for violence. The Void signature got stronger, pulling us toward a narrow ravine with moss on the ground. And then I felt it—not just traces, but living things. There were many points of that cold, unnatural energy, all hidden and waiting.
"Ambush!" I hissed, the word barely out of my mouth before the attack came.
It wasn't a hail of arrows or a charging war cry. It was silence made manifest.
Figures detached themselves from the deepest shadows, moving with an unnerving, fluid grace that seemed to bend the dim light. Five of them. Clad in dark, close-fitting leathers, faces obscured by simple cloth masks. They carried short, curved blades of black steel that seemed to drink the dim light around them, their edges radiating a cold that had nothing to do with temperature—weapons that offended reality itself.
Their coordination was perfect, inhuman. Two engaged Garrick instantly, recognizing him as the primary threat, their movements a blindingly fast flurry of poisoned strikes designed to entangle and overwhelm. Two more came for Rolan, flanking him, their curved blades weaving a complex pattern to bypass his shield. The fifth, slighter than the others, moved directly towards me, flickering between shadows, its Void signature stronger, colder. The leader.
I met its charge, Rhythmic Sense flaring. I felt the Acolyte enter my field, a point of murderous cold, its blade aimed not at my body, but at the Aetheric flow connecting my two hearts—a crippling, specialized attack. I flowed with the cadence, my ancestral sword a natural extension, parrying the Void-laced blade with a sharp PING, channeling a quick infusion tap down the steel to disrupt its energy. The Acolyte hissed, surprised, its style adapting instantly. It stopped trying to overwhelm me and started using Void Arts—short bursts of unnatural speed, tendrils of shadow snagging at my feet, waves of chilling energy trying to disrupt my cadence directly.
My Rhythmic Infusions felt… muffled against its corrupted Aura, the resonant force absorbed by the inherent wrongness of its energy. My taps disrupted its movements but lacked their decisive impact. My Mana reserves, already strained from tracking, were draining at an alarming rate.
Garrick roared, finally overpowering one of his assailants with a surge of Master-level Aura, sending the Acolyte crashing into a tree. But the other Acolyte used the opening to land a shallow, poisoned cut on his arm before melting back.
Rolan's scream cut through the forest as a blade found his thigh, not just cutting but corrupting. He collapsed, his leg refusing to bear weight, dark veins already spreading from the wound.
We were losing. Outnumbered, outmaneuvered, facing a power purpose-built to counter traditional martial strength.
I saw the leader preparing to finish Rolan. Desperation fueled me. Ignoring the Acolyte pressing me, I took a gamble. I dropped my Rhythmic Sense momentarily, conserving every drop of Mana, and poured it all into a single, desperate, lunging strike. I didn't throw an object; I threw myself. I burst forward, a blur of motion, and channeled the most powerful Rhythmic Infusion I could muster through my gauntleted fist, aimed not at my opponent, but at the one threatening Rolan.
The beam of focused energy I had envisioned in my training wasn't there yet—I didn't have that skill. This was a desperate, close-quarters charge. My fist struck the Acolyte square in the back. It cried out, its corrupted Aura flaring violently as the pure, rhythmic energy tore through it. It collapsed, disabled.
But the cost was immediate. The moment my Sense dropped, the Acolyte I had been fighting was on me, its blade slicing through my guard, biting deep into my shoulder. Pain exploded, cold and sharp, carrying the sickening taint of the Void. My cadence shattered.
Before the Acolyte could press the killing blow, Garrick roared, abandoning his own defense entirely, taking a second poisoned cut to his other shoulder to break free and reach me, his blade flashing down to drive my attacker back. He stood over me protectively, his face grim, the poison already darkening the veins around both wounds.
We were cornered. Wounded. Rolan down. Garrick doubly poisoned. I was injured, my Path disrupted. The remaining three Acolytes regrouped, circling like patient predators.
Then, the leader raised a hand, halting the others. It looked from Garrick's poisoned arms, to Rolan's bleeding leg, to the Void-laced gash on my shoulder. It seemed to assess the situation. Then, it made a curt gesture. Retreat. Without a sound, the three remaining Acolytes disengaged, melting back into the forest as silently as they had appeared.
"Why?" I gasped, clutching my shoulder. "Why let us live?"
"They weren't trying to kill us," Garrick grunted, tearing a strip of cloth from his cloak to bind his arm. "They were testing us. Gauging our strength. Your strength, specifically, my lord."
The realization hit me with the force of another blow. This hadn't been an extermination. It had been an intelligence-gathering mission. They knew who I was. And they were learning. As we hastily tended to Rolan's leg and began the grim, limping retreat, the true horror of the situation settled over me. This wasn't a war I could win with strength alone. It was a war of shadows, and I was still fumbling in the dark.